The Moirai and the Lair of Death and Vipers - FightFireWithFire - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Severus: Her Boy

Chapter Text

The kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld place had finally fallen silent.

For the past three hours, Molly Weasley had been furiously scrubbing every surface in sight, from the counters to the floors, to the cabinet doors themselves, but she had finally run out of steam. The heavy duty, bristled brush she had been using was now frayed and worn. Severus pretended not to see the sores on the tips of her fingers, or the way that she pressed them harshly against the china teacup in between her lightly trembling hands. He imagined it was grounding. Tangible. The screaming and stinging of her blisters against the piping hot porcelain.

It was her second cup.

The first had been smashed against a wall two hours ago, and he had been courteous enough not to mention it.

He didn’t understand why she was there. She was only torturing herself. Either the Order would return triumphant, Potter in tow, or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing either of them could do to change that. Though he supposed, that raised the question of what he was still doing there as well. He could hardly help either. He’d done his part - he’d raised the alarm, then searched the forest. And yet still he couldn’t bring himself to return to Hogwarts.

Not without knowing.

He suppressed his urge to sneer with a sip of his own cooling tea.

Potter was a fool. A fool. What did he think he could accomplish? A fifteen-year-old running off to rescue a grown man from the Dark Lord. Stupid child. He kept his mouth shut though - he wasn’t convinced that Molly Weasley wouldn’t hurl her new teacup in his direction if he opened it.

Even if he was justified in calling Potter a self-important, arrogant twit.

Still… a part of him felt the swirling, clenching, writhing of guilt low in his gut. Perhaps, if he had been able to put old grudges aside, he’d have been able to teach Potter to guard his mind. Though he had no love for the boy, the idea that the evening’s events had been put into motion by his own inaction made him feel ill. He was meant to be protecting the boy for her, and not for the first time he lamented the fact that the boy looked so much like his father - perhaps, if he had had more of Lily in him, he would have been easier to deal with.

Or perhaps more difficult.

If he was to be partitioned a portion of the blame for the evening's events, however, he felt justified in directing the headmaster towards his own hard won, fair share. If he had simply told the boy the truth, rather than hiding away from him for the entire year, then perhaps he would have known better. Perhaps, none of this would have happened.

Somewhere in the house, the quiet echo of a clock chiming could be heard. He froze, holding his breath to count the bells. One. Two. Three. Then silence. He pretended not to hear the small, muffled sob of Molly Weasley and turned his gaze to the cup in front of him.

The sudden sound of the front door smashing open, and Mrs Black screaming at the top of her lungs about mudbloods and blood-traitors, had them both on their feet in an instant. Sirius Black’s own furious wails joined his mother’s in an ear-piercing crescendo. When the kitchen door was nearly thrown off its hinges, Molly Weasley’s teacup clattered to the floor and smashed, but Severus didn’t flinch.

He had seen this coming the moment they’d heard the front door opening.

Black was practically foaming at the mouth, fury and despair fighting for dominance, twisting his lips into a maddened snarl. His eyes spotted Severus and flashed. Severus braced himself but refused to back down.

“YOU!” Black roared, advancing through the kitchen like a storm, throwing the single wooden chair that had stood between them across the room; Molly Weasley let out a cry of fear, but still, Severus did not move, “YOU! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!” Hands twisted themselves into the front of his robes, and he couldn’t help the pained hiss that escaped him when Black shoved him abruptly against the countertop and pressed his shoulders back into the cabinets. The cabinet doors gave an alarming creek - he wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up on the floor before sunrise.

“Unhand me, Black,” Severus snarled, winding his fingers around the other’s wrists and squeezing tightly to try and break his grip - if he truly wanted to, he’d have had a foot in Black’s groin and had the man on the ground in a moment. But it wasn’t anger in Black’s eyes.

It was grief.

He didn’t need to ask to know that Potter was gone.

He was spared from having to brawl with a man grieving the death of his godchild by Remus Lupin.

“Let him go, Sirius,” Lupin’s voice was strong and firm, and he peeled Black’s fingers from around his collar and pulled him back into his chest, “Let him go,” here his voice wobbled, and Black’s expression crumpled. The animagus sagged into his friend’s embrace, a guttural sob escaping him.

“What happened? What’s going on?” Molly asked sharply, her gaze darting between Black and the other members of the Order who were filing into the room. Tears were already gathering in her eyes. She was no fool.

Tonks only shook her head. She straightened the chair that Black had thrown across the table and sat down heavily in it, her bottom lip trembling. Shacklebolt pressed a hand to her shoulder, and lowered himself gingerly into the chair beside her, a shuddering breath the only sound that he made. With Black and Lupin seeking desperate comfort in one another, it was left to Mad-Eye to speak.

“The boy is gone,” he said darkly.

Molly gasped as if a knife had been plunged into her breast, “No!”

Mad-Eye’s gait was awkward as he shuffled behind Tonks and Shacklebolt towards the next available chair, “He was gone before we got there - long before we go there,” he added gruffly. His electric blue eye swirled around wildly, and upon spotting the teapot on the side, he summoned it with a flick of his wand. They all ignored the choked sob that Black let out.

Severus abandoned his previous chair, leaving Black and Lupin to sink into their misery, and seated himself closer to Molly, “Where is the headmaster?” He asked sharply, waving away the teapot that Moody had sent in his direction.

“Speaking to the Minister,” Shacklebolt answered heavily; the corner of his lips twitched into some shadow of a smile, “he will find it difficult to deny the return of You-Know-Who when his own security systems have flagged the abduction of Harry Potter by Death Eaters on Ministry grounds,”

“If… if the Ministry’s security were aware,” Molly started shakily, raising her cup and allowing the teapot to top her off, “then where were the Aurors?!”

“There will be in inquiry,” Mad-Eye said gruffly, adding to his cup from his hip flask, “No doubt about that. It’s gone as well,” he added with a heavy sigh, “not… not that it much matters now, I suppose, with Potter in their hands, but they took the prophesy,”

Molly shook her head once, then promptly burst into tears, “O-oh,” she moaned, burying her face in her hands, “This… this is awful! Oh, Merlin, oh poor Harry,”

The sound of his godson’s name seemed to rouse Black from Lupin’s embrace, “We have to go after them,” his voice was hoarse, “We have to do something!” His eyes found Severus’s, “Where would they take him?” He demanded.

“Wherever they have taken Harry,” the table whipped round as one at the sound of Dumbledore’s tired voice in the kitchen doorway, “is undoubtedly to wherever Voldemort is, Sirius,” he shook his head sadly, approaching the head of the table and seating himself between Lupin and Tonks.

“I don’t care,” Black snapped, “I don’t care! I’ll walk up to the bastard myself and take my godson back if that’s what it takes!” He looked sharply back to Severus, “Where. Is. He?” He ground out. Dumbledore sighed quietly and gave a small wave of his hand in Severus’s direction.

“The Dark Lord is currently hosted by the Malfoy family - this has not changed over the last year, as you well know,” Severus answered flatly, “As are all those loyal to the Dark Lord who have nowhere else to go - in other words, his most loyal and vicious Death Eaters,”

“It’s a suicide mission, Sirius,” Shacklebolt said gently.

“I don’t care,” Black responded at once, “I don’t care - I won’t leave him to that mad man! We need to act quickly! We need to act now! If we don’t, then Harry is as good as dead!”

The room suddenly became very quiet. Even Molly Weasley’s sobs had fallen silent. Black looked wildly between them all, and Severus wondered which of them would break first.

Lupin spoke carefully, his voice thick with emotion, “Sirius,” he stroked a hand down his friends back, “they’ve already had him for hours. Voldemort has been trying to kill Harry since he was a baby, and after Harry slipped away last June, I… I…,” he stuttered, his voice failing.

“He is probably already dead, Black,” Severus finished for him, and the full force of Black’s rage was suddenly aimed at him once again.

“NO!” Black shuddered in his seat, his attempt to stand and loom in Severus’s direction prevented by Lupin’s arms wound tightly around his waist, “NO!! I refuse to believe it!!”

“You are being naive!” Severus exclaimed, while Black continued to try and shout him down.

“I WILL NOT BELIEVE IT!”

“He has been missing for nearly four hours Black!”

“I REFUSE TO GIVE UP HOPE UNTILL I SEE A BODY IN FRONT OF ME!”

“Hope?! There’s not even a fool’s hope!”

“Sirius, please-,” Lupin tried to interrupt, tears trailing down his cheeks.

“NO! No, Moony - no! We can’t let this happen! We have to save him! He’s NOT DEAD!”

In the corridor beyond the kitchen, Mrs Black began to shout and rage again, while Lupin trembled and shook his head, peering up to where Black was half stood over him.

“You are being naive, Black,” Severus said harshly, “You are being a fool - the best we can hope for Potter, is that he is dead,” all eyes were on him, ranging from furious to heartbroken, “To be held captive by the Dark Lord is to be tormented and tortured, Black - you know this!” Black was shaking his head, his expression trembling, but he finally allowed himself to be pulled back down into his seat, “If we are lucky - if Potter is lucky - then he is already dead. There is no pain in death, Black, but there is plenty that the Dark Lord could inflict in life. If you love him, you should hope that he is dead,”

Black shuddered, his determined, furious expression burning away into something heartbroken and devastated. He almost appeared to collapse into himself, until his forehead was pressed into the table and his arms were gathered about his head. The hand that Lupin pressed in comfort into the middle of his back jumped and trembled with Black’s jerking sobs.

Severus’s eyes may have been the only dry ones in the room, but it wasn’t for lack of feeling.

He had failed. He had failed her. Her boy was dead, and their murderer lived on.

The headmaster cleared his throat, using a finger to wipe away the tears in his eyes, “I have discussed tonight’s event with Cornelius,” Severus’s gut clenched at the frailty he heard in the old man's voice, “and he has agreed with me that there can be no more denial of Lord Voldemort’s return. The Prophet will announce it to the world tomorrow morning, as well as news as to Harry’s… as to Harry’s…,” his voice trailed off into nothing, and he shook his head, “By dawn, the entire country will know what has happened tonight, and Cornelius will begin making moves to step down from office. I have sent out an emergency summons for the morning to all members of the Order, at home and abroad - we must figure out our path forwards without… without…,” he swallowed, but he was saved from having to find the words.

Severus let out an involuntary hiss of pain and clutched at his arm where his Dark Mark was burning furiously. He didn’t miss the apprehensive looks that were exchanged by those around the table, “The Dark Lord,” he said haltingly, pushing himself to his feet and rummaging through the inner pockets of his robes for a pepper-up potion - he would need to have his wits about him for this encounter, now more than ever, “he is summoning me - I must leave,”

“You will return as soon as you are able?” Dumbledore said gravely, having half risen with him, “The meeting is likely to go on for most of the day,”

He nodded tightly, flicking the stopper free of the potion vial and knocking back its contents, “Yes,” he banished the vial, and straightened his robes, “As soon as I am able,” he couldn’t help but to feel pity when his eyes fell on the back of Black’s head where it still remained buried under his arms, “As soon as I am able,” he repeated, before sweeping out of the room.

Before he left, he silenced the portrait of Black’s mother.

He had intended to apparate himself into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, and so was alarmed when he found himself forced beyond the boundaries of the Manor, and onto its front drive instead. Confused and harried, he turned to stride towards the Manor’s metal gates, but found nothing. No gates. No hedges. No imposing Manor House looming out at him in the darkness. Just trees and bushes, and Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius’s arms were crossed impatiently, a strained twist to his lips. He looked conflicted. Nearly smug, but discomfort shone through the twitching of his cheek and the way his hands flexed about his forearms.

“Severus,” he greeted, his voice flowing like oil across Severus’s skin.

“Lucius,” he answered, his eyes flicking to where he knew the Manor to be, “what’s going on?”

The near sneer on Lucius’s lips flicked into something reluctantly pleased, “Why Severus - are you telling me you don’t know?”

Severus scowled, and snapped, “The Potter boy has been snatched from the Department of Mysteries,” Lucius’s pleased smile fell, “and the Dark Lord has summoned me here, to the Manor, but there does not appear to be- … ah… I see,” he eyed the trees behind the other man more critically, “The Fidelius charm,” he said shortly, “Did the Dark Lord decide that your wards are no longer up to the task, Lucius?”

Lucius scoffed, and reached into his pocket to produce a slither of parchment that he shoved roughly under Severus’s nose, “Hardly,” he snapped, “they are as strong as ever. He simply wished for an extra layer of protection,”

He held out the parchment only for as long as it took Severus to read the impossibly thin, long looping handwriting:

‘Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire - The Lair of Death and Vipers’

The paper was snatched away and set a flame with a snap of Lucius’s fingers, “The others were quite disappointed,” Lucius added coldly; Severus looked past him to watch as gates, and hedges, and grounds popped into existence, “He interrupted their party to march them all out onto the drive to apply the charm,” he sniffed haughtily, while The Manor wrenched itself out of the ground as if someone were cranking an enormous wheel and forcing it from the earth, “Welcome to the ‘lair’,” he said darkly, clearly unimpressed.

“Does the Dark Lord fear retaliation from the Order perhaps?” Severus mused, following the other towards the enormous wrought iron gates, “For the death of their precious Boy-Who-Lived,” he didn’t have to put on the sneer that accompanied the moniker - he had always hated it.

The look that Lucius sent over his shoulder was cold, “Oh Severus,” he said pityingly, raising his left arm to the gate and passing through it as if he were merely walking through smoke, “you have no idea,”

Severus said nothing and followed him up the drive.

Lucius appeared… unhappy, which was not what he had expected. He had thought he would find the other man gleeful and rolling in the praises of the Dark Lord. Smug and pompous and bragging about the death of their Lord’s greatest enemy, a child the same age as his son. Instead, he seemed tense and put upon. As if his gift had not been received as he expected.

Severus’s eyes flicked along the great towering walls of the Manor.

To the far left, the windows to the conservatory in the west wing were illuminated with orange light. He could see the shadows of people as they moved about the room. Their movements were energetic - erratic. He heard a glass smash and an elated whoop of laughter penetrated out into the grounds.

It appeared that Lucius’s melancholy mood was not shared by the others.

Severus followed him into the foyer. Lucius frowned minutely at the sounds of laughter that echoed throughout the halls of his home. He flinched though, at a sudden guttural scream. It had come from the drawing room ahead of them.

Severus felt as if his heart had been plunged into a bucket of ice water. He forced the feeling back though, as far back into the recesses of his mind as he could.

Lucius steered them away from the drawing room, and towards the conservatory, though they did not enter it. They swept only close enough for Severus to hear someone jeer, “Do you think the Dark Lord will let us all have a turn? I wouldn’t mind making the filthy half-blood scream,” before Lucius was leading them deeper into the house, towards a study that Severus was very familiar with.

When Lucius rapped his knuckles smartly on the dark door, they waited only a beat before a high, cold voice called out from the room beyond.

“Enter,”

The Dark Lord Voldemort was seated in a wingback leather chair in front of the fireplace, though it was far too warm for it to be lit. Nagini was coiled at his feet, her head in his lap and under his hand, her tongue flicking in and out as she tasted the air with interest. The Dark Lord had not bothered with the modest chandelier in the middle of the room, and so they were illuminated only by the flicker of dull lamps above the mantel piece. The orange light danced in the Dark Lord’s red eyes as they narrowed on Severus. A pleased smirk curled at his lips.

“Ah, Severus,” he rasped, gesturing to the second leather chair opposite his own, “please, join us. That will be all Lucius,”

Lucius gave a short, smart bow, and muttered, “My Lord,” he closed the door behind him with a click.

Severus offered his own bow, “My lord,” before he assumed the seat that he had been directed towards. Nagini twisted her head to follow him, but he ignored her. He folded his hands in his lap, “You summoned me, my Lord,”

A slow smile spread across the man’s reptilian face, “Yes, Severus, I summoned you,” the snake hissed something, catching the Dark Lord’s attention; he chuckled but did not elaborate on what had been said, “I have need of you, old friend. It will not have escaped your notice, I am sure, that Harry Potter was abducted from the Department of Mysteries this night,”

Severus inclined his head, “The Order are in disarray,” he admitted calmly, “Dumbledore claims that news of your return will be in the papers before the morning,”

Voldemort sneered a little, “Ah, yes - dear Lucius was not quite as discreet as I had hoped. I understand that the hall of prophesies is currently in a dire state of disrepair, but alas, it is of no matter,” the hand that wasn’t carefully petting Nagini’s head appeared from within his robes, and brought with it a small globe, “I have the only prophesy that matters to me,” red eyes flicked to him, “Would you like to hear it, in its entirety, for the first time?” Severus inclined his head.

The Dark Lord pressed the orb upwards until it was resting in the cradle of his fingertips. He whispered a word under his breath. The lamps above the hearth flickered for a moment. He tapped a long, pale index finger smartly against the prophesies glass surface and it emitted a sound like the ringing of a bell. And then it began to speak:

‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...’

The hoarse voice of the prophesy echoed strangely for a moment, seeming to almost hang in the air between them.

The Dark Lord lowered the orb, and tucked it into his robes once more, “‘Power the Dark Lord knows not’,” he repeated under his breath, his eyes fixed on the snake in his lap, “‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal’,” he let out a hissing breath through his teeth, “Interesting. Don’t you think, Severus?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus started, “but I do not understand why it matters, if the boy is in the manor now. I presume you mean to kill him,” he paused, thinking back to the scream he had heard in the entrance hall, “eventually,”

“I think, perhaps, not,” Severus’s heart stopped for a moment at the simple declaration; the Dark Lord stroked a finger down Nagini’s snout, “I think, that I would like to see what power exists within this mere boy that I ‘know not’,” he smirked for a moment and his red eyes found Severus’s, “If this boy may truly be my equal, then it is important that he is my ally, not my enemy,” he said mildly.

“But what of the prophesy, my Lord?” Snape asked carefully, “It suggests that you are destined to destroy one another,”

“With all the facts in front of me, Severus, I can only conclude that this prophesy is of the self-fulfilling variety. The kind that are so popular in Greek mythology - Oedipus and Laius, Cronos and Zeus, Croesus of Lydia, and so forth. In these stories, men try to flee their destiny, and in doing so simply run straight to it. A mistake I too am guilty of,” his eyes flicked to where the prophesy was concealed in his robes, “Had I heard the prophesy in its entirety, I would have employed more caution. Alas, I did not.

“But no matter. I know better now. I shall heed the lessons from these stories of the ancient past and shall cease attempting to avert this ‘doom’,” he chuckled, his voice high and piercing, “Instead, I shall act as if the prophesy simply does not exist. I shall act, instead, to my true nature, and forge a path to a future that does not hinge on the word of prophesy and oracle,”

The back of Severus’s mind raced. There was something in this story missing. The Dark Lord did not wish for companions. He wished for subjects. He considered no one his equal. Something was missing.

He stored the thought away.

“How may I serve you, my Lord?” he asked with a demure inclination of his head.

Voldemort chuckled, high and breathy, “Ah, Severus - this is why you are one of my favourites. Never attempting to presume my vision. Only ever aiming to facilitate its execution,” he glanced down at the snake in his lap and hissed out a lazy command. Nagini removed her head from his lap and slithered her way out of the room, “If I am to turn the boy to my side, Severus, I must first break him down to his constituent parts,” he said lightly.

“Torture,” Severus elaborated.

For the briefest moment Severus caught a flash of the Dark Lord’s white teeth as he grinned, “Of many different varieties,” he agreed, “Our dear Harry is currently in the cellar with the lovely Bellatrix, and the significantly less lovely Mulciber and Macnair,”

“I see,” his calm answer did nothing to betray the thrill of adrenaline that had threatened at the mention of Mulciber. They had been school friends, though now the idea of calling a wizard such as that a friend filled Severus with shame and regret. He was more monster than man, and Severus had an increasingly horrified understanding as to the variety of torture Potter was being subjected to.

“They have strict instructions to do nothing permanent to the boy,” the Dark Lord said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “and our dear Bella has been dissuaded from abusing the Cruciatus curse as she did with the Longbottom’s - I want the boy broken, not a pile of dribbling mush,” he sneered.

“I am not sure how I am to contribute to this endeavour, my Lord - I cannot imagine there are any means of torture that I could devise that Bellatrix, Mulciber, and Macnair have not already thought of or attempted,” he hoped that Albus would understand if he could not bring himself to torture Lily’s only son, even if that meant sacrificing his own life.

Voldemort chuckled, “Oh no, Severus, you misunderstand me. I have no more need for torturers. I have need of someone to ensure that the boy survives,” Severus breathed in and out steadily, “If he were to die prematurely, and against my wishes, I would be most displeased,” red eyes flashed to his, the warning in them clear, “I’m sure you understand, Severus,” his voice was soft and dangerous.

Severus bowed as lowly as his seated position would reasonably allow, “I understand completely, my Lord,”

A slow pleased smile spread across the other’s face, “Excellent,” he hissed out lowly, “Now, come Severus, let me reintroduce you to my guest,”

Severus used the walk to the drawing room as an opportunity to reinforce his occlumency shields. All feeling must be suppressed - buried and put away for later. It would do him no good to give himself away now.

He pretended to not see the flash of blonde hair, and the silhouette of a woman standing flush against the wall of the corridor that led to the east wing. Narcissa should know better than to hover like that. It would only draw the Dark Lord’s attention.

Bellatrix, Mulciber, and Macnair waited to greet them at the top of the stairs that led down into the cellar. All three lowered themselves into a deep bow, though Severus could see Bellatrix’s beady eyes glaring up through her wild hair at him. He wondered if she would ever trust him. The idea seemed unlikely at best.

“My Lord,” Macnair said meekly, “we have done as you asked. We only hope our methods have pleased you,”

“Does the boy still live?” Voldemort asked cooly.

“Yes, my Lord,” Macnair mumbled.

“And does he remain… relatively,” his red eyes fixed furiously on Bellatrix who cowered from his gaze, “intact,”

“Yes, my Lord,” Bellatrix simpered, “no other injuries that cannot be undone,” the twinge that threatened in Severus’s gut was quickly shepherded away into the confines of his mind.

The Dark Lord nodded sagely, “Excellent… this will be a marathon, not a race, I am afraid to say my old friends,” Bellatrix twitched, “If we are to persuade Mister Potter of the error of his ways, then it will take time, and patience. The boy only has so many fingers and toes… and eyes,” he added meaningfully in Bellatrix’s direction; she tittered nervously, “if we give into our baser instincts, then the boy will be limbless by the time any progress is made. Now… leave us,”

They bowed again, and muttered, “My Lord,” as they scurried away towards the drawing room door.

Voldemort beckoned to him with the slow curl of his finger.

At the bottom of the stairs, Nagini circled restlessly. Upon seeing her master, she broke into a series of frantic hisses, her head flicking this way and that between the Dark Lord, and the huddled figure in the middle of the cellar floor. The Dark Lord tutted.

“It seems I may have to have Nagini supervise the others to… temper… their enthusiasm,” Voldemort said, his voice soft and dangerous, “Nagini says the boy is dangerously cold. If you would, Severus,” the Dark Lord gestured for him to move forwards, and Severus had no choice but to turn his eyes to the boy.

Severus stepped forwards carefully, feeling as if he were approaching a dragon about to strike rather than the curled-up figure in front of him. He knelt carefully - reluctantly - at his side and used a hand to encourage the boy from his position curled in on himself, to lying half on his back. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

Potter was a mess.

He was covered in dirt, and blood, and bruises, and cuts, and… and there were bite marks at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Bites that looked as if they had been inflicted while someone was behind the boy. Against his will, his eyes sought the boys gaze, and he froze for the briefest of moments. The right eye, a dulled green, stared blankly back at him, dazed and unfocused. If Potter recognised him, he gave no indication to that effect. The left eye, though… the left eye was no more. Plucked clean from its socket, with blood smeared down the boy's cheek. Severus allowed himself a small breath before he spoke.

“The eye cannot be saved, I am afraid my Lord,”

“Yes, Severus, I am well-aware that we are long past the time frame where regrowing the boy’s eye might be possible,” he sounded torn between frustrated anger, and mild amusem*nt, “Just do what you can. Make sure he is at no risk of death before you leave. One of the house-elves will bring you anything you require,” as if on cue, a small trembling house-elf stepped out from the shadows in the corner of the cellar behind Potter. Severus raised a hand to carefully pull back the lid of Potter’s remaining eye, “I will have need of you every evening - and likely more. I am sure that Dumbledore will understand,”

Severus froze. He peered back over his shoulder, “You wish for the headmaster to be made aware of this arrangement?” He asked carefully.

The Dark Lord smiled, one hand on the bannister, “But of course, Severus. Half the fun is in rubbing the old man’s failures in his face,” and he left, Nagini trailing after him.

Severus released the breath he had been holding and turned back to the boy. If he’d had less control of himself, he’d have gasped at finding the boy looking back. He wetted his lips a little with his tongue, and carefully pressed his way into his mind, wary of causing any more damage to his mental stability. He found… nothing. No surface thoughts. No emotions. But just beyond that nothing, he found a wall, sheer and seamless that looked to reach to limitless heights. There were no cracks to exploit, no steps to climb, and no way of vaulting over. It seemed, that all it had taken for Potter to master the art of occlumency, was hours and hours of torture.

“Potter?” He tried hesitantly, “Potter, can you hear me?”

Potter’s eye flashed for a moment, and then flicked up to where Severus had rested his thumb against his brow. The boy flinched back as best as he could, dislodging Severus’s hand. He was suddenly panting in fear, his mouth working itself open and closed, though Severus wasn’t sure if he was attempting to speak or not.

“Calm down, Potter,” he said softly, holding his hands up, palms flat, “I’m not here to hurt you,” he winced at the flash of liar-fear-hysteria that surfaced in the boy's thoughts. It didn’t last long though. The boy calmed, but he withdrew into himself as he did, any awareness in his eye fading away. Severus swallowed and turned to practical matters to avoid the building crushing sensation in his chest.

This was her boy.

“You,” he snapped at the elf cowering in the corner, “bring me all of the first-aid potions stored in this house,” the elf squeaked, and then disappeared with a crack.

Now alone, Severus began to work, and as he worked, he mentally catalogued everything he saw. Dumbledore would want a full report on the boy’s well-being, but the idea of repeating everything he saw in front of him made him feel sick.

Lacerations. Broken bones. Abrasions. Mild nerve damage from extensive exposure to the Cruciatus curse. Bites… bites almost everywhere. On his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his… his inner thighs. There was so much blood on the boy, that he nearly overlooked the streaks of white fluid mingled with the red. His hands shook lightly as he healed the tears to the boy’s…

He couldn’t even think it. He blocked it out, and by the time the elf had returned, his hands were steady. So long as he didn’t look in his eye, he was able to pretend that the boy was some nameless poor soul that the Dark Lord had dragged in off the street to entertain his more predatory Death Eaters - the ones that even the others avoided.

‘I’m sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev? He’s creepy! D’you know what he tried to do to Mary Macdonald the other day?’

Her voice was so clear in his ear, that Severus nearly leapt to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest.

But no. She wasn’t there. She was dead, and she now existed only as a voice in his head. He looked down to the boy in front of him - she existed here, as well, he supposed. In the tortured child at his feet. He swallowed - oh God, what would she say? She’d be heart broken.

‘Mulciber!’

Regret clawed at his throat, but he forced it down.

By the time he was done, many hours later, Potter’s wounds were healed, though many scarred (the teeth marks on his shoulder made him feel sick), and Potter was no longer at risk of dying from shock or blood loss.

Part of him wondered if he had made the right choice. It would have been kinder to let the boy die. It would have been mercy.

What was done was done, however. He would waste no more time dwelling on ifs, buts or maybes.

He stood sharply, and Potter and the elf both flinched.

“Elf - ensure that he is kept clean in between my visits,” the elf nodded vigorously at his barked command,“And keep him supplied with nutritional potions. It would not do for him to starve to death when I have gone to all this effort,” he didn’t wait to hear the elf’s response. He needed to leave.

He was in the entrance hall, when he caught sight of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye again. He froze and peered discreetly over his shoulder. It was Narcissa. He turned to her more fully and considered her for a moment. She looked from him to the hallway behind her, and back again, before stepping into the shadows, her meaning clear.

He hesitated. He needed to return to the Order… but anything to delay reporting what he had found in the cellars of Malfoy Manor.

He trudged silently after her, winding through the corridors and hallways into the portion of the Manor within which the Malfoy’s actually lived, now that they were playing host to the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. When Narcissa stepped into a parlour, Severus glanced over his shoulder, before following her in and closing the door behind him.

Narcissa had always been a pale woman, but now she was positively translucent, wringing her hands together anxiously in front of her. For a moment, he simply looked at her, appraising. She looked unwell. She looked drawn, as if she had aged a year for every month she had lived with the Dark Lord in her halls. She licked her lips but didn’t speak.

He didn’t have time for this.

“What is it, Narcissa?” He asked cooly, swallowing to suppress the roiling in his stomach.

“How… how is he?” She stuttered; he blinked at her in disbelief, “I… I heard the screaming and I-,” she hesitated, “When the Dark Lord dragged us all out of the Manor and onto the drive to cast the charm… while everyone else was watching the estate disappear, and then reappear, I was watching him,” she sat down abruptly in an arm chair, scrunching her skirt up in her hands, “He… they’ve been torturing him, haven’t there?”

“I don’t know what you were expecting when your husband dragged that boy into your home, Narcissa,” he said sharply, “For the Dark Lord to greet him with open arms? Yes, Narcissa - yes, they’re torturing him,”

She whimpered, “He… he’s just a boy,” she muttered, her gaze fixed somewhere on the carpet, “He’s… I looked at him, out on the drive and… and he’s just a boy. When I hear him scream… I can’t help but imagine it’s Draco. What are they doing to him?”

Severus shook his head, “He’s not Draco, Narcissa. He’s not Draco, and you don’t want to know what they’re doing,”

She wouldn’t let it drop though, “I saw Mulciber head down there,” she whispered, “and he was the one holding onto Potter on the drive. The way he touched him…,” she shuddered, “Is he… are they…?” She faltered, and stumbled over her words, “I just keep thinking… we nearly fell out of the Dark Lord’s favour before, when Lucius returned to his circle. He nearly didn’t forgive him. What if… what if he made a mistake again? Would… would the Dark Lord use Draco against him?” Severus said nothing, but she heard his answer anyway; she swallowed, “He would, wouldn’t he? I love my husband, truly I do, but he is not as clever as he would pretend… nor as powerful… what would it take for the Dark Lord to send Mulciber down to the cellar with Draco?” A single tear rolled down her cheek, but that was all that she allowed to escape.

He had seen enough.

“You would do well to keep these thoughts to yourself, Narcissa,” he cautioned, a hand on the door handle as he prepared to leave, “And you’re right. He is just a boy,” her expression crumpled, and he left.

He stalked down the Manor’s long gravel drive, the rising sun at his back concealed by the looming house, and apparated the moment he was across the wards.

Apparating had his stomach churning again. He blinked against the sunlight that bathed the square, but he didn’t pause to let his eyes adjust, instead choosing to push his way into the house and back into the gloom. He shut the door behind him quietly and took a moment to simply rest his forehead against it.

“Severus?” He stiffened at his whispered name and turned cautiously to find a tired Lupin watching him warily, a hand on the kitchen door, clearly just about to renter the meeting.

His gut twisted, and he turned towards the stairs, “I need a moment,” he muttered, striding up the stairs in search of the nearest bathroom.

He had barely enough time to lift the toilet seat before he was retching over the bowl and emptying his stomach of what was left of his dinner from the night before. It was mostly bile and left him feeling no relief for having allowed himself to vomit. He heaved twice more before he was able to regain control of himself.

He hadn’t vomited like that following a meeting with the Dark Lord since the first time after he had agreed to act as a spy for the headmaster. He’d been full of anxious nerves, and half convinced the Dark Lord knew of his deception despite his robust and well tested occlumency shields.

He stiffened as something encroached on his peripheral vision: it was Lupin, a glass of water dangling from his fingertips and held out for him to take. He accepted it silently, and swilled out his mouth, spitting into the toilet before flushing it and allowing himself to sink back against the wall behind him. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Lupin sank down to the hallway floor next to him.

They said nothing. Severus sipped at the glass of water, his hand trembling, and Lupin simply breathed. He wondered if Lupin was fighting back the urge to ask a million questions. He glanced at him cautiously, and was surprised to find him quietly crying, his arms wrapped around his crossed legs as if he were fighting to hold himself together. He offered Severus a sad smile, and opened his mouth to speak:

“He’s not dead, is he?” he said quietly; Severus shook his head, “But it would be better for him, if he was, wouldn’t it?” Severus nodded and Lupin’s lips trembled, and he lowered his face to press his forehead into his knees.

Severus watched his shoulders shake, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he hunted for something to say to comfort his childhood nemesis. He found nothing.

He banished the glass and pushed himself to his feet. He reached out a hand to the werewolf in front of him, “Come along, Lupin,” he swallowed to try and clear the stringing of his throat, “They are waiting for us,”

Lupin peered up at him, his face the picture of misery, before accepting the hand that was held out for him.

The meeting fell silent when he entered, Lupin at his back. The kitchen was the fullest he thought he had ever seen it, every single member of the Order present, all of them with serious, dower expressions. The Weasley’s, all of them present except for the youngest two, were so grey he could barely see their freckles. The headmaster was sat at the head of the table opposite him, Moody and Kingsley on his left and right side respectively. Black was tucked under his cousin's arm, his face buried in his hands, a vacant seat to his right where Lupin must have been sat before. He looked up when the subdued kitchen fell silent, however.

Severus took a deep steadying breath in through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth.

“I would appreciate a strong drink, if no one objects to alcohol during the meeting,” he said hoarsely.

There was a beat during which nobody moved, until Emmeline Vance, who had been sat directly opposite Dumbledore at the other end of the table, scrambled to her feet, and summoned a half empty bottle of fire whisky from the pantry. She gestured to her vacant seat for Severus to take, while Hestia Jones to her left conjured a glass with two whisky stones at the bottom.

He took a moment to gather himself, his eyes following Lupin as he shuffled back through the crowd to his seat next to Black. He looked away quickly though when he found Minerva at Tonks other side, her lips pressed tightly together, but even so he could see how they trembled. He cleared his throat and sat down.

At some point, someone had already filled his glass. He knocked back the whisky in one go, then poured another and repeated the action. His third glass he nursed between his hands. He fixed his eyes on Albus - the only way he was going to get through this meeting, was if he imagined he was speaking only to the headmaster, the only other man in the room who he felt sure would understand and would share the crushing guilt on his shoulders.

They had both failed.

He took a deep breath.

“Potter is alive,” the rooms response was divided between those afraid of death, and those aware of the pain that living could bring. The Weasley twins slumped in relief, while their father closed his eyes in despair, “He is currently being held captive in the cellars of Malfoy Manor,”

“Why?” Moody barked, his look fierce, “Why are they keeping the boy alive?”

A Weasley twin scoffed, “What does it matter why, Mad-Eye? This means we can rescue him!”

“How?” the boys' father asked gently, “How are we rescuing him? He’s under the thumb of You-Know-Who, George,”

“The Dark Lord has also seen fit to place the estate under the Fidelius charm,” Severus added; he spoke over their gasps, “and placed himself as secret keeper. I doubt he will be willing to divulge the secret to the Order of the Phoenix,”

“There has to be a way!” The other Weasley twin barked.

Severus stared resolutely at the headmaster, ignoring the way that Black had crumpled in his seat while Lupin stared unblinking up at the ceiling, tears running from the corner of his eye.

“I am amazed that Voldemort can even successfully carry the secret,” Dumbledore admitted heavily, “with a soul as damaged as his,”

“What have souls got to do with it?” a Weasley twin asked impatiently.

“Complex bit of magic, the Fidelius charm,” Aberforth said gruffly from the corner, his hand cradling the pipe he was lighting. It really was all hands-on deck - as far as Severus was aware, despite being a member, Aberforth had never attended a meeting before, “Requires the concealment of a secret within the soul of a witch or wizard. A man like Voldemort though? A murderer like him will have a soul more akin to confetti, it’ll be in so many pieces, I imagine,”

“Which bit harbour’s the secret though, I wonder,” Shacklebolt mused, “The largest piece? Or all of it,”

“None of these matters,” Moody snapped impatiently, “What really matters, is why Potter’s being kept alive in the first place!”

All eyes were suddenly on him again. He considered knocking back his third drink, but settled on sipping it, “The Dark Lord intends to try and turn Potter to his side,” there was the rumble of confused and outraged murmurs, “he… he intends to torture Potter until he is near breaking point,”

Molly Weasley let out a whimpering sob, but the rest of the room was silent. Arthur Weasley wrapped an arm around his wife and reached over to squeeze the shoulders of his boys.

“The Cruciatus?” Moody asked gruffly.

“No… no, he does not wish for Potter to turn out like the Longbottom’s. He has tasked me with ensuring that the boy survives the torture intact,”

“And who has he tasked with inflicting these cruelties Severus?” Albus asked, his voice soft.

“Bellatrix, Mulciber, and Mac-,”

“Mulciber?!” Black said sharply, pulled from drowning in his misery, “Did you say Mulciber?” Severus inclined his head in a single solemn nod, and Black crumpled anew, “No, oh Merlin no… nonono f*ck! I- I can’t- I can’t listen to this,” Black stood suddenly and threaded his way urgently through the crowd that surrounded him.

Severus half expected Lupin to stand up and follow him out, but he didn’t. He stayed where he was, staring blankly up at the ceiling above, fresh tears trailing down towards his collar.

“Who’s Mulciber?” Charlie Weasley asked carefully when Black had slammed the kitchen door behind him, his eyes darting warily between Severus and Lupin.

“He went to school with us,” Lupin whispered to the ceiling.

“He’s a predator,” Moody growled.

“He’s a Death Eater with a reputation for raping young men,” Severus said flatly. No one else added to his frank description. He knocked back what remained of his drink and offered the bottle to Lupin.

Lupin accepted it and didn’t bother with a glass.

“Why… why’s he suddenly trying to turn Harry to his side, when he’s been so fixated with killing him?” Bill Weasley said quietly, his eyes flicking to the bottle that Lupin had gripped tightly to his chest.

“He listened to the prophesy and claims he has decided to disregard it. He claims to believe the prophesy to be self-fulfilling and hinges upon him acting to subvert it. He claims that if Potter has the potential to be his equal, he wishes to groom him to be his ally rather than his enemy,”

Mad-eye snorted, “Load of bollocks,” he muttered, “there’s something missing. Something he’s not telling you,”

“I concur,” Severus said shortly, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore’s expression, searching for any tell that might suggest that the headmaster had any idea as to what the Dark Lord was hiding from them, “His explanation did not ring true to my ear,”

The headmaster took a deep shuddering breath, “A matter to discuss another time,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “Did you see Harry, Severus?”

He swallowed heavily, dreading the question to come, “I did,”

“And what condition was he in?”

For a moment he said nothing. Lupin offered him the bottle of fire whisky back, but he refused it. He took a deep breath, and began to speak, knowing that if he stopped, he would never be able to start again.

“Potter was in an extremely poor condition when the Dark Lord brought me to him - he was on the verge of shock. He had lacerations and abrasions and bruises and broken bones - numerous broken bones. Nearly every one in his right hand and more fractured ribs than ribs that weren’t fractured. He had a haemopneumothorax and surgical emphysema. It’s…,” he licked his lips, and reached out for the bottle he had previously refused; Lupin handed it to him silently, “It’s a miracle he wasn’t already dead,” he admitted, stamping down the impulse to drink from the bottle as Lupin had, and instead pouring a measure into the glass in front of him, “His… his left eye has been pulled out,” Minerva gasped and slapped a hand to her mouth, “there was nothing I could do - it had been hours, there was no regrowing it,”

“We understand Severus,” the headmaster said gently, and Severus hated that he had heard the pleading edge in his voice, even if no one else had, “we all know you tried your best for Harry. What else?”

Severus drained his glass, “He was covered in bite marks - human bites. And there is… extensive physical evidence to suggest that he has been sexually assaulted,”

Lupin was suddenly on his feet, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I can’t,” he grabbed the bottle of fire whisky on his way out of the room.

The silence in the room was heavy and oppressive, pressing down on all of them like a millstone around their necks. Severus tried his best to avoid looking at anyone but the headmaster. His carefully controlled occlumency shields were holding, and in no danger of breaking, but he had no wish to watch as the other members of the order came to terms with the news. Molly Weasley was weeping in her husband's arms, and Minerva had her head bowed low.

“Is-,” Minerva choked out, “Is there nothing we can do Albus? He’s… he’s just a boy. A child! Surely… surely there’s something? There has to be something…,” she trailed off weakly.

For a long moment, Albus said nothing, carefully considering each and every member of the Order who now turned their expectant faces in his direction. He had not made the effort to wipe away his own tears. He had simply let them trail down into his white beard. Severus wondered if the burning guilt in his eyes was as obvious to anyone else in the room.

Finally, he spoke.

“First, I must personally apologise to every single one of you in this room. If I could, I would extend this apology to Harry, and beg his forgiveness. It is my own folly that has brought us to this new low. In trying to protect Harry from the truth, I have condemned him to a fate most terrible. By shielding him, I have left him to walk through a den of vipers, without ever knowing the danger right in front of him.There are not enough apologies, in enough languages, to make up for this grave error and its terrible consequences,” the room was silent except for their anxious breaths. Albus’s jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth before he opened his mouth and said the words that Severus knew would condemn Potter to his fate.

“I am heartbroken to tell you all, that there is nothing that we can do for Harry at this moment,” Molly sobbed, “With the Fidelius charm in place, there is no way for us to stage any kind of rescue, and even if there were, it would likely be a suicide mission that simply resulted in Voldemort relocating Harry. The only one in this Order who has any kind of access to Harry, is Severus,” eyes flicked briefly in his direction, “and in rescuing Harry, Severus would completely ruin his position amongst the Death Eaters, and we would lose a crucial source of intelligence. Intelligence that is vital to us having even the faintest of hopes in defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort for good.

“I must apologise again, my dear friends, as I tell you that, at this moment in time, there is nothing we can do for Harry.”

Chapter 2: Harry: The Stone in the Dark

Chapter Text

The ground beneath Harry is hard, cold, and unforgiving, and he clings to the feeling of it biting into his cheek like a lifeline in the middle of a rough sea. It’s stone, he thinks. Enormous great slabs of stone that rise and fall with divots and pits and the other imperfections that have been left on its face from being carved into shape. He feels like he’s being carved into shape. Like bits of him are being gradually chipped away until he no longer fits the mould he has in his head.

His mould.

The blueprint that tells the story of ‘Who is Harry Potter?’. He wonders when they’ll be satisfied with his new form. Or maybe they simply wish to erase him altogether. Maybe they’re waiting to drive a chisel into a fault line at his core and split him apart completely.

The tips of his fingers press against the slabs edge and dip into the gap where one slab ends, and another begins. He can feel grout, he thinks, or perhaps it's simply dirt that has gathered between the stones in the years since they’ve been fixed into place.

He imagines that the stones are a dark grey. He only imagines, because he cannot see, though it is not for lack of light. The vision in his right eye is obscured between the ground his face is pushed against, and the edge of his nose. He can see light though, fuzzy and warm and soft. A contrast to everything else around him.

He doesn't mind it though. It’s distracting him from everything else. The hand in the middle of his back forcing his chest down to the ground, strong and powerful like an anvil holding him in place. The other hand at his hip forcing him to remain up on his knees.

He hears a whimper in his ears followed by a gasping grunt, and then a chuckle. He pulls himself back to the stones beneath him.

Yes. Grey.

His face scrapes against them, moving with the weight of the body behind him.

Grey.

They’re probably grey. He doesn’t know though. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t see out of his left eye. He can’t see anything at all, not even darkness. What’s wrong with it? It… it hurts. It burns .

The hand in the middle of his back moves to squeeze harshly at the back of his neck. He can hear panting, then, “Do you want a turn?” from above him. The voice is like oil being poured down his spine - slick and cloying.

There’s a moment of considering silence.

The stones are grey, the stones are grey, the stones are grey.

Someone sniffs, “Don’t normally go in for boys, but I suppose a hole’s a hole,” the second voice is older and harsher than the first, and he can hear something jingling. The voice above him chuckles.

His forehead stings from scraping on the ground, and his fingers cramp where they cling to the stone’s edge with a desperation akin to hanging from a cliff face, certain death below. And his eye. It burns.

“Something’s better than nothing,” the oily voice says as he’s abruptly forced to acknowledge the presence behind him, resting against the back of his thighs, when it suddenly disappears, “Shame about the face though – he was a pretty little bird until Bellatrix got her hands on him,”

His forehead stings. His fingers are cramped. His eye burns. And the stones are grey.

“Though I suppose you could always ask dear old Bellatrix if she’ll let you put your end away,” the first voice continues with a greasy chuckle, “she’s much more likely to bite it off than let you anywhere near her with it though. Even her old man can’t get a look in,”

Bellatrix.

His eye burns.

“Where is she anyway?”

There’s a weight behind him again, and his effort to escape it is instinctive; involuntary. He should know better by now. There is no escape.

Hands clasp at his hips and drag him back.

His forehead stings. His fingers are cramped. His eye burns. And the stones are grey.

“Stop it,” the rough voice snaps, impatient, as if it were simply scolding a cat scratching at the carpet, “She said she was bored of watching us play with our food,”

The stones are grey the stones are grey the stones are grey.

There’s pressure. A whimpering, involuntary sound escapes him, and he hears an answering satisfied sigh.

His forehead stings. His fingers are cramped. His eye burns. The stones are grey.

Harry could hear voices, but he didn’t attempt to pay attention to them. He simply absorbed them. Felt them vibrate in his chest, and through the floor into his ears. There was a woman, he thought, maybe. And two men.

The thought of the men made something akin to terror squeeze around his heart, only more muted. Without meaning to, he found himself panting in quick fluttering, half snatched breaths, like a hare caught in a trap. He heard amused chuckles. He tried to disengage himself from his surroundings, emptying his mind of all conscious thought and simply leaving it to wander aimlessly.

He didn’t want to pay attention.

Paying attention hurt.

He’d tried to in the beginning - to keep track of everyone and everything, desperate to catch something, anything, that he might work to his advantage. To fight back. To escape.

It hadn’t taken him long to realise the futility of that idea. There was no escape. There was no fighting back. There was only pain.

He wasn’t sure there was even an inch of him that didn’t hurt, but there were certainly places that stood out.

His chest - his ribs. It hurt even to breathe, and he could hear a strange gurgling rasp with every breath he took. It felt a bit like drowning. No breath satisfied the building, burning, oxygen starved sensation that was gradually setting in. He felt like he might die, but the idea was less frightening than he’d expected. It had crossed his mind when one of the men - the one whose voice sounded like overused cooking oil - had worked his arm under Harry’s body to undo his trousers and work his belt free. The idea hadn’t frightened him. If anything, he’d felt relieved.

The memory of the man on top of him had his heart racing in his chest again, and panic creeping in at the edges. He forced the thought away and turned his focus back to pain. If he concentrated on the pain in his body, it served as an effective distraction from the other kind of pain he was in. The pain that made him want to scream and cry and sit in horrified silence all at once.

The voices were moving away. He could hear feet on stone steps. Without meaning to, he flicked his gaze in the direction of the noise before immediately giving up any attempt at watching his tormentors leave. He couldn’t see properly anyway. His glasses had been lost at some point, though he couldn’t have said when, and everything was one great splotchy blur.

There was something wrong with his left eye too - something more than blurry vision. It… it hurt, f*ck - now that he wasn’t thinking about the fact he was probably drowning in his own blood, he was suddenly overwhelmed by how intensely it hurt and burned. What had happened to him? He couldn’t quite remember.

He thought… he thought there had been a woman with a familiar crazed smile. She made him think of Sirius’s wanted posters. There had been a wand in his face, he was sure of it - it was the only thing close enough for him to focus on - and then… and then…

He stamped down on the panic-hysteria-terror-pain-desperation that threatened to overwhelm him and concentrated on becoming a blank slate.

He forced himself empty of all thought, imagining himself in the middle of a sterile, empty, cavernous room that spread for miles and miles and never stopped.

He needed protection - he needed barriers.

He could practically see it; an enormous great wall that climbed up and up and up as far as his mind’s eye could see. It was grey and flawless, without even the slightest crack in its form that someone could get a foot hold in to attempt to scurry over its top. He pressed a palm against it and sighed in relief when he found it solid and tangible against his hand. He pressed closer, until his entire front was splayed against it, his cheek turned to one side, his eyes closed.

He took a deep steadying breath in, held it, then released it.

He wrinkled his nose.

He could… feel something. Something on his face resting just above his eyebrow. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he opened his eyes.

There was a man looking back at him. A man with familiar tunnel like black eyes.

Harry opened his mouth and he screamed.

Harry isn’t sure what’s happening.

He’s… he’s outside he thinks.

He can hear the crunching of gravel underfoot and a murmur of voices around him that threaten occasionally to raise into something like a jeer before they’re quelled again.

Someone is half dragging him along, pausing only to paw at his neck and breathe into his face.

“Come on boy – pretty little bird like you shouldn’t be crying,”

Is he crying? He can’t tell.

He’s abruptly brought to a halt and finds himself kneeling on the ground. His knees sting in protest and he digs his fingers into the gravel, though he’s not sure what that will achieve. Someone has their fist wound around his shirt at this shoulder. Fingers stroke his cheek and dip briefly into his mouth. He recoils, but they’re already gone.

He tries to peer up at the person holding him but it’s a struggle even to get his head upright, and even then he knows it’s not worth the effort. He can barely see anyway. He… he’s not sure, but the only thing to explain it is that half a blindfold has been secured to him. Or an eye patch. But why?

He feels new eyes on him, and he twists unsteadily to find them.

God… God he’s so confused. He can barely think. Can barely breath.

He hears gasps of awe around him, “Amazing,” someone murmurs.

What’s amazing? Nothing… nothing looks any different. There are hedges, Harry thinks, and a fence, and what might be a house beyond it. He can’t tell. It’s all so blurry.

He feels eyes on him again.

Historically speaking, Harry had always had a complicated relationship with the dark, and small spaces.

When he’d been little, they had reminded him of his cupboard. They reminded him of punishment. Of being locked away for hours at a time with only slithers of light from the hallway beyond penetrating through the gloom. Of missing breakfast, lunch, and dinner too, and praying that they remembered to let him out the next day. Of holding his bladder for as long as he could, knowing that asking to use the bathroom would at the very least result in a smack around the back of his head.

Of wetting himself and being punished anyway.

Now though, he’d give anything to be back in his cupboard, secluded in the dark, alone, with the four walls on either side of him holding him tight and secure.

Now, the dark meant that he was alone. That there was no one there that would hurt him or touch him. In the dark, he felt safe. In the dark, he could pretend that he was simply buried underneath his covers in Gryffindor tower, warm and cozy and safe. The dark was blessed ignorance and peace.

It was when the lights came on that everything started to go wrong.

He… he still couldn’t see much. No glasses, and with what he was beginning to realise was something seriously wrong with his left eye, the world was a blur. He could see just enough for it to feel like the room he was in went on forever and ever with no wall in sight. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed. Like he was sat in a cage waiting for a tiger to pounce.

And they always did.

“Mulciber - what are you doing? Put that down,” the woman snapped. Bellatrix. He knew her.

And Mulciber. He hadn’t known him before, but he did now. Not to look at, but to hear panting against the back of his neck, his words pouring like an oil slick into his ear: ‘ Merlin, you’re still so tight,’ and, ‘ It’s a shame about your face - you were so much prettier before, little bird,’.

“Macnair asked for it,”

Macnair. Unlike Mulciber, he enjoyed looking at Harry’s face. He’d stroke a careful finger across Harry’s cheek, just under his left eye, while he held Harry’s jaw in a vice like grip.

Bellatrix liked to cut him. Anywhere and everywhere, it didn’t seem to much matter to her. He hadn’t seen her with a wand in her hand since he first arrived though. Perhaps she wasn’t sure she could be trusted not to use it? She hardly needed it though; she always had him screaming and crying and pleading before the day was out anyway.

Macnair preferred breaking bones. Harry’s fingers were his favourite. He’d admire them, turning them this way and that, and then let out a rasping chuckle when he made them pop.

Mulciber… Mulciber was the worst though. Because what he did… it hurt, but not in the same way. Occasionally he did it in such a way that it didn’t really hurt at all, and that was always somehow much worse. Macnair sometimes joined in, but it was always Mulciber who instigated it with an invading hand pawing underneath his clothes.

What Bellatrix and Macnair did was excruciating, but what Mulciber did made Harry want to die.

He was distantly aware that what he was being subjected to was torture, but it was hard to truly register that fact when he was screaming himself hoarse and deafened by the reverberations of his own voice.

Harry had never thought he’d be one to beg. He knew better now.

As often as he could, he relied upon drawing his consciousness in on itself and living inside the room he had made for himself. The walls had changed somewhat though. Rather than spreading as far as the eye could see and leaving Harry floating in the middle of a space bigger than he could comprehend, now they formed a room with four walls and a ceiling. It had started as a room as big as the great hall, but now it more closely resembled the smallest bedroom at Privet Drive.

The feeling of the room gradually pressing in on him was strangely comforting. Grounding. Sitting in the room’s corner, hands pressed into the walls and feeling the floor beneath him was the only time he felt in control. It felt like the only time that he truly knew who and what he was.

And then he’d open his eyes and find himself lying on cold stone slabs in the middle of an infinite space with no walls in sight and the illusion was ruined.

There was a fourth person too. A person Harry knew, but by the time he was in front of him, Harry had often withdrawn so deeply into himself that he doubted he would have even recognised his own reflection. His dark, tunnel like eyes were the only feature Harry could ever clearly make out. He was the only person Harry saw who didn’t inspire dread.

Harry was always in less pain, rather than more by the time he was finished, and Harry resented him for it. Without the pain overwhelming him, it became far too easy to dwell on what was being done to him. He longed for the pain and for the role it played as a distracting injury. When he was in pain, everything else felt pleasantly diminished.

When he came though, Harry knew it was nearly time for the lights to go out again.

He missed the darkness when it was gone.

Harry didn’t know how long he’d been there.

He’d been counting the days based off of how frequently he was plunged into darkness and left alone, but he’d lost track a long time ago. At his last tally, he’d been there thirty days, and he was sure he had spent almost as much time counting, as he had spent not counting. He’d stopped being so fixated on the passing of the days when he had finally realised the truth.

No one was coming for him.

He couldn’t have said whether that was because they couldn’t, or they wouldn’t, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The result was the same.

He’d avoided thinking about the people who might mount a rescue effort for weeks, the image of them in his mind’s eye making it feel like he’d been stabbed in the chest. He dwelt on them now though and found himself numbed to the pain. What was a tooth ache when someone had ripped out your heart, after all?

Did Sirius and Remus know where he was? His knee jerk reaction was that they must do, but then he remembered that he didn’t even know where he was. He was underground, that he was sure of, but underground where? In a house? In a prison? In a cave? He didn’t know. But… but surely, they did. Snape was a spy, wasn’t he? He must have told the order where he was. But then why hadn’t they come for him?

Part of him was aware that there must be some reason why they hadn’t - they wouldn’t simply abandon him. They loved him. But that mattered less and less as time went on. Intentional or not, he felt abandoned.

Deserted.

Forgotten.

Less frequently, his mind drifted to Ron and Hermione. It wasn’t exactly as if he seriously expected them to be able to save him. The Order though - Dumbledore - had always given off an air of unending competence and resource. They were adults. Surely… surely, they could? Surely, they wouldn’t leave him here?

He wondered… he wondered if they knew what was happening to him. He hoped they didn’t. The thought made shame and humiliation claw in his belly and so he avoided the subject. It was bad enough that he was being forced to endure it at all without him making himself feel even worse about it. The Death Eaters were doing a thorough job of torturing him all on their own, they didn’t need his help.

It took him a long time to realise that there was someone else visiting him, except they only came when the lights were off. Someone with enormous, watery eyes that glistened even in the dark. A house-elf he thought. After the initial surge of panic when he’d realised, he wasn’t as alone in the dark as he’d thought, he’d quickly returned to his usual state of apathetic limbo, his mind walled away and safe. They never hurt him, the house-elf, instead they cleaned him and used magic to press a potion that tasted like bubblegum past his lips and into his stomach. He didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t care. He was only grateful that the elf didn’t ask him to try and swallow it himself.

There was another person as well. One that came with the others and the light, but one that kept well out of his sight. He’d only noticed them when he’d realised that the distant hissing he could hear was actually a voice, female and sibilant in nature. He didn’t try to consider it further, however. By the time he’d realised she was there, he had already spent most of his time with his consciousness locked safely away in his mental room.

The room was smaller now. Small enough that he could lie flat on his back in the middle of it and starfish so that a foot or hand could be pressed into each wall. If he stood up straight, he could feel his hair brushing against the ceiling. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to stand up at all, but the thought didn’t bother him. Instead, he found it almost comforting.

He’s struggling and fighting with everything he has in him. Kicking and punching, biting and spitting, and even when he’s forced down to the ground, even then he doesn’t give up the fight. Snarling and swearing and raging at the people pinning him down. They’re laughing at him. Laughing and exchanging gleeful looks. He recognises two of them.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Once upon a time he thinks she might have been beautiful, but now she looks drawn and mad, her years in Azkaban having clearly had an effect on her. Her long nails cut into his jaw where she grips his face and pins his head down. Her mouth is spread into a wide grin and he flinches when she spits in his face. Next to her, Macnair chuckles in amusem*nt. He looks just as Harry remembers him from attempting to execute Buckbeak, with deep set eyes and a thin black moustache above his top lip. He’s currently twisting Harry’s arm into an awkward angle. He can feel his elbow screaming in protest, threatening to snap at any moment.

Harry’s eyes flick down his body to the man who’s half sat on his legs. He doesn’t know this man, he’s sure of it, but he never manages to get a good look at him.

Bellatrix is wrenching his head back now, and her wand is suddenly in his face, digging into the flesh under his left eye.

Time seems to slow to a snail’s pace. Her lips twitch and then work themselves into a spell, but Harry doesn’t hear what she says. All he can hear is the whooshing of his blood in his ears. There’s a split second where nothing happens, and then Harry’s world explodes.

Harry was shivering, but he didn’t feel cold. He must be though. That’s why people shivered, wasn’t it? It was getting hard to think now. He didn’t know how long he’d been there - he’d lost all sense of time and space. It could have been anything from days to years. He imagined the actual number was somewhere between the two, but he found he didn’t care.

He didn’t much care about anything.

He didn’t attempt to fight anymore, just laid there and let himself scream when he needed to, and cry when he wanted to. What did any of it matter? He was finding it difficult to care about anything. He was holding on by the skin of his teeth, but with every day that passed, he wished he wasn’t. He just wanted it to stop - he wanted everything to stop.

The room in his mind pressed in on him on all sides now. He barely fit, sat curled up in the middle with his legs crossed and his knees pressed against the walls. It wouldn’t be long before he was completely crushed and ground down to dust. What did that mean though? If he were ash on the ground, but his body lived on.

He imagined he wouldn’t be aware enough to truly experience that inevitability, however.

He was pulled harshly from his thoughts by an insistent knocking. It took a moment for it to register that it wasn’t a physical knocking. No, it was someone tap tap tapping incessantly on the walls of the compact fortress he had built for himself. He was frozen with indecision. This had never happened before. No one tried to reach him here - it was the only place he was safe. Untouchable.

Actually no - that wasn’t true. Someone had tried to reach him here once before. The man with tunnel like black eyes. Was he back? Why was he back? What did he want? Harry hesitated for more than a moment, and then cautiously lowered his shields.

He blinked, and abruptly found himself with company.

The man with black eyes blinked back at him, clearly as surprised as Harry was that he had been granted entrance. He was sat opposite Harry, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his legs as he struggled to fit in a space that mirrored the one that Harry occupied. Harry himself barely fit comfortably, but the man was clearly much taller than him, and was struggling to contort his body into a shape that would fit into a space much too small for it. His eyes flicked about the room they shared, darting between the walls and the ceiling, before landing on Harry.

“It appears that the boys defences are beginning to crush him,” the man said factually, and Harry realised with a jolt that he wasn’t speaking to Harry, “I imagine we are perhaps a few weeks away from his psyche being damaged permanently - any ambitions of the boy realising his magical potential under your guidance are dwindling with every hour he remains in these conditions,” it was with a second jolt that Harry realised he recognised the man in front of him.

It was Snape.

Had… had he been here the whole time? Did he know?

A familiar, well-worn shame swirled in his gut.

Snape’s eyes snapped to his face and narrowed, “Yes my lord,” he said, still speaking to someone else, “I understand my lord,” panic like he hadn’t experienced in weeks began to unfurl like a viper waiting to strike, “It will be done, my lord,” f*ck. f*ck he wanted him out. He wanted him out right now, “I shall start right -,”

With all the strength he had left in him, Harry lashed out, and with one enormous shove had forced the man from his mind, interrupting him mid-sentence. He found himself panting with the effort. Any triumph he felt at his success was short lived as the walls that surrounded him reabsorbed the space that had been created to accommodate Snape, until the space that remained to him was even smaller than before.

He couldn’t take much more of this.

He tried to sink back into blissful oblivion, but he found the edges of his awareness had been pinned firmly in the waking world. He felt his way cautiously along the fabric of his mind and was alarmed to find that someone had bound their consciousness to his, and they were dragging him ever upwards. He tried to fight, but he’d been fighting for what felt like years. He had nothing left to give.

He was tipped fully into awareness when arms worked their way under his back and behind his knees, and he felt himself being hauled up off the hard ground. Everything felt muted as his body tried to remember how to feel and listen and see again.

He could feel the fabric of heavy woollen robes rubbing against his cheek. He flinched away, his head lolling back uncomfortably with nothing to support it. He could feel the way he rocked with the steps of the person carrying him (Snape, his mind supplied helpfully. It was defiantly Snape). His left arm swung freely beneath him, and he felt the chill of the air prickling along his flesh. He shuddered, but that was the only effort his body made to warm itself. He’d been cold for so long.

He could hear Snape’s breaths above him and feel them puffing against his cheek when he glanced down to Harry in his arms. He could hear his footsteps echoing around them, and noticed when they became abruptly muted. Not on stones anymore then. Carpet perhaps?

Merlin. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? He tried to draw back again but found Snape unwilling to give up the purchase he had on his mind. He felt like a minnow with an enormous hook in his cheek being reeled in by a fisherman. No matter how much he tried to fight, the line held true, and the fisherman waited for him to tire again to drag him that little bit closer.

“Stop, Potter,” he heard Snape say from above him, “Your mind is on the verge of collapse. Dissociating with occlumency shields for long periods of time has a corrosive effect. You must return to the waking world, or the damage will be irreversible,”

The idea was laughable. As if any of what had happened to him was truly reversible. What was one more thing?

He gave in though. He didn’t have it in him to fight. He peered up at the potion’s professor above him. His face was just close enough that he wasn’t a complete blur - in his right eye that was. He still couldn’t remember what had happened to his left, but he’d grown to accept that he couldn’t see through it anymore. It was probably the only thing he did accept.

With Snape refusing to let him retreat, he settled on apathy. He didn’t bother to look around when they stepped through a door, the sounds around him gaining a new muffled quality, as if they had moved from an enormous hall to a small cozy office. He didn’t acknowledge that anything had changed when he was carefully lowered into an empty bathtub. He let his face rest against the porcelain and closed his eyes. He tensed at a loud crack, but otherwise didn’t react. He couldn’t help but listen though - his ears seemed to be the only sense he could rely on now.

“Master Severus called for Tippy?” A high squeaky, trembling voice. A house-elf. The house-elf who had been caring for him all this time, perhaps?

“Mister Potter requires a hot bath,” Snape sounded tired.

“Yes, Master Severus,”

Harry felt himself stiffening involuntarily when he found himself suddenly freezing cold - the elf had banished all of his clothes. His distressed whimper echoed loudly.

“Leave Mister Potter’s underwear on, Tippy,”

“But… but sir…,”

“On, Tippy,” Snape insisted.

“Yes, sir,”

He was the warmest he’d been in months when he finally risked coming back to himself.

He was reclined in a bath full of hot water with bubbles up to his chin. There was a house-elf stood at the side of the bath on a footstool, his arm resting in her hands as she carefully scrubbed at his skin with a soft bristled brush. Blurry though she was, he still saw when her watery eyes flicked nervously from where she was working lather into his skin, up to his face. He blinked at her, but otherwise had nothing to say. It was the first time someone had touched him, and it hadn’t hurt in some way. It was comforting. He hadn’t been sure that touch would ever feel this way again.

He froze when he recognised the soft exhalation of someone else breathing in the room. He relaxed minutely though, when he realised, he wasn’t quite as naked as he thought he was - he still had boxers on. Though where had they come from? He hadn’t… he hadn’t had underwear for a long time.

The other person in the room was on his left side, and so he had to turn his head fully to be able to see them, and even then, they were more blur than anything else. It was a blur he’d recognise in a heartbeat though.

Severus Snape was sat with his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees and his arms dangling down between his legs. Harry squinted to try and see him better but gave up quickly - it only made his head hurt. He didn’t know how to feel about him. On one hand, he undoubtedly owed his continued existence to the man - he should be grateful. On the other, Severus Snape was the reason he’d been forced to live through weeks of torment - he should be furious. And then there was the question of where his loyalties lay, and what that would mean for Harry now, if it meant anything at all.

He froze in place when the man raised his chin and turned his gaze in his direction. Harry imagined it was wary… no, it was cold and calculating. Harsh and judgemental maybe? He couldn’t tell. He wished he were closer so he could see him - but then no, maybe not. He wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to be close ever again.

He flinched at a clipping sound. He whipped his head around to find the house-elf carefully trimming his nails, a nail file held between her teeth. Her large eyes flicked nervously to his, and she banished the clippers in favour of a nail brush, and she set to work. He scratched the fingers of his other hand experimentally against his thigh and found them longer than usual and jagged, no doubt broken from clinging to the stone floor.

Just the thought of it made him want to sink back into himself again.

“You cannot continue using occlumency as you have been,” Snape said gravely as if reading his mind - maybe he had been. Harry reluctantly turned his face towards him, “Dissociating so completely over such a long period of time is quite literally rotting your brain,” he hesitated, then stood.

Harry flinched back without really meaning to, and Snape held up a peaceable hand between them as he carefully dragged his seat forward, so they were closer to one another. Harry could see his expression now. He’d been wrong - he looked exhausted. He didn’t relax until the man was sat back in his chair, however.

“Shielding is perfectly acceptable,” he continued, “but I would encourage you to remain in the waking world until your mind has healed, or…,” he swallowed, “or for as long as you can manage,”

Were these the words of a man forced into an intolerable position, forced to watch him being tortured to maintain his cover? Or were they the words of a man terrified of disappointing his Lord? Harry couldn’t tell but he looked strained either way. He wasn’t sure it truly mattered, not for Harry at least. There was no double agent that would save him after all.

Harry held his gaze for a moment, saying nothing. Snape visibly swallowed.

“Are you thirsty?” Harry didn’t answer the patient question - he probably was, but when you were thirsty all of the time it became difficult to recognise the feeling, “Here,” Snape withdrew his wand from his robes and used it to conjure a glass of water. He held it out for Harry to take; Harry flushed with frustration when he reached for the glass and found himself grasping at air, “Here,” the man repeated, grabbing Harry’s wrist with one hand and pressing the glass into his palm. Harry found himself holding his breath until he’d been released, “You will gradually learn to compensate for your lack of depth perception, I’m sure,”

Harry ignored him, choosing instead to gulp at the water.

“Did you…,” the reluctant question caught his attention, and he cautiously lowered the glass, “Did you wish to see?”

Harry didn’t know what he meant - see what? What was there to see? He nodded though.

The glass was carefully plucked from his grasp, and his fingers were folded around the handle of a mirror. Oh. He understood now.

In his heart of hearts, he’d known all along that his eye had been pulled out, he’d just never been quite ready to confront himself with that reality. Now, he had no choice. He gripped the mirror handle tightly, willing his hand to stop shaking, and held it close to his face. One green eye stared back at him, duller than he remembered with enormous dark circles under it. His hair was tamed somewhat by the grease that had built up in it and its added length - he hoped the elf would wash and cut it for him. His cheeks were sunken in - gaunt almost. He’d lost weight, he’d known he had by the way the bones in his wrists jutted out, but he hadn’t quite expected his face to look so much thinner. There were scars on his skin too, new ones. He looked quickly away from the ones at the junction of his neck and shoulder. He didn’t want to think about those.

Finally, with nothing else to look at, he turned his right eye to look at his left. He swallowed. There was no left eye, only his lid sunken down into the empty socket below. Part of him wanted to lift the lid up and find out what lay underneath out of sheer morbid curiosity, but it was easily dismissed. He didn’t think he could cope with that right now.

He handed the mirror back but said nothing. What was there he could say?

“I’m sure a patch could be sourced for you, if you wanted one,” Harry turned an incredulous look in his direction - as if a patch could make this in anyway better? Snape averted his eyes, looking briefly cowed before a smooth, cold mask fell into place. It raised the question again - who’s side was he truly on?

When the house-elf carefully climbed down from her step and folded it under her arm to approach the opposite side of the bath, Snape pushed himself to his feet and made for the door. He hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder, “I shall leave a vial of dreamless sleep for you on the bedside table - Tippy will be able to direct you towards it,” and with that, he was gone.

His eye fixed on the closed door, Harry offered the elf his other hand without protest and sank back into the water to stare up at the ceiling.

Chapter 3: Severus: A question of loyalties

Chapter Text

Severus shut the bathroom door tightly behind him and gave himself a moment to simply breathe. He’d imagined that seeing the boy out of that awful cellar would have given him some reprieve from the heavy feeling in his gut, but having that unnerving, blank single green eye turned in his direction had dissuaded him of the naive notion that the boy would experience the same relief. He might be out in the light for the first time since June, but Severus could tell from his shuttered expression, that mentally he still existed in the dark.

He licked his lips, the only external sign of his inner turmoil, but it would be a sufficient tell to the Dark Lord - he couldn’t leave yet, not until he had brought himself together again. While he waited for his shields to settle back into place, he inspected his surroundings.

The Aethonan suite was the grandest set of guest rooms within the manor, and took up the majority of the east wing’s top floor - or so Lucius had told him smugly through a poorly disguised sneer. Though he hadn’t said so, Severus was sure that Lucius had imagined offering these grand rooms to the Dark Lord himself, not to the Dark Lord’s scrawny, half-blood prisoner.

The suite was enormous, with a main living area that was nearly the entire width of the house. Enormous ornate windows spread the length of the wall and looked out across the manor’s impressive gardens, as well as providing the perfect vantage point for one to look down the estate’s driveway to the iron gate that guarded the property. In the centre of the wall beneath the window was an ostentatious drawing table with intricately carved snakes inlaid on its mahogany legs. They hissed furiously whenever someone walked passed them. This was the only evidence of the Malfoy’s allegiance to Slytherin house however, and it gave away that the drawing table had not been originally designed for the suite.

Rather than snakes, the rest of the suite was decorated with statues, and carvings, and engravings of enormous winged horses. The vast mantel piece on the living room’s back wall stood out in particular, with a statue of a horse’s head mounted on the wall, gazing down at the fireplace while feathered wings emerged from its sides. Apparently the Malfoy’s had been avid breeders of Aethonan winged-horses once upon a time. Now, their stables stood empty and they had been repurposed as a kind of workshop, though this too had been abandoned. He could hardly imagine Lucius getting his hands dirty.

Lining the walls were enormous bookcases that stretched all the way up to the room’s high ceiling. A track connected them together, and a ladder sat idle and tucked into the corner, waiting to be rolled out into place should one wish to peruse the books that were out of reach. The Manor had its own library, and so Severus wasn’t quite sure it was necessary for this suite to play host to quite so many books, especially when he had gained the impression that it went broadly unused.

In front of the fire, was a long, chesterfield style sofa that faced out into the room, with two matching arm chairs that faced one another. A long coffee table, with a proud winged horse engraved on its surface sat in the middle of the space. Tucked into the opposite corner to the suites main door was a gold harpsichord, its lid propped open and revealing on its underside a portrait of a herd Aethonan winged-horses soaring through a stormy night. Lightning occasionally flashed across the picture, and the horses flinched back in alarm.

He glanced back at the drawing table.

Yes. This definitely didn’t fit. Had Lucius perhaps made moves to redecorate the room in anticipation of the Dark Lord inhabiting them? He clearly hadn’t gotten far before the Dark Lord had expressed a preference for the more secluded and labyrinth like west wing.

He froze at the sound of a quiet sob from the bathroom behind him, and found himself landing harshly back in the present. He took a deep breath, and forced his shields back into place. He shouldn’t have allowed them to lapse in front of the boy. He never thought he’d find himself wanting to offer Potter comfort, and regretting that he couldn’t. Potter couldn’t be trusted though - not anymore.

He strode away from the bathroom towards the bedroom at the living rooms other end, glancing out at the frost covered grounds as he went.

The Dark Lord’s plan to change the boy’s allegiances could very well succeed, especially with the vulnerable position he was in now, hurt - physically and mentally - and isolated from anyone who might provide him support. Isolated from anyone who might provide him support, who wasn’t loyal to the Dark Lord, he corrected himself. He glanced distractedly at the luxurious room he found himself in as he pushed his way into the master bedroom.

This suite was certainly a part of the Dark Lord’s plan. He wouldn’t be surprised if, for the next few weeks, Potter was provided with every comfort he could possibly ask for. An effort to garner appreciation, perhaps - gratitude. He expected the Dark Lord would spend extended periods of time with Potter as well, treating him kindly and offering him gentle words.

He swallowed nervously - what could he do to counteract manipulation like that?

No, he thought, eyeing the four-poster, king’s sized bed in the middle of the bedroom. No, he couldn’t do much at all.

He stopped at a side table and pulled a vial of dreamless sleep free from his inner pocket. His fingers brushed something else as well though, something cold and wiry. Ah - he had forgotten. He pulled the pair of glasses free from his pocket and considered them. They weren’t the ones the boy normally wore, though they looked very similar. He rubbed the left lens between his fingers – it contained ordinary glass. He put the glasses and potion down, and spun slowly, taking in the bedroom.

He imagined that only Lucius’s bedroom was as grand as this.

Severus wasn’t sure Potter would ever be capable of whatever greatness the Dark Lord expected of him, not anymore at least. Not when his grey matter had been practically leaking out of his ears. But Severus could certainly see a potential future where the boy was manipulated into unerring loyalty. No - the boy couldn’t be trusted anymore.

He needed to leave - he had tarried long enough.

Waiting at the bottom of the east wing’s stairs, he found Narcissa. He didn’t know why he was surprised. The woman had been consistently concerned with the boy’s welfare. He only hoped she wasn’t as obvious in front of the house’s other residents - he wasn’t sure how her preoccupation would be received.

“Narcissa,” he greeted cooly, the picture of composure.

She shifted nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, “Not here,” she said shortly, turning and striding away, not waiting to see if Severus was following her.

“I have other duties, Narcissa,” he ground out, following her reluctantly despite himself, “I do not have long,” she stopped suddenly in front of a portrait of a slender woman with a greyhound lying at her feet. She offered Narcissa a short bow, and the portrait swung abruptly open much to Severus’s surprise.

“This house has many secrets,” Narcissa muttered under her breath, stepping over the portraits edge and leading him into a tiny sitting room. There was only enough space for two comfortable armchairs and a tiny log burner, “Lucius’s mother used this room to hide away from her husband when she wished to remain undisturbed. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Lucius, I’m not sure he knows it exists,”

“Narcissa, I do not have time to listen to this,” Severus snapped impatiently, “The Dark Lord is expecting me - what can I help you with?”

She worked her wedding ring around her finger anxiously, “The Dark Lord asked to speak with me,” she admitted, “He… he wishes for me to keep an eye on the Potter boy,” her eyes flicked to the ceiling as if she could see him through the floors that separated them, “He… he didn’t explicitly say why, only that he thought the boy could benefit from a mother’s touch,” her expression soured briefly, “Because, of course, that’s all I am - Lucius’s wife and Draco’s mother,” she muttered.

Severus’s mind chewed over the new information - his instincts had been correct then. He wished to endear the boy to the cause by providing him with a support structure built entirely upon people loyal to the Dark Lord and his dogma, “I don’t understand what help you’re asking for Narcissa,” he said tightly, the picture of a man eager to be done with this conversation, “I’ve never been particularly paternal so I’m afraid I can’t help you with this endeavour,”

Her expression tightened, “What does he want, Severus?” she said sharply, “I worry that Draco will face the consequences should I fail. So tell me: what does the Dark Lord want? I can’t hope to succeed if I don’t know that,”

Severus considered his words carefully, “He wants the boy loyal,” he said slowly, “but I do not imagine he expects you to secure that loyalty. Rather, I imagine he is aiming to make the boy comfortable. To help him adjust. To offer him comfort and grow his reliance on those who are loyal to the cause,”

The Dark Lord recognised the value of familial bonds in securing the loyalty of his followers, Severus had to admit, but he didn’t think he actually understood them. If he did, he might have expected Severus’s loyalties to waver when he threatened the woman he loved. If he did, Severus thought he might not have chosen Narcissa for this. She would do an exemplary job of binding the boy’s affections to her, he was sure, especially if she believed Draco’s safety hinged upon it. But she was just as likely to become the keystone on which Potter’s loyalty or betrayal hinged.

That prophesy had been made for a reason, after all.

“But why me?!” she said harshly, “Why not you? You’re loyal to the cause, and you already know the boy!”

“I imagine Potter will feel safer with you, than me,” he said meaningfully, “considering his recent… traumatic experiences with male Death Eaters,”

“But… but you were his teacher,” she continued weakly.

“His teacher who he hated,” he reminded her coldly, turning towards the portrait, “He didn’t trust me before. He certainly won’t trust me now,” she pressed her lips together so tightly they practically disappeared, “Is that all, Narcissa?” she nodded sharply, and he took pity on her, “If the Dark Lord gives any indication as to what he expects of you, I will do my best to help you, I swear it,” her expression softened with relief.

As he strode towards the winding corridors of the west wing, he dwelt on what impact helping Narcissa might have on Potter. Would it bind him to the Dark Lord more quickly? Or would it simply bind him to Narcissa?

Would it bind her to him? If she loved him like she loved Draco?

Now that? That might be something to be exploited somewhere further down the line - potentially years, if Potter lived that long. As the lady of the manor she had some influence over the wards, if not as much as a Malfoy by blood. Though, that still left the Fidelius charm. It was something to bear in mind.

Finding himself at the end of a familiar gloomy corridor, a wide, dark door in front of him, he emptied his mind, and knocked.

“Enter,”

The Dark Lord was alone, his enormous snake nowhere to be seen. A fire blazed in the hearth and bathed the room in flickering orange light. Severus felt himself immediately begin to sweat but resisted the urge to loosen the collar of his robes. He offered the Dark Lord a short bow.

“Ah, Severus,” he hissed with a slow smile, “Come and sit with me - tell me about the boy. Have you managed to avert disaster?” the threat was clear but Severus ignored it as he lowered himself into the second chair by the fire.

“So far, yes, my Lord,” he answered mildly, his voice free of affectation, “I have pinned the edges of the boys mind to my own to prevent him from sinking back into a fugue state,”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” Voldemort commented coldly.

“It is… unpleasant,” Severus admitted, suppressing a shudder at the memory of Potter trying to drag them both down into the depths of his own mind, “The binding is only temporary, however, and will dissolve before the week is out. I would not recommend it’s repetition - it is damaging to both parties. I suggest we find other methods of encouraging the boy to keep his consciousness in the waking world,”

“Ah, Severus - I am already ahead of you. I have put provisions in place. I have tasked Lucius’s wife with keeping the boy comfortable. I imagine he has much want of a mother, after all, and Narcissa has already demonstrated such concern for his well-being,” a knowing grin spread across his face. Severus sighed internally - he had told her to be careful, “Tell me Severus, when does Hogwarts break for Christmas?”

Severus found himself thrown by the non-sequitur, “In two weeks time, my Lord,”

“Hmm, perhaps it would do for Harry to see a school-mate. Draco will be in the Manor for Christmas, will he not?”

“I believe so, my Lord,” he said cautiously, “but Potter and Draco are… on less than friendly terms,” he said diplomatically, “I don’t imagine that placing them together will foster the environment you envision,”

“I imagine young Draco can be persuaded to set childish rivalries aside in order to further the cause, and elevate his family. He and Narcissa will no doubt be anxious to avoid disappointing me. I will impress upon them the consequences of failure if I must, but I’m sure they are already aware,” he said airily, waving a hand as if he were wafting away the insinuation that the Mafloy family weren’t already well aware of their precarious position, “And besides, perhaps an ounce of normality will serve to lead Harry gradually back to himself.”

Though Lucius had retrieved Potter and prophesy both, his lack of discretion had still revealed the Dark Lord’s return before he had been prepared to declare himself. A step out of turn, and Severus imagined Lucius would find himself confined to his own cellar - he was already confined to the manor. Though he wasn’t officially a wanted man, a mole within the ministry had revealed that Lucius was suspect number one in the abduction of Potter, and if he stepped even a toe on Ministry property he would find himself in irons.

Severus inclined his head as if deferring to the Dark Lord’s wisdom, “I understand, my Lord,” he murmured, “Though…,” he hesitated.

“Speak your mind, Severus,”

“I must admit, that while I see the boy’s loyalties becoming muddled, I cannot envision a future where he is loyal to you. Not loyal enough to fight in your name, at least. He has friends and those he considers family with the light. And then there are his parents to consider,”

Voldemort grinned, slow and wide, “He does have friends and family amongst the light, you’re right. We shall simply have to find him friends and family amongst our people as well. Narcissa is just the start, Severus. If I have my way, he will find himself surrounded by witches and wizards he feels bound to. And if that fails? Well,” he chuckled, “I am confident I will be able to dissuade him of any notion of loyalty to Dumbledore at the very least,” his tone struck a chord with Severus. There was something he wasn’t saying, but he knew better than to push the matter, “You may leave now, Severus - no doubt Dumbledore is awaiting his own report,” he sneered a little, “You will return tomorrow morning to check on the boy’s well-being,” he commanded, “I trust this task to no one but you, Severus. See that he is healthy,”

Severus heard the warning in his voice.

“Of course, my Lord,”

Severus was expecting to find the kitchen of Grimmauld Place practically bursting at the seams when he arrived - he had pre-warned Albus that today was likely the day that Potter would be removed from the cellars, and he imagined the entire Order would want to hear what he had to say.

His reports had waned in popularity since June, as the details of Potter’s treatment remained consistently horrifying, and the likelihood of rescue became increasingly bleak. Only those who had been closest to Potter stayed to listen now, out of some misguided attempt to pay homage to the boy’s suffering. A kind of self punishment, he thought; a penance for being unable to save him. What it really was, in his opinion, was unnecessary self-flagellation.

Though he held himself and Albus apart in that regard. For them, he thought it was entirely necessary. It was their failure that had condemned the boy, after all.

He had failed her. A thought he had found himself dwelling on more often than not over the last six months. He had failed her.

He found his expectations met – the kitchen was standing room only, though a chair had been saved for him, he could see. His eyes trailed across the occupants in the room - there were more than there had been in June. Potter’s abduction had inspired more than a few of his school mates who were of age to join the order. Johnson and Jordan were sat on either side of the Weasley twins, and Spinnet was stood next to Tonks.

He wondered if they had been appraised of the Order’s mortality rates before they joined.

Vance hadn’t been seen in three weeks now, and though Severus hadn’t heard her name mentioned, he imagined she was likely dead.

“Ah, Severus,” Albus said kindly, “Please, join us,”

Severus inclined his head, and lowered himself carefully into the chair, still cataloguing who was present. Lupin was there, stood shoulder to shoulder with Arthur Weasley. He was the only person other than Severus and Albus who had never missed a meeting when the topic of the day was Harry’s wellbeing. Black hadn’t attended any of them, not since that first one.

It was strange, Severus thought, that while the Weasley’s, and Tonks, and Moody, and Shacklebolt, and Lupin caused themselves, what he considered, unnecessary suffering by hearing him repeat week after week the atrocities being committed against Potter, he couldn’t help but feel disdainful that Black seemed to be sparing himself the pain of having to listen. He was the boys godfather. If anyone should listen, it should be him.

With every eye on him, he didn’t wait to be asked to speak, “Potter has been removed from the cellar, and relocated to a suite on the Manor’s top floor,” he half expected the room to collectively sag in relief, but no one moved; they knew better now, he supposed.

Dumbledore rested his steepled hands against his chin, “How is he, Severus?”

A stupid question, but one Severus supposed needed asking.

“Physically he is… well. There have been no lasting physical effects from the torture he has been subjected to, apart from his eye. Though he is now significantly underweight and has vastly reduced muscle tone. Having not eaten food for months, it will likely take just as much time for him to regain that weight,”

“And mentally?” Lupin asked anxiously, gnawing at his thumb nail, “How is he mentally?”

“Potter’s mind is… fractured. He has been using occlumency shielding intensively to disassociate, and the corrosive effects were beginning to take hold. I have had to forcefully pull his consciousness forward to prevent any further damage. It is difficult to truly assess his well being however - the shielding that remains is impenetrable without methods that would cause Potter great distress and pain. Such methods would likely have life altering consequences for Potter at this point, anyway,”

“Has he…,” the eldest Weasley son started carefully, “Has he said anything?”

“No,” Severus answered simply. There was a pause where everyone simply looked at him expectantly, but he wasn’t sure what they wanted him to say. There was no elaboration to be had, he felt.

“Do we have any insights into Voldemort’s plan going forward, Severus?” Albus asked calmly.

“The Dark Lord intends to indoctrinate Potter. His current plan revolves around fostering positive relationships between Potter and people loyal to the Dark Lord,”

“Death Eaters?!” A Weasley twin cried incredulously.

Severus forced down his irritation at being interrupted, “Yes. Death Eaters,”

Albus nodded slowly, “But he does not intend to torture Harry further?”

“The Dark Lord is a mercurial individual, who often keeps he own council,” Severus answered cooly, “I cannot possibly answer that with any accuracy,”

“Have a guess,” the other twin said snidely.

“There is no guessing with the Dark Lord,” Severus bit out harshly, “I could sit here and claim to know his mind, but it would be a lie. Is he torturing Potter right this second? No. Is he planning to torture Potter tomorrow? That remains to be seen,”

“Well then what’s the point of these meetings?!” Weasley exclaimed, “What’s the point of you, if you can’t actually tell us anything?!”

Severus felt a snarl building on his face, “How dare you-!”

“Enough,” Albus interrupted calmly, “I appreciate that this is an inflammatory topic of discussion, but we must remain civil. The goal of Lord Voldemort is to sow discord amongst us, and he is using Harry to do that. Why else would he be so eager for us to know what has been happening in the cellars of Malfoy Manor?” The Weasley boy looked reluctantly chastised, “And Severus acts as our eyes and ears within the Death Eaters at great personal cost. The value of the intelligence he provides us with is immeasurable,” he looked carefully between the witches and wizards gathered around the table, taking the time to focus his attention on the newest members of the order, “Now,” he said at length, “we must move the topic of conversation onto other matters, I’m afraid,”

And there it was. Severus had been waiting for this moment for months - the moment that Dumbledore began to carefully redirect their focus away from Potter. Not only was there no hope of saving the boy, but he ran the risk of becoming a demoralising force should Severus report that the boy was indeed being turned towards the enemies side. Severus imagined that the boy would now only be discussed in discreet private meetings. Meetings that seriously considered whether the boy remained a victim to be rescued, or had crossed the line into a hostile waiting to be suppressed.

Severus said very little for the rest of the meeting, speaking only to answer questions posed directly to him. The meeting addressed nothing of interest that he didn’t already know. Pius Thickness had been discovered to be under the influence of the Imperius curse, and measures had been taken in the ministry to identify other key individuals that might be at risk of bewitchment, but otherwise it was all reports of minor skirmishes between Death Eaters and the Aurors.

It was making everyone uneasy as the public was lulled into a false sense of security. It wouldn’t last, he was sure.

He was unsurprised when Dumbledore asked him to stay behind after dismissing the meeting. He ignored the eyes that were turned in his direction and waited patiently for the room to empty before moving himself further down the table and closer to the headmaster.

The headmaster tapped his wand against the table and Severus shuddered at the feeling of a privacy ward surrounding them. Albus let out a tired sigh, suddenly looking twenty years older.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you, Severus,” he started warily, “that we will no longer be routinely discussing Harry with the wider Order,”

“Who, pray tell, are we defining as not being the wider Order?” Severus enunciated carefully.

“Ourselves, Alastor, Kingsley,” he paused, considering, “I imagine we shall have to bring Remus and Sirius into the discussion as well,” he admitted, “They are liable to mutiny if they are kept out of the loop at this stage,”

“But they might be excluded from the discussion in the future?” He clarified.

Albus nodded sadly, “There may come a point when an extremely difficult decision has to be made, and it would be unfair to place that burden on them, as men who love Harry as their own son,”

“But not unfair to place it upon yourself - or do you not love him?”

“Ah,” Albus said, a tear gathering in the corner of his eye, “I’m afraid that this is my penance, for having failed him so,” he dabbed away the wetness on his cheek, “Now, tell me: who is the Dark Lord using to build connections with Harry?”

“He intends to start with Narcissa Malfoy,” he answered slowly, “He feels that Potter may be receptive to a mother figure, and Narcissa has expressed concern for the boy that has not gone unnoticed by the Dark Lord. He has also considered Draco. I do not believe that the Dark Lord has considered that encouraging these positive relationships may work against him, however,” he said more shrewdly, “Narcissa is not her sister - she is not an ardent follower of the Dark Lord. She supports him only because her husband does. Though she may believe in his doctrine, I do not imagine she would chose to have that man in her house. She has expressed concern to me multiple times about the safety of her son while they play host to him,”

“Are you suggesting that any relationship that forms between Narcissa and Harry may be leveraged in the other direction, Severus?” Dumbledore said with interest.

“Potentially, but obviously there is no guarantee,”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, “But potentially?”

“Narcissa would do almost anything for her son - if she were to consider Potter a son to her as well, then it follows that such devotion may extend to him,”

“To build such a relationship may take years, though,” Severus simply looked at him, not willing to be baited by the naive statement. Potter had already been held prisoner for nearly six months. It was not unreasonable for it to be years before an opportunity to free him arose - the last war had lasted nearly eleven years after all. Albus’s expression turned grim, “I see… and what of young Draco? He is changed somewhat since the summer holidays, I’ve noticed,”

“He is,” Severus agreed, “His home is overrun by Death Eaters, many more than a little insane following their incarceration in Azkaban. I believe his mother’s reticence has begun to rub off on him. But he’s still an arrogant little twit,” he added, surprising a burst of laughter from the headmaster, “I do not anticipate any strong friendship to be fostered between the two, but I do think Draco may serve to… galvanise Potter somewhat. Draw him out of the depression that is likely to set in,”

“How?” Albus asked looking faintly amused.

“By being so unendingly irritating that Potter snaps out of it to smack him round the mouth, I imagine,” Severus said dryly.

Albus looked sad now, “I hope you’re right Severus… I do hope you’re right,” he rubbed a hand across his face, lifting his half-mooned spectacles up off his nose as he did so.

Severus hesitated for a moment, “…there is something else,” Albus looked at him curiously, “He… he suggested that he knew something… something that he would use to turn the boy against you specifically,”

Albus sat back heavily in his seat, his eyes flicking across the surface of the table as he contemplated what Severus had revealed, “I see,” he said at length.

“I don’t suppose you know what that might be…,” he trailed off meaningfully; when Albus gave no answer, he pushed onwards impatiently, “Albus, if I am to even attempt to prevent Potter from being manipulated into working with his parents murder, and the man who ordered his torture and rape-,” Albus flinched, “- then I need to know the truth,”

The headmaster slumped in his seat, as if the invisible string that had been holding him up had been snipped. He considered Severus for a long time, his blue eyes flicking constantly between Severus’s own, before he slipped his glasses from his face and used both hands to rub roughly against his face. Finally, he began to speak.

“You must tell no one of this, Severus,” he started quietly, “No one - not even other members of the order, do you understand?” Severus nodded at once, “I had intended to begin… preparing Harry this year, for bringing about the downfall of the Dark Lord, for it will not be as simple as just killing the man,” he tapped a finger nervously against the table top and Severus felt dread building in his gut; he had never seen the headmaster this agitated, “I presume you have heard of Horcruxes, Severus?” He asked suddenly.

Severus felt like he might vomit. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed carefully through his nose, “The Dark Lord has a Horcrux,”

“I believe he has several,” Severus’s eye flew open, horrified, “You remember the diary that Ginny Weasley used to open the Chamber of Secrets? I believe that to be his first,”

Severus spluttered, “His first?!” He exclaimed.

Albus nodded grimly, “I had intended to pass this information on to Harry,” he admitted warily, “I am concerned that I am likely to be targeted by Voldemort, and as Hagrid likes to say, no one lives once the Dark Lord decides to kill them. Should I die, there must be someone else who knows of their existence,”

“How… how many?” Severus said hoarsely.

Albus hesitated for a split second, “I believe he created six. With the diary destroyed, that leaves us five,” he sighed heavily, “Five Horcruxes to find and destroy - two and a half each, Severus,” he said with false levity.

“Do… do you know what they are? Where they are?” He added, something like hysteria creeping up his throat. He’d always known that the odds were stacked against them, but he hadn’t realised how heavily.

“I have an idea. I know where one is for certain. I have been… avoiding destroying it however - I imagine it lies under heavy protection, and I was loath to risk my life to retrieve it and then leave the Order leaderless at such a perilous moment. The people here, who rally to destroy the Dark Lord, they are as important to killing Tom Riddle as finding the Horcruxes,” he said seriously, “Perhaps we could destroy it together, Severus - over the Christmas period. I would trust no other with my safety in such a perilous scenario as I trust you,”

“I don’t suppose I have much choice,” Severus answered darkly, “Not unless I wish for the Dark Lord to rule the wizarding world in perpetuity. I imagine it is difficult to depose of an immortal overlord, after all,”

Dumbledore offered him a small smile, “Indeed - we shall discuss this matter in more detail in my office this weekend, yes?”

Severus stood and left the kitchen without answering. What did it matter what he said? The man was right. There was no other option other than pushing forward - and to think that he had been preparing to lay this information on the shoulders of a teenager. It occurred to him, just as he was passing the dining room, that the existence of the Horcruxes didn’t sound like something that would turn Potter against the headmaster. He was distracted however, by the sight of a person sat at the end of the dining room table running a galleon across the back of his knuckles.

It was Black. He looked… better than Severus had expected. He’d expected the man to be a sallow skinned, drunken wreck, existing in his pyjamas and refusing to eat. Instead, his hair had been cut short to reveal what remained of his good looks, and he was dressed smartly, as if he were about to leave for dinner. His hand didn’t even tremble as it tossed the coin into the air and caught it.

He hesitated, and the hesitation was just long enough for Black to notice he was being watched and to look up from the coin in his hand. His eyes flashed, and his expression turned grim.

“Hello, Severus,” he said softly.

Severus found himself turning into the room despite himself, “Black,” he answered sharply, eyeing the man carefully, “You’re looking better than I’d expected,”

Black sneered at him, “What? Were you expecting me to be drunk, wallowing in my own filth and barely aware of what day it was?” Severus pursed his lips, preparing to snap back, when the other man slumped, “Because you’d have been right a month ago,” he admitted, “Remus made me get rid of all the alcohol in the house. Shoved me in a cold shower and cut my hair while I cried liked a baby,” his lips twitched in the shadow of a smile.

“Then he burnt all my clothes and took me shopping,” Black continue, “What a weird experience that was - half of the alley looked like they wanted to hex me and the other looked like they might faint,” Severus said nothing, “He said- he said,” Black’s voice had become suddenly hoarse, “He said that… that there was no point drinking myself to death. And what if one day we discovered we had a way to rescue Harry, but I couldn’t help because I was a drunken wreck,” he turned a wet smile in Severus’s direction, “Do we have a way to rescue Harry, Severus?” Severus shook his head slowly, “No… no I didn’t think so… Remus said that Voldemort wants to try and brainwash Harry. Do you think it’ll work?”

Severus chose his words carefully, “Potter is in an incredibly vulnerable state. It is not beyond reason to suggest that the Dark Lord may be able to successfully condition him to behave as he wishes,”

Black looked back at him, his expression blank, before he spoke at the level of a whisper, “Remus thinks… Remus thinks that we might not rescue him until its too late. Until he really believes every bit of poison that Voldemort pours into his ear. That there might come a day where we’re fighting on opposite sides of this war. Is he right?”

It seemed pointless to deny it, but Severus found himself trying regardless, “Perhaps. But then again, perhaps Potter is more resilient than we give him credit for. Perhaps he will resist the indoctrination. Perhaps he will surprise us all,”

Black turned back to the coin in his hand, “I hope you’re right,” he whispered, feeling the edges of the coin, “I hope you’re right.”

Chapter 4: Harry: The Moirai

Chapter Text

Harry wanted to be angry with Hermione. He really did.

They were stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a herd of furious centaurs doing battle with Grawp behind them, with what felt like hours of time wasted. Sirius needed him - for all he knew, his Godfather was dead already, he thought bitterly. But he couldn’t be angry with her. Not when she looked so green, and like she might vomit at any moment.

“It’s… it’s just a sprain,” she said faintly from the ground, her shaking hand resting against her ankle.

Harry swallowed back his inpatient reply, crouching down at her side and peering down to the appendage. That was no sprain. Ankles weren’t meant to point in that direction, and Harry was fairly certain he could see bones prodding unnaturally against the inside of her skin.

“If that’s just a sprain, then I’m a Crumple-Horned Snorlack Hermione,”

She let out a hysterical breathless giggle, “Crumple… Crumple-Horned Snor… snor… thingies aren’t real,” she protested weakly with a wince.

“That’s kind of the point,” he said shortly, “What happened anyway?”

“When the centaur dropped me,” she gasped, tears of pain welling up in her eyes now that the adrenalin was beginning to wear off, “I thought… I thought I just twisted it… but… but…,” she considered her ankle miserably, “Obviously not,”

He clenched his jaw. f*ck. f*ck. He needed to get to the Ministry, preferably immediately, but he could hardly abandon Hermione out here by the forest with a herd of murderous centaurs just out of sight. f*ck! What was he meant to do?!

“You two alright?” As if answering his prayer, a panting Ron emerged from the darkness, a small limp in his own step, “What happened? Where’s Umbridge? Are you alright - blimey Hermione!” He looked suddenly green, his eyes finding Hermione’s ankle, “What happened to you?!”

“Centaur,” she whimpered, “He dropped me,”

“Umbridge pissed them off something rotten,” Harry said as he straightened, urgency building in his chest, “Where are the others?”

Ron winced, “We tried to get away from the Inquisitorial lot, but Warrington tried to cast some nasty curse. It ended up backfiring - Neville got the worst of it, but Ginny isn’t in too good shape either. Luna’s helping them up to the hospital wing,”

Harry nodded distractedly, not truly caringin that moment if he were honest, “Right, yeah, okay - look mate, can you help Hermione up to the castle?” Hermione peered up at them from her position on the ground, “Sirius wasn’t at the house - Voldemort’s got him. I’ve got to go after him, but she really needs help,”

Ron balked, “What?!” He cried aghast, “You’re gonna’ go on your own?”

“Well you lot are hardly in a fit state to come, are you?” He snapped, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. He was wasting time!

“I am!” Ron denied, outraged.

“Yes - but someone needs to help Hermione to the hospital wing!” Harry found himself half shouting without really meaning to, and Ron scowled at him, “Look, look - I get it, I really do, you want to help, but right now the best way you can help is by taking care of Hermione,”

“You can’t go alone Harry,” Hermione said, trying to lift herself to her feet but giving up with a squeak, “You need help!”

“No,” Harry said firmly, “This is my decision to run off to try and save Sirius, no one else’s - and you need help Hermione! Look at your ankle!”

“How are you even getting there?” Ron demanded, “Cause’ if you want to floo, it looks like we both need to go back up to the castle,” he cried triumphantly.

The answer to his question came in the form of a sudden insistent tugging at the sleeve of Harry’s robe. He flinched back, and looked down to find the skeletal head of a doe-eyed Thestral following the path of his hand in an attempt to lick off the blood that coated his arm. Harry froze for a moment, then grinned. He knew exactly how he was getting to London.

Harry didn’t remember going to bed. He didn’t remember getting out of the bath. He certainly didn’t remember taking the dreamless sleep potion, and yet the empty vial sat beside him on the bedside table, right next to a pair of glasses.

Curled on his side, heavy blankets pulled up to his chin, he reached out for them cautiously. He could tell by feel alone that they weren’t his glasses - the metal frame felt different under his finger tips, colder and more delicate. He peered through the left lens and his stomach dropped when he realised it was simply glass, and he was confronted with the loss of his eye anew.

A small part of him - a part he wasn’t quite sure he recognised anymore - wanted to hurl the glasses furiously across the room. He didn’t want anything that these people offered him.

But then… a larger part of him tensed at the idea. Remembered the frustration and uncertainty of not being able to see Snape’s face the day before. Shuddered at the vulnerability that came with blindness when he was surrounded by jackals and hyenas on all sides. There was an echo of panic somewhere in the middle of his chest, and the glasses were pressed onto his face hastily.

Ah. He’d forgotten what the world was meant to look like.

He slid carefully out of the bed; the mattress was so high that he had to half jump to get down. He stood for a moment, simply absorbing the grandiose bedroom he found himself in, though he was less appreciating its beauty, and more enjoying his ability to see properly again. Once he had adjusted to the feeling, he found himself at a loss.

He didn’t know what to do. He should be relieved. He was off cold ground and had his vision returned to him. He wasn’t relieved though. He felt paralysed.

Should he stay in the bedroom? The door was right there, waiting, begging to be opened. But what was there on the other side? And that was presuming he would be able to open it at all.

His inability to predict what came next was choking him.

At least before he’d known what to expect before. Dark, then light, then pain. Horrendous as it was, nothing had taken him by surprise. There’d been no decisions to be made, no illusion of choice, he simply had to make it through the day without losing his mind.

Though, he remembered, Snape had suggested he hadn’t even been managing that. He cautiously tried drawing his mind back in on itself but found the effort futile - he was well and truly pinned in place.

He abandoned the attempt, frustrated anger crawling up his neck and building as hot tears behind his eyes. f*ck. He didn’t know what to do with this. He didn’t know what to do with the soft carpet under his toes, the heavy, floor length curtains around the window, the oak four poster bed, or the soft, warm pyjamas he didn’t remember putting on. His eyes trailed to the vanity table in the corner; it was covered in creature comforts. Aftershave and perfumes and moisturisers and combs and brushes and small chocolates wrapped in shining foil all stared out accusingly back at him, as if they too knew he didn’t belong here.

He hated this - though at least now the feelings of anxious terror seemed to have burnt themselves out. No matter how hard he tried, he didn’t seem to be able to conjure anything more intense than regular old fear, and even that seemed slow to come, as if it were striding towards him through waist deep water. It was amazing how the human mind could adapt to tolerate even the most intolerable of circ*mstances. He supposed that constant, overwhelming horror was unsustainable in the long run.

The words of a character from the dinosaur movie Dudley had insisted on recording and watching loudly in his room suddenly filtered into his inner ear, and he felt a bark of near hysterical laughter threatening to escape him.

Life did indeed find a way.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t stay here, rooted to the spot.

His legs felt heavy, as if he were buried to the knees in quick sand. His second step came more easily, and before he knew it he was stood at the room’s door, staring down at the handle. There was something engraved into it, but he couldn’t have said what. He snatched out a hand to grasp it before he could think to deeply about the movement, and he twisted it.

The door opened with the smallest of clicks, and he strode forwards abruptly then stopped. He squinted against the low sun that streamed in through the expanse of windows along the wall. It should perhaps have been a more poignant moment - he didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last seen the sun after all - but it was dampened by the knee jerk urge to freeze with the sudden light. He shook his arms as if breaking himself from a cast.

No.

He needed to try and free himself of the instinct. The rules had changed. Freezing wouldn’t help him now.

He gave a cursory glance to his surroundings - a room so grand he had only seen it’s likeness in the documentaries Aunt Petunia had so enjoyed about stately homes. He spared the room’s horse themed decor a curious look before turning his attention back to the window.

He wandered closer to it without really meaning to, hungry for a view of the word outside, half convinced that it no longer existed. He felt like a goldfish peering out of a round bowl, the refraction of light warping his perception and making the view beyond that bit more fantastical and untouchable.

It was a garden. Enormous and expansive with perfectly maintained rose-bushes and flower beds and a round fountain in its middle. It was walled on all sides as far as the eye could see by hedges. At the furthest edge they looked innocuous - benign almost. But as his eye travelled along them, closer and closer to the building (house? Palace?) he found himself locked in, the more imposing and intimidating they became, until finally they were married together at the end of a gravel drive by cruel wrought iron gates.

The gravel digs cruelly into his knees, into his palms. Why have they brought him out here?

A crack jerked him out of the memory, and he jumped around to find the same meek looking house-elf who had bathed him the night before peering up at him. She quivered a little under his scrutiny.

“Master Harry, sir,” she squeaked out, “Tippy has brought your breakfast, sir,” she shuffled nervously into the room, and Harry noticed for the first time the enormous door behind her. It was heavier than the one to the bedroom, and he knew immediately that it was the way out.

“That door’s locked, isn’t it?” he said, his voice hoarse and nearly unrecognisable to his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken when it wasn’t to scream or beg. The elf nodded, a hand reaching up to twist at one of her ears. He trusted her answer.

He found himself strangely relieved that he wouldn’t have to answer the question of whether or not he could face an escape attempt. The Gryffindor in him protested his inaction, but the rest of him thought back to the enormous hedges surrounding the property. No doubt there were magical protections too. No, there was no way he was getting himself out of this, not without help.

“Master Harry?” Tippy called tentatively, her eyes flicking meaningfully to the tray that sat upon the coffee table.

He ignored her, turning his eyes back to the grounds. His gaze lingered on the frost on the grass and the frozen water in the fountain. It had been summer when he’d last been outside.

“What month is it?”

“Tippy… Tippy isn’t meant to be answering questions,” her hand twitched, threatening to reach up to one of her ears again, “Please Master Harry, you must be eating breakfast - you is skin and bones!”

“Harry is fine,” he said dully, mindlessly wandering over to the sofa and sitting down heavily on it, the fire blazing at his back. He spared the small portion of steaming porridge (topped with what looked like sunflower seeds) an uninterested look, more focussed on peering about the room he had found himself in. The only things that really caught his attention were the enormous volume of books that surrounded him. He squinted to try and read some of the titles:

‘Encyclopaedia of toadstools’ and ‘The Goblin Chieftains of the Fifteenth Century’ and ‘Snails: Bringing your Gastropod out of their shell!’ were some of the less exciting titles he could spy, though ‘A Worldwide history of Magical Schools’ sounded more interesting.

“Master Harry,” Tippy repeated more incessantly, “You needs to be eating! Master Severus will be angry with Tippy if you don’t eat!”

He was drawn reluctantly from his attempt at distracting himself by the note of panic in the elf’s voice. He wondered if Severus Snape was as cruel to his house-elf as Lucius Malfoy had been to his. The idea of Tippy twisting at her own ears was enough to have him reaching for the spoon.

After one mouthful, he paused to separate out the seeds - the texture of the porridge was bad enough, he didn’t think he could tolerate anything more exciting. He found himself half longing for the bubblegum flavoured potion that had been pressed past his lips - at least that didn’t make him shudder and struggle not to gag.

He managed less than half the porridge before he felt fit to burst. His stomach was out of practice he supposed. Tippy looked disappointed but didn’t press him.

“Master Harry-,”

“Harry is fine,” he reminded her quietly.

“-needs to be getting dressed. Master Severus will be here soon-,”

“Snape is coming?” he felt the echo of a flash of adrenalin in his chest.

“-and he will not be happy if you aren’t dressed-,”

“I’m more dressed than I have been in weeks!” He hissed furiously only to immediately regret it when she flinched away from him. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be like… them. Terrorising someone weaker than him. Though was she really, in this scenario? He tried to back track regardless, “I… I’m sorry… I just…,” he just what? What was there to say that she didn’t already know? She’d been there too, after all.

Her hand closed carefully over his wrist and her enormous blue eyes blinked up at him, “You is needing to be getting dressed,” she repeated more gently, “Master Severus-,”

“-is already here,” a voice interrupted her coldly, and she jumped half a foot away from him and audibly gulped.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, the edges of a sneer playing around his mouth. If Harry had thought he’d seen something like sympathy or regret in the man’s expression the day before, it had been cast aside this morning. He looked like he couldn’t think of anywhere worse to be.

“You’ve not eaten your breakfast, Potter,” he said disdainfully, sweeping into the room, the door closing tightly behind him before Harry could even catch a glimpse of what lay beyond it, “I ordered you to ensure that Mister Potter ate his breakfast, Tippy,”

Tippy trembled, “I… I is trying, Master Severus - Tippy is sorry!”

Harry felt something long forgotten stir in him. Something that itched to lash out in defence of the elf - it wasn’t her fault after all. But the urge felt like an ear worm of a long-forgotten song. Frustratingly familiar but not enough for him to make a tune he could put a name to. Once upon a time he’d have snapped back at Snape. He’d done it before, he was sure. But now he could barely bring himself to speak with the man in the room.

He no longer knew himself, he realised, a sinking feeling in his gut. How much of this was as a result of the lingering fear that he hadn’t quite become immune to, and how much was a result of a personality shift. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“And still in his bedclothes too,” Severus added with disgust, “You will do better next time, Tippy,” she nodded frantically, and recognising the dismissal in his voice, disappeared with a crack, leaving them alone.

Snape considered him with clinical detachment before seating himself on the edge of the armchair closest to Harry. He removed a potion from his inner pocket and held it out impatiently to Harry, “Drink it,” he said sharply; Harry accepted the potion listlessly and knocked it back in one go, a familiar bubblegum potion sliding over his tongue, “You must begin eating, unless you wish to be on nutritional potions for the rest of your life. You have lost a considerable amount of weight since June, and you were near the lower end of normal then,” something about the man’s tirade, dripping with disdain, felt forced, but Harry said nothing, “Do you understand?”

The stirring voice in the back of his mind pressed forward sharply, “I’m hardly going to gain weight on tiny portions like that, am I?” He snapped, a flash of fury prompting his tongue to lash out. He immediately regretted it, but he tried not to let his panic show, shielding his emotions furiously and guarding them jealously. His feelings were his own - they were the only thing he had left to him, and he wasn’t prepared to share.

Snape looked faintly surprised, but didn’t comment much to Harry’s relief, “You have been exclusively consuming nutrition potions for nearly six months - if we are to avoid inducing refeeding syndrome, we must be cautious-,”

Harry wasn’t listening though. His heart had dropped like a stone, “Six… six months?” he whispered, “I’ve been here for six months?”

Snape froze for a split second before he answered, “Yes - it is the beginning of December,”

Harry leapt to his feet, sudden furious energy making it impossible for him to stay still, “Six months,” he choked out, squeezing himself between the sofa and the unoccupied armchair to put some distance between himself and Snape, “F-f*ck, oh f*ck,” he moved to pace like a caged lion behind the sofa, gritting his teeth in frustration when a force stopped him from stepping too close to the fire, forcing him to pace in a circle in the small space next to a golden piano, “Six months - six months, oh god!”

“Potter, you need to calm down,” Snape said firmly; at some point he had gotten to his feet.

Harry didn’t listen to him, he couldn’t, his mind still fixed firmly on two words: six months. Half a year. It must be nearly Christmas, he thought hysterically. Six months and no one had come for him. How much longer would he be there? How long would he stay in this room? Would he be put back in the dark again?

“I’d prefer not to, but if you don’t calm down Potter, I’ll be forced to hold you down and pour a calming draught down your throat,” Harry flinched back at the threat, and would have stumbled back into the fire were it not for the force keeping him away from it - what was that?! Snape seemed to realise his poor choice of words and lowered himself slowly back into his seat, his hands held out non-threateningly in front of him.

“Potter,” he tried again more calmly, “please. Have a seat and we can talk,” Harry noticed that there were no false promises - no assurances that he was safe, and he wouldn’t be hurt, “Just sit down… sit down over there if you prefer,” he gestured to the armchair at the far end of the coffee table, “but you must sit, and calm down,”

“If I sit down, will you answer my questions?” he forced out through gritted teeth, the memory of terror making his fingers twitched by his side. He should be afraid, he thought - afraid of angering Snape, and afraid of the consequences. Instead, he found himself overwhelmed.

Everything just felt so… so much more. The bedroom, the door handle, the window, the sun, the outside, the porridge, everything. When he wasn’t busy feeling numb, he felt bowled over by the feelings that did manage to break through. He felt himself hurtling through every emotion possible at breakneck speed before he was finally caught around the neck, nearly strangling himself when the numbness set back in.

Snape inclined his head, “I will answer the questions I am able to,” the questions you’re allowed to, a small voice whispered in his ear. Allowed to by Voldemort, or was it by Dumbledore, Harry wondered. Snape watched him as he reluctantly took a seat, though nothing in his expression gave away how he truly felt about their current interaction or it’s context.

Harry wasted no time, “Where am I?” he snapped, expecting his first question to be a none-starter but needing to ask it anyway. He was surprised, therefore, when Snape answered calmly.

“The Aethanon suite of Malfoy Manor,”

Malfoy Manor. The answer brought his last clear memory of Malfoy Senior swimming into view - an amused sneer and an outstretched hand. The sneer shifted and became younger until it was the face of Malfoy Junior he saw, grinning over his shoulder as he tucked Harry’s wand away in his pocket and went to fetch Snape for Umbridge.

Where was his wand now, he wondered?

The fact that Snape had answered so readily only left him feeling uneasy. He doubted the information would have been offered up so easily if there were any way for Harry to utilise it - not that he was capable of doing anything anyway at that moment. The idea of escape had his palms sweating.

“What month is it?”

The answer came as quickly, “December. Hogwarts breaks for the holidays in two weeks,”

“Why am I still alive?” The question was gasped out.

Snape’s expression remained cool, “That is a question you will have to pose to the Dark Lord - I do not pretend to know his mind,”

Harry found himself scoffing in disbelief, and then stuttering nervously, “Is- is he coming here?!”

“He has expressed his desire to see you over lunch,” his eyes flicked briefly to Harry’s pyjamas, “I would suggest you dress yourself more appropriately for his visit,”

Harry was torn. Torn between how he thought he should feel - terrified and anxious - and how he actually felt: numb with uncertainty licking at the edges and fury sitting in the back. He felt as if he were stood on a knife’s edge, waiting to see which side of the blade he would fall. The side that was strangled by the last six months and struggled to open doors, or the side that felt driven feral by it and wanted to scream and rage. Maybe he would feel differently with Voldemort himself in front of him, his red eyes boring into his green one. He was singularly terrifying after all.

“Any more questions?” Snape asked sounding bored.

Fury licked up Harry’s spine.

‘Have you always been such a massive prick?’ Is what he thought, “Why are you here?” Is what he said.

“The Dark Lord wishes to ensure your continued good health,” Harry snorted, “I am here to monitor your wellbeing and prevent you from declining - physically and mentally,” Harry found himself mirroring the sneer that Snape aimed in his direction, his feral edges creeping in, “Now, if you have no more questions, I will begin,” he raised his wand and Harry flinched back.

Snape ignored him, and with a flick of his wand a series of indecipherable lights and scales and graphs appeared above Harry’s head. Harry eyed them, reluctantly curious. Snape cycled through them too fast for Harry to even attempt to figure out what they might mean. He lingered though, when an explosion of writhing gold light appeared above Harry’s head, interwoven with silver sparks that exploded like fireworks and then sprinkled to the ground. Snape frowned, his eyes darting about the configuration.

“What’s that?” Harry asked coldly.

Snape’s eyes flicked to his, then back to the phenomenon floating in the middle of the room. For a long time, he said nothing, and Harry was on the verge of demanding answers when he finally spoke, “It is your magical core - it appears… split… fractured,” Harry didn’t know what he meant - though he had no idea what a magical core should look like, the explosion of golden light hanging in the air between them looked like the picture of health to him. Then he spotted the slither of black that wound its way nefariously through the gold.

“Why is it like that?”

Snape let out a huff, and with a sharp jab of his wand the light was extinguished, “I don’t know,” he answered shortly, “though I suspect it is likely as a result of your extended period of occlumency assisted dissociation,”

Harry bristled at the man’s accusatory tone, “If you would like to experience the last six months of my life while being fully aware of every single thing that was happening to you, then be my guest,” he said lowly.

Something flickered in the potion’s professor’s expression. He continued without addressing Harry’s comment, “You are underweight and have significantly raised cortisol levels, but are otherwise, broadly speaking, physically fine,”

“What’s cortisol?”

Snape hesitated a beat, “It is a stress hormone,” Harry only stared at him, and Snape looked away, clearly uncomfortable, “You must try your best to eat,” he stood smoothly, “and avoid unnecessary stress,” Harry felt his lips twitch into a snarl, but Snape didn’t wait to hear his response. He turned and strode towards the door, leaving abruptly and without further comment.

With him gone, Harry felt the angry, feral beast in his chest leave too, and he was left at a loss with only a numb sense of unreality for company. It seemed, that when there wasn’t someone in front of him to rage against, he couldn’t quite remember how to be a person anymore. Without anger, he was left bereft. The fear was burnt down like a candle wick near the end of its life, and nothing even remotely positive could gain a purchase on him.

He found a familiar apathy returning, pinning him to his seat. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never felt this helpless emptiness before - as uncomfortable and irate as he felt around the man, he couldn’t help but wish that Snape would come back. At least he felt like he existed when he was there.

“Master Harry?”

“Just Harry is fine,” he answered automatically, barely registering that the house-elf had joined him again.

Tippy quivered slightly, “You is needing to be getting dressed,” a new urgency made her voice high and grating as she twisted her fingers together, “Th-the Dark Lord will be here soon,” soon? Didn’t Snape say lunch? “You must be getting dressed, or Tippy will be in so much trouble - the Dark Lord is not being as forgiving as Master Snape,” she absentmindedly gave her ear a cruel twist - no doubt she was disobeying some implied order about not talking poorly about Voldemort.

Harry turned his eyes to the sun outside of the window and found it had moved across the sky when he wasn’t looking. Were there no clocks in this place? A cursory glance about the room didn’t identify a single one - though he did find a shadow on the wall where one might have been once upon a time. Was this another technique to unsettle him, he wondered. Six months of torture followed by who knows how long of never knowing the time of day. He let out a derisive snort.

It seemed petty in comparison.

“Please Mas- Harry,” the elf cut herself off before the word master, “Please get dressed!”

He pushed himself up with a sigh and allowed her to shepherd him towards the bedroom and the enormous, towering wardrobe pressed flush against the wall. With him on his feet, she wasted no time in asking for permission before pressing dark, fitted robes over his head. The fabric felt expensive against his skin and seemed to cinch in enough to not appear baggy, but not so tightly that they gave away how narrow his waist truly was. Was this for his benefit? Or would Harry’s increasingly underfed appearance offend the Dark Lord’s sensibilities he wondered.

He winced when the collar was suddenly buttoned up high and tight around his throat. Any complaint died on his tongue though when Tippy suddenly froze and let out a terrified squeak. She trembled lightly as she peered up at him.

“H-h-he’s h-here,” she stuttered.

Dread stirred in Harry’s gut, but he found it surprisingly easy to ignore, “Go, Tippy,” she didn’t need to be told twice, disappearing with a louder than usual crack.

Harry turned his attention to the door and for a short moment tried to catalogue how he felt. It was like he had a presentation on a flip board in the back of his mind presenting ideas of how he ought to feel, but they were mere suggestions more than anything else. The anger though - the fury - that was very real. He wondered if it was because it was the closest thing to fear that he could generate at that moment.

He wasted no more time contemplating how he did or didn’t feel about the reptilian man waiting for him on the other side of the door. He strode forward and wrench the door open.

Lord Voldemort was just as he remembered - a tall and intimidating figure with pale skin pulled taught against his skull and bright red eyes staring out at him. He watched as they flicked up and down him, appraising, considering. Finally, the nostrils, slits that sat just above his lip, flared for a moment, and then a slow grin spread across his face.

“Harry Potter,” his name, said in that high cold voice, pierced the heavy air between them, “Come. Sit with me - we shall share a meal, you are looking thin,” he half turned towards the lounge area, and waited until Harry had taken a reluctant step forward before he seated himself on the sofa. He summoned two steaming bowls of soup with a snap of his fingers, and crusty bread rolls with another.

Harry selected a seat as far from the man as he could manage, much to his amusem*nt. He watched silently as the bowl was levitated in his direction. It was something made with lentils and leaks - leak and potato perhaps. Harry had no real desire to try it.

He froze at a quiet whispering voice coming from the Dark Lord’s direction, but Voldemort acted as if he had heard nothing.

“Leave it for now, Harry. It is much too hot. You shan’t be able to eat it like that,” Voldemort warned, stirring his own soup lazily; Harry said nothing, and the man gave a high chuckle, “Come now, Harry - Severus told me you were quite chatty earlier. Positively full of questions,” Harry gritted his teeth - of course that snake had been reporting back on him, “and yet now you sit opposite me without saying a word - even your mind is quiet. It’s amazing what a bit of torture can do for shoring up occlumency shields. Come now Harry… there must be something you wish to ask me…,”

“Why am I still alive?” he snapped, jolting when he realised that the words hadn’t come out in English. Rather, his tongue had slithered and hissed in his mouth as parseltongue passed between his lips.

Voldemort grinned, and responded in kind, “Why Harry - still so spirited. Perhaps I should have left you in the cellar a month or two longer, but Severus was most insistent that you could tolerate no more - a pity,” he’d been in a cellar? “And you are asking the wrong question, child. You should be asking why I wanted to kill you in the first place,” he paused. Harry was relieved when it was simply to remove a glowing orb from his pocket, rather than as an expectation for Harry to parrot the question back at him.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the orb in his hand, recognition making him sit up straighter. It was the prophesy. The one with their names on. The one Voldemort had been so desperate to lay his hands on. Harry watched, reluctantly transfixed as the Dark Lord whispered an incantation, and with a sharp tap of his finger, a sound like a bell being rung echoed throughout the room, and the orb began to speak.

The harsh, guttural voice was faintly familiar to him, but he was distracted by listening closely to the words, rhythmic and musical like poetry. By the time the orb had fallen silent, Harry felt hardly any more comprehension than when it had first started speaking. ‘And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives,’ - that part at the very least, he felt he understood.

“So, we’re destine to kill one another,” he said flatly. He heard another muttered voice, this one more scornful than the last, and realised it was coming from within Voldemort’s robes. The man himself paid it no mind.

“Ah,” he said, “I believed so too, Harry. When I first heard of this prophesy, I heard only the first half. Had I heard the rest, I believe I would have acted differently. With more caution. I believe that it was my hearing only half of this prophesy that brought it into reality.

“Have you ever heard of Acrisius, the mythological Greek King of Argos,” Harry shook his head, “Acrisiusvisited the Oracle at Delphi, and was told that he would die at the hand of his grandson. In order to avoid this fate, when his daughter gave birth to a baby boy, he threw daughter and grandson both into the sea, locked in a chest. Both survived, and the Grandson grew into the great hero Perseus. The story goes that Perseus participated in games in Larissa and far outstripped his competitors. When he competed in the discus however, he hit an old man in the crowd, who fell over and died. This old man was in fact his grandfather, Acrisius,”

“So what?” Harry ground out, as much as parseltongue could be ground out, “What’s that got to do with us?”

“The point, Harry, is that by fighting against the future that had been prophesied for him, Acrisius instead put into motion the very circ*mstances that brought it into reality. If Perseus had been raised as a prince of Argos, would he ever have been at the games in Larissa to strike and kill his grandfather? Likewise, had I not heard that prophesy and acted to avert it, would you and I have ever become enemies as we are? I think, perhaps not,”

Harry blinked at him, then glanced down to his soup. He reached for his spoon - he wasn’t hungry, but eating would give him a moment to think. He couldn’t bring the steaming liquid to his lips though.

“Give it a moment longer, Harry,” Voldemort chastised, “it is still too hot,”

Harry dropped the spoon in frustration, “I don’t understand the point of your story,” he snapped, “Let’s say you’re right, and if you hadn’t acted on the half of the prophesy you heard, we’d never be in this mess. But what does that matter now? You heard the prophesy - ‘neither can live while the other survives’ - and I’m literally right here in front of you, completely defenceless. And I have been for six months. But I’m still sat here, breathing, with a bowl of what I think is leek and potato soup in front of me. Why am I not dead?!”

A slow smile spread across Voldemort’s face, “Your death no longer aligns with my interests,”

Harry gritted his teeth in frustration, “Now what then?”

“It is my aspiration that you might be persuaded to join me,” Voldemort admitted lightly.

Harry snorted, “Are you joking?”

Voldemort was not put off by his derision, “At the very least, I will accept keeping you close to me, safe, here in the manor, but I feel that eventually you will come to see my way of thinking,” Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but found himself silenced by the Dark Lord’s next amused statement, “You must understand, Harry - there is no way back to the light for you now. I doubt they would even accept you back,”

Harry swallowed heavily, and whispered, “Why?”

“You have been behind enemy lines for half a year - the order is well aware of your treatment and my goals. They will view you as vulnerable. They will consider you compromised. If you returned, I imagine you would find yourself alienated from your friends,”

“You’re lying,”

“Even now, I am sure there are secret conversations between the leaders of the order, headed by Dumbledore himself. Conversations about whether or not you are still my victim, or if you’re now my ally,”

“You’re lying!”

“Conversations about whether or not they should take you out if the opportunity presents itself,”

“YOU’RE LYING!!” Harry found himself on his feet, panting furiously and snarling at the smiling Dark Lord.

“I’m not, and you know I’m not,” he tilted his head to one side as if considering a mildly challenging puzzle, “Sit down, Harry,” Harry found himself lowering back down into the chair mindlessly, “You will understand, Harry,” Voldemort said quietly, “One day you will understand, and you will hate Dumbledore just as much as I do,”

Harry breathed heavily through his nose as a new fear crept up his neck. What if he was right? What if the order really did view him as an enemy now? It would explain why Snape, if he were loyal to the order, was so guarded with him. It would explain why he was still there, without even the hint of a rescue effort.

He was already struggling to find himself in the shell that had been left after half a year of torture. What if Voldemort was right, and he poured his own to poison into Harry, filling him up until he too hated Dumbledore and the order? His friends? Sirius?

“I have one last thing for you, Harry,” Harry felt himself jerked out of his mind, and watched as Voldemort dug a hand into his robes, “I have asked Severus and Narcissa to keep an eye on you,” Narcissa? Malfoy? “I am a busy man, I hope you understand, I may not be able to lunch with you every day,” he pulled his hand free from his robe, and wrapped around it was a small snake, orange with black stripes, only a few inches in circumference and curled into a protective ball on his palm so that Harry couldn’t even guess how long it was, “She is newly hatched - I thought she might make a good companion for you,”

Harry blinked in surprise when not one, but three heads cautiously uncoiled themselves and peered back at him.

She carefully unspoiled herself and allowed Voldemort to lower her onto the coffee table. The right head glared back up at him, while the middle and left were more focussed on Harry. The left urged them onwards, closer, and while the middle seemed just as interest in him, she had a kind of dazed, dreamy look in her eye. She reminded him of Luna.

All three heads, and Harry flinched when Voldemort pushed himself to his feet, “I must leave you now Harry, but I will see you later in the week,” he fell back into English, “Narcissa and Severus will visit you tomorrow,” Harry found himself freezing in place as the Dark Lord approached and used a surprisingly gentle hand to trap his chin. He stroked a single, long finger down Harry’s cheek, and a familiar terror shuddered in his chest, “It is such a shame about your eye,”

He was halfway out the room when Harry stopped him with a gasped-out question, “If… if you wanted me on your side, then why did you… why did you lock me in the cellar? Why did you let them torture me… and… and…,”

Voldemort offered him a slow smile, “I want you on my side, Harry, yes. But ultimately, I want you under control. I want you to know that all this,” he gestured to the grand room around them, “can disappear whenever I want it to,” he gestured to the coffee table, “Eat your soup, Harry. You’re much too thin,” and he left.

Chapter 5: Harry: The Deciever

Chapter Text

For a long time, Harry simply sat, and looked down at the small, three headed snake in front of him, while she stared back. What was she? He distantly remembered learning about a three headed species of snake, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were called.

He should probably have been thinking about Voldemort and the unsettling conversation they’d just had, rather than figuring out the snake in front of him, but he didn’t want to. It all made him feel sick. Sick at the idea of being manipulated into joining him, and sick at the consequences of resistance.

He wanted to give up. He wanted it all to go away. He’d never regretted finding out he was a wizard before, but he did now. It would have been so much easier to be a muggle. It would have been so much easier to be anyone other than himself.

“Your eye,”

Harry jumped at the unexpected question; the middle head blinked placidly up at him, “S-sorry, what?” He said, bewildered.

“What happened to your eye?” the middle head repeated, her voice rhythmic and lilting as if she were singing a lullaby, “Did you lose it? Your kind normally have two, do they not?”

The right head’s lips twitched into something that Harry thought might have been the snake equivalent of a sneer, “One does not simply misplace an eye,” she said, her voice gravelly and coarse.

The middle head puffed up defensively, “He might have - you don’t know. You don’t know any more about the two-legged’s than I do. And perhaps some of their kind only have one eye - or none at all!”

“The red-eyed serpent-speaker had two,” the right head pointed out disdainfully, “and so did the two-legged one who hatched us. It stands to reason, therefore, that they typically have two,” the right head considered him for a moment and gave an unimpressed hiss, “This one must be a defective two-legged,”

“Not defective,” the middle head disagreed, “Damaged, perhaps. Broken,”

“Humans,” Harry found himself saying helpfully, ignoring the way his gut clenched at the word broken, “We’re called humans. And I did lose it - but I didn’t misplace it. It was taken from me by force,”

The middle head gasped, “Stolen. How awful. Can you get it back?”

Harry shook his head, feeling faintly bewildered by the conversation - hadn’t Voldemort said she was a hatchling? Perhaps snakes were born with innate knowledge of their language rather than having to learn it, “No - no, it’s gone for good. It was taken by the other man - the red-eyed serpent-speaker,”

The middle head hissed, “He harms his kin,” she said darkly, “You smell of him - is he your progenitor?” Harry shook his head, confused - he smelt of Voldemort?

“Weak,” the right head muttered to herself, “Unable to protect himself,”

Harry wanted to be offended, but it was like speaking to a child who didn’t understand that their honest opinion could hurt. In any case, the middle head was offended enough on his behalf, “No! Not weak. Vulnerable. He has no fangs and only one head,” she paused, “Defenceless,” she said the word mournfully, “Venom-less. A hatchling in a storm - alone and afraid,”

“Aren’t you a hatchling?” He asked curiously.

The right head scoffed, “We hatched fourteen nights hence. My fangs are full of venom, and we are strong. We are no hatchling,” Harry had never heard a snake sound quite so disdainful before.

The left head, who up until that point had remained silent with her scrutinising gaze fixed upon Harry, finally opened her mouth to speak. Where the right head’s voice was rough, her’s was smooth, and where the middle head’s was dreamy, her’s was grounded and firm, “His eye was taken and cannot be returned. He is damaged - but his is not broken. He is wronged by the red-eyed serpent-speaker. He is not weak, but he is defenceless,” she considered him for a moment, then declared, “He shall be ours,” and she pressed determinedly forwards, slithering closer and wasting no time in climbing up Harry’s arm and onto his shoulders where she sighed contentedly into his ear.

He had to admit that the feeling of her coils pressed against the back of his neck was comforting. The left head rested on his shoulder, while the middle investigated his ear curiously. The right seemed mostly unimpressed, muttering darkly to herself, but even she settled with her head on top of his, “Stupid hatchling. Needs protecting until fangs come in. Burden. Ours now,”

“Ours now,” the left head agreed sounding smug.

“Ours,” the middle head sighed in his ear.

“Do… do you have a name?” Harry asked, trailing a curious finger down the snake's tail. He wanted to be irritated that Voldemort’s choice of companion had taken to him so readily, but it was difficult when he found the serpent so endearing.

The middle head hummed, a tongue peeking out and fluttering in his ear, “We have no name,”

“Do I give you one name to share? Or a name each?”

“We are one being,” the right head said disdainfully from within his hair, “We should share a name,”

“I don’t want to share a name with you,” said the middle petulantly.

The right hissed furiously, “Why not?!”

The left head sighed, “Because you’re awful,” she said frankly, “We should each have a name,” she declared, ending the debate.

Harry was suddenly aware of the three expectant gazes fixed on him, waiting for the names he would bestow upon them. He gulped - there hadn’t been this much pressure to name Hedwig (he felt briefly like crying at the thought of his owl - would she even remember him now?).

“I’ll think of a good name for you all, I promise,” he vowed, reaching up to carefully stroke a finger down the nose of the left head. Her orange eyes fluttered closed, and her tongue tasted the air lazily. She was beautiful - they all were (even the right head with the permanent serpentine sneer on her snout and her terrifyingly long fangs). Part of him wanted to reject her presence outright. Accepting any gift from Voldemort felt like giving in. But he was just so lonely, and she was the only thing he’d spoken to in months who hadn’t wanted to hurt or take something from him.

“What is that?” The right head’s gravelly voice vibrated through his scalp. He followed the gaze of the two other heads, and found them staring down at a lightly trembling Tippy, “Is it food?”

“No,” Harry said immediately, “No, not food - her name is Tippy. She’s a house-elf,”

“Elf,” the middle head mimicked, “If not food, then what?”

Harry opened his mouth, and immediately changed course from detailing the controversial relationship between house-elf and wizard, and instead said, “Friend. She’s a friend. Don’t eat her,” he added firmly, just incase the fact that friends weren’t for eating wasn’t clear enough.

The right head immediately lost interest, working her way deeper into his hair. The middle head sighed happily to herself, and said, “Two friends in one day,” while the left peered down intensely at the elf, who he noticed was still shaking.

“What do you want Tippy?”

She let out a small, shocked yelp at his sudden address, leaping back a little. He heard her gulp, “M-m-master Harry is needing to eat his dinner,” she inclined her head meaningfully to the bowl of stew steaming lightly in front of him.

He sighed, his stomach already cramping at the idea of trying to force the food down - at least the snake about his shoulders would enjoy the beef he couldn’t manage, “Just Harry is fine, Tippy,” he said quietly, reaching for the spoon.

He managed a little more than half the bowl before he started to feel sick. The snake was happy to accept his leftovers, licking gravy carefully from his fingertips and swallowing chunks of steak whole. He heard Tippy shudder when the right head carefully dislocated her jaw to swallow a particularly large chunk. She was quick to disappear with a crack when the snake turned beady eyes in her direction, though she was far too small to be a real threat to the elf.

He startled slightly at the sound of running water. He had almost forgotten that the bathroom existed, having barely moved since Tippy had persuaded him to dress. He fixed his eyes on the bathroom door. He hesitated for a moment before he pushed himself to his feet, snagging the bowl of stew and bringing it with him when the middle head let out a petulant mewling sound at being pulled away from her meal. At least one of them had a good appetite, he supposed.

With a bowl in one hand and a three headed snake wrapped around his wrist, Harry used his free hand to push his way into the bathroom. His eye immediately found the enormous claw footed bath in the middle of the room, steaming water pouring from the silver tap. His gaze flicked briefly to Tippy where she was stood on a stool, peering over the water and adding salts and soaps, before trailing around the rest of the room.

As with everything else he had seen of the Aethonan suite, the bathroom was also unnecessarily grand. Porcelain winged horses were frozen in the middle of tossing their long manes on the toilet seat, and an enormous shower took up the majority of the left-most corner of the room. His eye caught on the grand mirror above the sink, however. Without meaning to, he found himself wandering towards it.

His hand trembled lightly, making the bowl of stew clatter lightly against the sink as he carefully set it down. The snake about his wrist reluctantly abandoned her meal, choosing instead to cling to his warmth rather than follow the bowl onto the cold porcelain.

The narrow glimpse of his reflection he’d gotten in Snape’s handheld mirror had disguised the whole picture, he realised. He looked just as terrible on the outside, as he felt on the inside - like a shadow of himself. Like someone he recognised from a past life. He hadn’t been this skinny since he’d started at Hogwarts and had finally been able to eat until he was no longer hungry. He looked frail. He hated looking like this. He didn’t want to be frail. He didn’t want to be weak. He wanted to be strong.

Did he still have it in him to be strong?

He tried to visualise it. He imagined the reflection in front of him with a healthy glow. With a layer of fat under the skin to fill out his face. With a fierce look in his eye - a shock of vibrant green. A firm angle at his jaw and his lips pressed harshly together. He imagined the small snake that climbed up his neck three times its current size, looming threateningly over his shoulder, fangs bared. The picture was one that soothed the anxious twist in his gut for the few seconds he was able to maintain it, and then reality set in.

His eye trailed over his impossibly high cheek bones and his hollowed in cheeks. He looked quickly away from his lips. They were pressed tightly together to suppress their light trembling. The angle of his jaw wasn’t firm - it was fragile. All it would take was a grip just a fraction too tight and it would crack and crumble, he was sure. He avoided looking at the scar that peaked out just above his robe collar (a bite mark, one of many, he knew) and instead glanced at the small snake that snuffled into his hair like an actual nest. Finally, he looked into his remaining eye. It was green, yes, but it was less emerald and more dying moss.

“Master Harry?” He jumped at the careful calling of his name, “Your bath is ready - Tippy will help, if Master Harry likes,” he looked at her reflection in the mirror; she was holding a scrubbing brush aloft in one hand, and what looked like a jar of moisturiser in the other, “Master Severus is saying Tippy is to help Master Harry relax,”

The idea of letting her touch him made Harry feel as if spiders were crawling up his back. He’d enjoyed it the night before, he knew, but now, with all his faculties returned to him, it reminded him of squeezing hands on his waist and the back of his neck - of Voldemort’s finger stroking down his cheek. Would he always feel like this about touch? Would he always be mentally transported back to cold stone?

He gritted his teeth. No. He’d spent the first eleven years of his life touch starved; he wouldn’t voluntarily go back to those days. Not if he could help it. He wanted to enjoy touch once more, and he wanted to be strong again. He wanted to feel strong again.

And maybe it would be for nothing - maybe, all he would achieve was strength from within a gilded cage at the top of an ivory tower while Voldemort destroyed the world (he hoped he would be sitting in an ivory tower, at least. A small part of him was terrified that Voldemort would get just what he wanted; Harry by his side), but at least he would be himself. Yes. He would know himself again, whoever that turned out to be.

“Master Harry?”

He sighed heavily through his nose and steeled himself. He carefully deposited the snake onto warm, folded towels and began to carefully lift his robes above his head. He felt a rush of adrenaline when he found himself naked in front of the elf and he had to fight back the sudden urge to wrap his robes back around his shoulders. He swallowed thickly and took a careful step towards the bath.

“Harry is fine,” he repeated firmly.

Harry was awake until the early hours of the morning, scouring the books around him with keen interest, hunting for names that would suit the small snake that sat around his neck. With no clock to refer to, he had no idea what time it was when he finally found his names of choice in a thick tomb on Greek mythology.

The middle head he named Clotho, the left Lachesis, and the right Atropos. Only Clotho seemed in anyway enthused by his choice, while Lachesis had nodded politely, and Atropos had sneered and said nothing.

Snape returned the next morning. For the briefest moment he looked visibly surprised to find Harry sat on the end of the sofa in front of the crackling fire dressed in the dark robes Tippy had picked out for him - they were not dissimilar to the ones that Snape habitually wore, though they were less sweeping and more fitted. The surprise was quickly replaced by a sneer, however, when the potion’s master spotted the snake curled loosely around his shoulders.

“The Dark Lord mentioned he had gifted you a serpent, but he didn’t say it was a Runespoor,” he said disdainfully; he snapped his fingers, and Tippy appeared with a crack, “Breakfast for two, if you please Tippy. Black coffee for myself, and sweet tea with cream for Potter,” Tippy bowed and disappeared with a second crack.

Harry wrinkled his nose, “Cream?”

“You need the calories,” Snape snapped, seating himself in an armchair and wincing; he worked a finger into the neck of his robes and glanced at the blazing fire, “Are you trying to cook yourself?” A flick of his wand had the fire dimming somewhat.

“She prefers it hot,” Harry replied coldly.

Snape’s top lip curled in disdain, “I’m sure she does. Self-sacrificing Potter - sweating himself to death to keep a snake happy,” Harry bristled, “She’s unlikely to live long anyway. Runespoors rarely do,”

Harry faltered, torn between anger and curiosity, “Why?”

Snape sneered, “Do you know nothing about Runespoors, Potter?” Harry shook his head slowly and Snape scoffed, “Didn’t you take Care of Magical Creatures? Another class you didn’t listen in, I presume,” anger built in Harry’s gut again, “Of course you didn’t,” Snape raised his wand and pointed it towards the bookshelves. With a smart flick, a book came soaring down and landed heavily in Harry’s lap. Harry had only a moment to read the title (‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: 6th Edition’) before a second flick of Snape’s wand had the book opening, and the pages flicking past in a rush until it settled on the chapter which discussed Runespoors.

Clotho crooned with interest at the diagram on the page, “That looks like us,”

“It’s meant to be a drawing of your kind,” Harry answered quietly, noticing when Snape suddenly flinched. He ignored the man though, absorbed in the chapter, and he was ignored in return while the man cast the same diagnostic spells as he had the morning before.

“Eat your breakfast Potter,” Snape snapped when he made no move to even acknowledge the bowl of porridge that had appeared at his elbow, “Leave the seeds,” he added harshly when Harry made to scrape the sunflower seeds out, “you need the calories” he reminded firmly. Harry wasn’t sure what point he was trying to prove when he spooned almost all of the seeds into his mouth in one go, but he did it anyway. He suppressed a grimace and continued to read.

His eyes narrowed as the chapter detailed the different roles that each head played - thinking of the snake leaning over his shoulder, it made sense. Lachesis certainly did seem like the one that made all the decisions, while Clotho definitely had a dreamy quality about her, and describing Atropos as critical seemed generous - no wonder she was the venomous one. His heart stuttered for a moment as he read the next passage:

‘The Runespoor rarely reaches a great age, as the heads tend to attack each other. It is common to see a Runespoor with the right head missing, the other two heads having banded together to bite it off.’

“What is wrong?” Clotho hissed in his ear, “You smell upset – lost,”

He swallowed heavily, “The book says that your kind tend not to live long, because you attack yourselves - you tend to bite off one of your own heads,”

“Is it her?” Lachesis considered the snarling Atropos with interest, “Because I feel that that would be justified,” she sounded as if she wouldn’t mind chewing of her sister head right then and there.

Atropos snapped her fangs, but Harry interrupted her, “I’d really rather prefer it if you didn’t bite off one of your heads,” he said sharply, “Or for you to poison yourself,” he added, eyeing Atropos’s enormous fangs, “You said I was defenceless and that you were going to look after me. Hard to do that if you’re dead,”

Clotho scowled a little and muttered “Ours,”

“Ours,” Atropos agreed reluctantly.

“Ours,” Lachesis said more firmly.

The fist around Harry’s heart relaxed slightly. Looking up, he was surprised to find Snape watching him, a reluctantly interested expression on his face. Harry frowned at him, and snapped, “What?”

Snape scowled, and ignored the question, “You still need to gain weight,” Harry rolled his eyes and petulantly spooned more porridge into his mouth, “and your cortisol levels are still high,”

“Two baths won’t undo six months of torture,” Harry reminded him thickly before swallowing, “Did you think it would?” He added harshly.

The edge of Snape’s lip twitched into a sneer, “No,” he agreed, “but picking fights with me certainly won’t help,” he said coldly.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him, “Right. The height of stress this, sitting on a comfortable sofa, with a cup of sweet tea and cream,” he raised his cup to his lips and sipped demonstratively at it, shuddering at the overly sweet taste, “Though perhaps you’re right,” he added, “perhaps the tea is a step to far,” Snape simply blinked back at him, his hand curling into a fist on his knee. Harry licked his lips, “Tell me this - who’s side are you really on?”

Snape scoffed immediately, “I’m sorry Potter - are you expecting some grand confession as to my true loyalties?” His expression turned amused and cruel, “You’re still here, after all, aren’t you? That should answer your question,” He shook his head in disbelief, “Childish and naive as always, Potter. It’s a wonder the Dark Lord didn’t lure you into a trap sooner,”

Harry breathed carefully in and out through his nose, his breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. Snape wasn’t wrong - it was his fault that he was there, (everything that had happened to him in the cellar had been his fault too, a cruel internal voice whispered) he just hadn’t expected to have it thrown in his face.

He should have though, he realised, as his world view shifted somewhat. Everything was a weapon now. Every word, every interaction, every liberty and every restriction. Even the snake around his neck was a weapon - something for him to love. Something that Voldemort had given him and could easily take away again.

He swallowed, and steeled himself, occlumency shields pressing back the tears that threatened, “He told me that… that the Order were having secret conversations about me,” Snape stilled subtly, “Discussing if I could be trusted anymore. If I’d been… contaminated. Compromised. Do they even want to rescue me anymore?” He watched as Snape’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly up and down, “Now - if you were on Voldemort’s side -,” Snape flinched, “- then I think you’d tell me it was true. Tell me that the Order had put a target on my back or something. But if you were on Dumbledore’s, would you really want to help him alienate me? Even if it were the truth,” please don’t let it be the truth.

Snape drew himself up carefully, until he was stood at his full height. He pulled his robes tighter around his shoulders, and re-buttoned them at his waist.

In his ear, Atropos muttered, “He smells angry,”

“No,” Lachesis whispered, “He smells afraid,”

Harry watched silently as Snape stepped closer until he was looming over him. His eyes flicked from Harry’s to the small snake about his shoulders: Atropos had barred her fangs threateningly, practically daring the man to come closer.

He peered down his nose at Harry, “It’s true,” he said softly, and Harry’s heart plummeted in his chest, “Only the Order’s leadership discuss you now,” he paused, “and Black and Lupin. The headmaster believes they deserve to be kept in the loop as to whether or not you are reclassified as an enemy to the Order,” Harry found himself barring his teeth furiously up at the man, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes; Snape tilted his head to the side, “I’m not sure what you thought you would gain from this line of questioning Potter - I was only ever going to confirm what the Dark Lord has already told you,” and he left without waiting to hear Harry’s response.

Furious tears escaped the corner of Harry’s eyes and he brushed them away furiously. He glanced back to the book in his lap, and re-read a passage that had also gained his interest:

‘Research from Parstlemouths has also revealed that Runespoor’s are surprisingly well attuned to the emotional state of wizards and beasts alike. The Dark Wizard and Parstlemouth, Herpo the Foul, as well as being infamous for breeding the first Basilisk, was also well known in his day for using his Runespoor companions to establish when his prisoners and followers alike were deceiving him. It is thought that this ability is linked to the Runespoor’s unusually strong sense of smell - strong even when compared to other serpents, both magical and mundane.’

Harry sniffed, then swallowed, then whispered, “Was he telling the truth?”

He felt a tongue flick out to taste the tear he had missed on his cheek, and Clotho answered carefully, “Yes,” and Harry couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped him. He slapped a hand to his mouth to smother the noise. He felt someone nosing carefully against his cheek.

He choked back his tears, taking a deep breath and pushing his occlumency shields back into place firmly - he wasn’t particularly well practiced at shielding without dissociating though, and a few tears still escaped him.

He wondered darkly if Voldemort had deliberately given him a lie detector for a pet, knowing that he would confirm all he said with Snape. He supposed Voldemort had no need for a Runespoor to know if he was being lied to though, Snape had said as much. He supposed occlumency couldn’t mask someone’s scent, he thought darkly.

“You are sad,” said Lachesis.

Clotho let out a mournful sound, “You are hurt – injured and bleeding,”

He heard Atropos snarl in his ear, “You’re ours,”

Several hours later, Harry had moved only to use the bathroom before sitting himself down heavily on the sofa again, his eye trained on the horizon and ignoring the drizzle of rain outside. He felt like there was a switch inside of him that flicked to the ‘off’ position any time he was alone and there was no one there to perform for. It was almost like being back in the small room in his mind again - quiet and controlled. He’d made half an effort to sink back into himself but had quickly given upon finding himself still firmly pinned to reality. He supposed though, if he wanted to try and find himself again, he wouldn’t have much success if he deliberately hid himself away again.

The Runespoor had been in the middle of curiously investigating the room when there was a gentle knock on the door. He froze reflexively, while three heads appeared from within a bookcase and stared at the door with interest. He saw the door handle turn slowly and the snake leapt into action, scurrying her way down and hurrying across the floor to wrap herself protectively around his neck.

“Hello? May I come in?” He had expected another visit from Voldemort, and so the polite feminine voice threw him for a moment.

“A woman,” the Clotho murmured in his ear, “Nervous – like prey. Who she is afraid will eat her?”

He realised abruptly who it must be, and he stuttered out, “Y-yes,”

He watched feeling barely able to move as Narcissa Mafloy carefully stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a click that echoed in the silent room. For a moment, they simply looked at one another. She looked as he remembered her from the Quidditch World Cup - tall and slim with perfectly coiffed blonde hair, though she was not exactly the same. She lacked the sneer on her upper lip that had made her look arrogant and superior. Instead, her expression was pleasantly neutral and betrayed nothing of her inner feelings.

He wondered what she saw when she looked at him - a scrawny boy playing dress up in robes much too rich for him, he imagined. He fought against the urge to reach up to his collar to tug it up above the highest scar on his neck - he’d tried all morning, but there was no covering it without finding a collar that ended just below his ears.

And then the moment passed, and Narcissa looked away from him as she advanced further into the room towards the vast window and the view beyond, “Good afternoon, Mister Potter,” she said, her hands held politely in front of her, “My name is Narcissa-,”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted softly, his mouth moving against his will.

She froze for a split second, but she recovered quickly, inclining her head in his direction, though she didn’t actually look at him, “Indeed - the Dark Lord has asked that I keep you company while you are our guest here,” prisoner, “Tippy will be along shortly with a spot of lunch for us both,” she approached the sofa carefully, finally allowing her eyes to land on Harry’s - the smallest twitch in her cheek was her only reaction, “I understand you’re currently on a relatively plain diet, but hopefully we will eventually be able to ask Tippy to make some of your favourite meals,” she seated herself delicately on the opposite end of the sofa, smoothing her hands over her long skirt, “How does that sound?”

Harry… didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He almost longed to have Snape back in the room, or even Voldemort - he knew how to talk to them. He knew how to be biting and angry. Sometimes, he thought that that was all that was left of him from before. He didn’t know how to speak to Narcissa, or what to say. He should be just as furious with her, he supposed. It was her husband who had dragged him there, after all, and her son had been his worst enemy at school for five years.

It was hard to remember all that though, when she was being kind to him. He hadn’t had kindness in a long time - other than from the snake over his shoulder, and he thought Snape might have been kind to him that first evening out of the cellar, but it was hard to remember that night clearly.

“She’s uncomfortable,” Atropos said in her gravelly voice through a wide yawn, making Harry and Narcissa flinch.

“Ah,” Narcissa said to mask her small gasp, “Yes - Severus mentioned you had a snake. A Runespoor, correct?” Harry suppressed the urge to sneer at the mention of the other man, and instead nodded, “Does she have a name?”

Harry licked his lips and dug deep to try and remember how to interact like a normal human being, rather than the defensive, furious thing he had been for the last forty-eight hours, “Yes,” he cleared his voice a little, “Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos,” Narcissa’s look turned politely quizzical, “She… they- uh, that is, each head wanted its own name. The right head would have happily shared, but the other two aren’t her… ah, biggest fans,” he trailed off awkwardly.

She straightened her skirt again and maintained her mild expression. It was only then that it occurred to Harry that perhaps she didn’t know how to speak to him either. He wouldn’t know how to speak to him - the teenager that her husband had kidnapped and had been tortured in her family home for half a year.

“Those are the names of the Moirai - correct?” She said slowly, and Harry nodded, “Do you like Greek mythology then, Mister Potter?” Harry shrugged, and Narcissa’s expression became fixed, “There are some interesting stories, I find - though often wildly inappropriate for children,” she said it knowingly, as if he were in on the joke. Her fixed expression became pained when he simply looked back at her, but they were both saved from their awkward interaction by Tippy appearing with a crack.

She bowed lowly and clicked her fingers. A tray materialised on the coffee table, smartly cut sandwiches on Narcissa’s side, and what he thought might have been chicken soup on his. Straightening, Tippy looked meaningfully between Harry and the cup of tea closest to him. Unlike that morning, the tea was black, and there was no cream in sight. Harry nodded gratefully.

“Ah, what perfect timing Tippy,” Narcissa said pleasantly, “Thank you,” Tippy bowed again, and disappeared.

Narcissa started on her sandwiches silently, chewing slowly. He could imagine what was going through her mind as she figured out how to interact with the silent, unknown teenager in front of her.

Harry added a splash of milk to his tea and brought the cup up to his lips. He found himself frozen though, unable to tip the liquid into his mouth. He frowned, confused, glancing at Narcissa out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t paying him any attention though, her gaze fixed on the window and the frosty garden beyond.

“It’s very hot,” the Clotho muttered in his ear, burrowing under his collar to enjoy more of his body heat.

It was very hot - steam curled furiously in the air above the tea’s surface. His fingers were curled delicately around the cups handle, but he when he made to rest the cup against his little finger, he found himself incapable of making contact with the porcelain’s hot surface.

He wondered if this cup had been charmed somehow to prevent the user from drinking when the contents were still too hot – perhaps it was meant for small children. He added more milk until the tea was an unappetising white colour, but he found he was now able to sip carefully at it. How strange.

Narcissa sat with him until he had finished his lunch, and then she rose to her feet and inclined her head politely to him, “I shall see you tomorrow, Mister Potter,” Harry said nothing, and if she thought it rude of him, she didn’t mention it.

It became a pattern that lasted two weeks. Snape came in the morning, and Narcissa came in the afternoon, and in the evening, Harry sat silently on the sofa trying to remember how to be a person until Tippy ran him a bath.

Harry was almost relieved to see Snape every morning - he could handle Snape. Not that he spoke to the man, or the potion’s master to him. He’d simply turn the fire down with a scowl, eye the snake lounging around Harry’s neck with disdain, and then begin casting his diagnostic charms. He would linger on the spell that demonstrated Harry’s magical signature, a thread of black still there, winding its way through the vibrant gold. Harry always considered asking him about it, but never bothered. It felt pointless.

At the end of the day, he began to realise, it didn’t matter what side Snape was on, because neither side were on Harry’s. Not really - not anymore.

Strangely, Narcissa was more difficult to deal with.

She always attempted small talk, and sometimes Harry tried to reciprocate it, but what was there for him to say? It was difficult to engage in mindless chit chat when nothing changed for him except the weather outside the window. She sometimes enquired about ‘The Moirai’ as she’d started calling his three headed snake, but there was only so many times he could say that she was fine. He’d considered asking after Draco once and had nearly choked on his words fighting them down.

There was a kind of illusion building in Harry’s head though, as much as he tried to disregard it. That they were simply enjoying mildly uncomfortable lunches and trying but failing to get to know one another. Then Harry would notice the way her eyes flicked anxiously to his lunch - she never left until he had finished - and Harry was reminded that she had been tasked by Voldemort with monitoring him. She wasn’t there to be his friend. She was fulfilling an obligation. He wondered what she had been threatened with, or rather who had been threatened, to ensure that she met the Dark Lord’s expectations.

And then he would be left alone but for the snake about his neck, and he found himself pinned to the sofa, immobile and impotent, until Tippy ran him a bath and he saw how long he could look at the scared bite marks on his neck and chest before he started to feel sick. It made him almost glad for his poor vision - they were easy to ignore if he took his glasses off before he looked in the mirror.

The pattern changed, though, on day fourteen.

The Moirai were pressed flat on the arm of the sofa, the majority of her body dipping down behind it where Harry couldn’t see her, while her eyes carefully tracked his fingers where they tapped and teased playfully across the sofa’s back. She slithered forwards carefully, Lachesis leading the way, her head swaying this way and that as she followed the path of his hand. Clotho was less focussed, her eyes drifting occasionally to the snowflakes falling outside. Atropos watched, but didn’t sway, her jaws clamped tightly closed (much to his relief - Runespoor venom sounded awful). Lachesis draw her head back, preparing to strike, when-!

“Are you listening Potter?” Snape snapped, his barked question making Harry flinch and react a second too late when Lachesis lunged forwards. His hissed in pain when she caught his finger in her mouth, though she only gripped loosely, her fangs only just piercing the skin but still stinging, “Potter!” Snape said again, “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Harry responded flatly, “but no, I wasn’t listening,” he eyed the potion’s master curiously - they had barely spoken to one another in weeks.

Snape scowled, “I said that you’ve gained weight, but not as much as I would like,” Harry rolled his eyes - he didn’t know why the Professor thought he gave a single sh*t as to what he’d like, “and certainly not as much as the Dark Lord would like. You must eat more,”

“I always finish my meals now,” Harry said defensively.

“Feeding your leftovers to a snake hardly counts,” Harry said nothing, “You must eat more, Potter. There will undoubtedly be consequences if you do not gain more weight,”

Harry tried his best to rationalise and ignore the anxious twist of his gut, “For me - or for you?” He asked curiously; Snape froze, “Because, to be honest, you can hang for all I care,” he said with a shrug.

Snape spoke again through gritted teeth, “Have you not considered your own well-being? Your body is already under excess strain trying to repair the magical barriers of your mind, and being underweight as you are will only exacerbate the issue - you’re at an elevated risk of sudden cardiac death,” he said gravely.

“Sudden cardiac death sounds better than this,” Harry admitted, “I wonder how upset Voldemort would be with you if I were to suddenly die. I suppose I could always try and hurry along the issue,” his eye flicked meaningfully to the sharp fire poker leaning up against the mantel piece.

Snape snorted, “By all means try, but you’ll not get very far,”

Harry froze, “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed you can’t drink your tea if it's too hot?” Snape drawled, “Or wander too close to the fire, or to the fire poker? I image if you ran a scalding hot bath, you’d be unable to get in it. Or if you tried to scratch yourself with a quill, you’d be unable to bring the point to your skin,”

“What do you mean?” Harry whispered again.

“You are afraid,” Clotho whispered from his side, staring up at him, but he ignored her as she began climbing up his arm.

Snape rolled his eyes, “The room is warded, Potter - warded so that you can’t cause yourself any harm,” a cruel smile played about his mouth, “Did you really think the Dark Lord would allow you to wander around, unsupervised, without placing limitations on your behaviour?”

“You’re a right c*nt sometimes, you know that?” Harry snapped furiously, a sick feeling sitting in his throat. It wasn’t that he was suicidal - far from it. He wanted to live just to spite every single person who wanted him dead. But knowing he couldn’t even escape through death made him want to scream and rage, and for the first time, he felt truly trapped.

He expected Snape to shout at him; to hiss and spit furiously, but he didn’t. Instead, he sighed through his nose and eyed Harry at length.

“He is sad,” Atropos grumbled, “He deceives,”

That caught his attention, “What do you mean?” He hissed out sharply, “He’s lying to me?” But Snape was right - Harry had been unable to drink his tea when it was too hot, and he could only get close enough to the fire to turn it up or down.

“Not lying,” said Clotho, “but he smells always of deception,” and Harry sagged. Of course. Snape was a spy. It made sense he always smelt a little bit like he was lying.

“He is the Deceiver,” Lachesis said firmly, and the other two nodded their agreement.

He turned his attention reluctantly back to the potion’s professor, who’s eyes were fixed on the Moirai. Harry saw him physically hesitate before he asked (as if he were unable to help himself), “What did she say?”

“She called you a deceiver,” Harry muttered, suddenly feeling tired, “suppose it makes sense that the spy smells of deception,” he licked his lips, and repeated the question he had asked two weeks prior, “Who’s side are you on really, I wonder,”

Snape was suddenly sneering again, “The same question, Potter? Should you feel the need to ask it again, I suggest you refer back to the fact that you remain a prisoner in this Manor - you shall find your answer there,” and he stood abruptly, “The Dark Lord shall be visiting you for lunch today - for your own good health, I suggest you are more polite to him than you are to me,” and he swept from the room, leaving Harry and the snake alone.

Harry held his breath for a moment to suppress the sudden onslaught of anxiety at the knowledge that Voldemort would be visiting him again and used the moment of reprieve to consider Snape’s answer, or rather, his none answer. Snape knew about Runespoors, Harry reminded himself, or he knew what was written in the book he had summoned down from a shelf for Harry to read at least. It stood to reason that he knew their capacity as organic lie-detectors as well. Something to consider later, he thought, as he carefully allowed the anxiety back in.

It was better to experience it now, than to let it build for later.

By the time there was a polite but firm knock on the door, Harry had composed himself, his occlumency walls firmly in place. As Lord Voldemort, without waiting for permission to enter, paced silently into the room, Harry wondered to himself about the skill it would take to be able to occlude undetected. A slow, cold smile spread across the Dark Lord’s face, and Harry found himself sitting up straighter and pressing a nervous hand to where the Moirai were wound around his neck under his robes, their noses just peeking out of his high collar.

“Ah, Harry,” he greeted, his voice high and breathy as it always was, “It is good to see you again - you are looking somewhat better,” he lowered himself carefully into the arm chair closest to Harry, and Harry found himself regretting that he didn’t habitually sit in the middle of the sofa, “though Severus informs me you have not gained as much weight as we would have liked,” he said sounding faintly chiding, “I shall have to speak to Narcissa about this - it is unacceptable,” Harry’s anxiety and fear hit him full force for a moment and he forced himself to look away while he gained control over his emotions; he hadn’t considered that Narcissa might be held accountable for his well-being, “Do not despair, Harry. We shall have you fighting fit in no time, won’t we?” Harry flicked his eye nervously in Voldemort’s direction and found him considering him with a faint smile.

Harry swallowed and said faintly, “Yes,”

“Yes, what?” Voldemort said carefully, and Harry found himself gritting his teeth together.

He wanted to snap back furiously - to tell the serpentine man to go f*ck himself. But then he remembered Narcissa. He remembered her painfully polite attempts to get to know him. He remembered her attempts to share a joke with him that he hadn’t understood. He remembered the delusion that they were simply sharing lunch that he still had to dissuade himself from believing half the time, and he opened his mouth and said, “Yes, my Lord,”

Voldemort’s expression turned instantly pleased, “Excellent,” he murmured quietly, before snapping his fingers, and a pot of steaming tea appeared between them. Harry didn’t even attempt to reach forwards for his cup yet - he knew by the steam that rose steadily into the air that it would be a little while yet before he would be able to drink it.

The Dark Lord folded his hands in his lap, his own cup also going ignored, and considered Harry for a moment before he spoke, “It occurred to me, Harry, that you were unable to say goodbye to your relatives before you were brought to the Manor,” Harry froze, confused, “You lived with your aunt and uncle, did you not?”

Harry nodded, then at Voldemort’s pointed look said, “Yes, my Lord,”

“Would you not appreciate the opportunity to speak to them one last time? To write them a letter perhaps?” The Dark Lord asked lightly as he steepled his hands at his chin.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, “No - thank you. I doubt they care, anyway,”

His expression turned faintly confused, though Harry didn’t believe it for a minute, “They wouldn’t care? But Harry - you’re their family! Why wouldn’t they care?” He needled and Harry wondered who he had been speaking to, “Do you not spend every summer holiday with them?” He probed.

“They hate me,” Harry said flatly.

“What would make you think that, Harry?”

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Harry snapped, “They don’t give a damn about me. They’re probably glad to be shot of the freak,”

Voldemort’s lip twitched in triumph and Harry found himself watching and feeling helpless to prevent his own manipulation, “‘Freak’, Harry - is that what they called you?” He asked softly; Harry nodded reluctantly, “I imagine that that isn’t all they did though, is it?” It was with even more reticence that Harry shook his head, “They hurt you, didn’t they? Starved you too, if Severus is to be believed, and he is not in the habit of lying to me. He mentioned you were unusually small when you started school. James Potter was a rather tall man, if I remember correctly; a little under six foot. I imagine he was near that height at your age too. I wonder if you’d have been as tall as him if you’d been fed properly as a young boy. How tall are you now, Harry?” Harry pressed his trembling lips together firmly and refused to answer.

Voldemort sighed, reaching down for his teacup, “Did you know, Harry, that muggleborn children are nearly ten times as likely to be abused by their parents as the children of witches or wizards?” Harry shook his head silently - was that true? “It’s terrible, isn’t it? And that’s a number the Ministry themselves have generated. Not that they have taken any measures to protect those vulnerable children,” for a moment, the bitterness in the man’s voice sounded genuine, “I think it would be better to take those children from their parents, and settle them with magical families the moment they demonstrate their magical ability, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You… you want to take people's children from them?” Harry stuttered in disbelief, “But that’s awful - people would be devastated! You can’t just go around stealing children!”

“But the children would be protected, Harry - surely that’s more important? The safety of magical children, over the feelings of their mundane parents. And are they really their children? I would argue that they’re our children - our kind, not theirs. History has shown that muggles cannot be trusted, Harry, not with magical children,” Voldemort said sharply, “Did you know that Severus was abused by his own muggle father?”

Harry swallowed heavily and whispered, “No,”

“No,” Voldemort repeated, “and he is not the first, nor will he be the last half-blood to be abused by their muggle parent. And yet still, the Ministry does nothing. If we can agree on nothing else, then surely, we can agree that that is wrong,”

Harry licked his bottom lip nervously, “But… but don’t you hate muggleborns,” he inclined his head towards the door to his room, “Your lot don’t even think they should be let into Hogwarts, or the wizarding world at all,”

“Can you really blame them, Harry,” Voldemort whispered, “They are a liability - a dangerous connection to the muggle world. There’s a reason for the Statue of Secrecy after all. But imagine if these muggleborn children were raised within the wizarding world, among wizarding families. They would know our ways - they would know our culture. You would not ask a wolf to live amongst sheep, and then expect them to be integrated into the pack,”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. His knee jerk reaction to reject everything the man said simply wasn’t there to fall back on, and it made him feel faintly ill. Was this how it started, he wondered. With Voldemort picking through his vulnerabilities and using them against him. Was this how his resistance was unravelled?

“Tell me, Harry,” Voldemort said gently, “Who placed you with your muggle relatives?”

For the longest moment, Harry said nothing. He had no doubt that Voldemort knew the answer to his own question, he simply asked it to hear Harry’s answer. He pressed a hand to his throat, resting against the coils of the snake under his clothes and seeking comfort from them, “Dumbledore,” he muttered finally.

“And who has insisted on your return year after year?”

Harry released a shuddering breath - who had told him this? Snape? Or perhaps not, he thought, realisation dawning, and a certain rat came to mind. Wormtail had been privy to many a conversation between him and Ron. He wondered if he were there, living in the manor somewhere.

“Dumbledore,” he repeated in a whisper.

“And do you believe that Dumbledore was ignorant to your treatment at the hands of your relatives?”

A memory returned to Harry - letter after letter pouring out of the chimney, all of them addressed the ‘The Cupboard Under the Stairs’, “No,” his answer was barely audible, but the flash of triumph in Voldemort’s eyes told Harry that he had been clearly heard.

Through his line of questioning, Voldemort had been gradually leaning forwards out of his chair and closer to Harry. Now though, he relaxed back into it with a sigh, “Albus Dumbledore - the man convinced that he above all others knows what’s best,” he stood abruptly, pacing away from Harry towards the window, “Tell me Harry - do you believe there to be a wizarding family in all of Britain that wouldn’t have accepted you as their own? You, the famous Harry Potter, the vanquisher of the greatest wizard that the world has ever seen?”

Voldemort glanced over his shoulder, and said firmly, “Come here Harry,” if Harry hadn’t known better, he’d have said he’d had the Imperius curse placed upon him. He found himself positively compelled to join the man at the window, “Do you think that even the great Malfoy family would have turned you away? Hmm? Lucius has always been a slippery fellow - Death Eater or not, he’d have relished the idea of having you as his ward,” he gestured to the gardens beyond the window, “This could have been your home, Harry, if Albus Dumbledore had left it to the proper authorities to organise your care. They’d have never allowed you to be left to muggles. To people who would harm you. To people who were ignorant of our ways,”

Harry’s eye trailed across the hedges and the flower beds and the trees, tracing his way from the furthest reach of the garden that he could see, all the way back to the house, until his eye caught on a familiar platinum blonde head. It was Malfoy - Draco Mafloy. Hogwarts must have broken for the holidays, he realised. He leant forwards curiously, reluctantly eager to see more of a familiar face, even if that face belonged to Malfoy.

He was sat on the low stone wall that circled closer to the house and delineated the start of the gardens. His head was bowed low, and his hands gripped desperately at his arms - even from his distance, Harry could see the way his sleeves creased under his firm grip. He… didn’t look how Harry expected him to. He expected swagger and pride - his father was currently hosting his precious Dark Lord after all. Instead, he looked withdrawn and unsure. He looked nervous.

Harry realised with a jolt that Voldemort had been quietly watching him watch Malfoy, and he flinched back away from the window. He glanced up nervously through his lashes but found that Voldemort was watching Mafloy rather than himself.

“I can’t help but wonder if you would like to see an old school friend, Harry?” For a moment Harry found himself confused - what friend? And then he realised that Voldemort meant Mafloy. In any other circ*mstance, Harry would have laughed out loud at the notion of calling Malfoy, of all people, his friend. But the truth was… he was lonely. He was lonely, and half the time he was furious, and the other half he couldn’t remember how to be a real person anymore, “It might be nice to see a familiar face, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” the word, quiet and longing, slipped out without his permission.

Voldemort looked immediately pleased, and he raised a hand to brush Harry’s fringe up and out of his face; his eyes lingered on Harry’s forehead, “Consider it an early Christmas present, then,” he said gently, stroking his hand down the back of Harry’s head and shifting his gaze to peer down into Harry’s remaining eye.

He left without saying another word, and Harry had to carefully disentangle the snake from around his neck so that he could kneel over the toilets cold porcelain and vomit up his breakfast without accidentally shaking her lose into the bowl.

Harry spent the rest of the day a bag of jittering nerves. Why had he said yes? He didn’t want to see Malfoy - he didn’t really want to see anyone, but if he had, Malfoy would be at the bottom of the list. He could imagine it now. Malfoy would sneer and laugh and taunt him, and Harry wouldn’t even be able to reach for the fire poker to skewer the bastard with it.

Harry found himself shuddering with relief when Tippy ran his bath, and still Malfoy hadn’t appeared. Maybe Voldemort had changed his mind, Harry hoped, and decided not to send Malfoy to see him after all. It was only that thought running through his mind that allowed Harry to sleep that night, the Moirai under his shirt, her heads resting peacefully on his chest.

The next morning, Harry allowed Tippy to dress him as usual, though was surprised by her choice in robes. They were more relaxed than normal, and he found himself anxiously tugging at the collar, wishing it were an inch or two higher up his neck. Though, he supposed, running a finger across the curved scar on his neck, it wasn’t anything Snape hadn’t seen before. He was still relieved though when the Moirai coiled around his neck so that the marks were concealed beneath her.

Clotho’s tongue tickled at his ear, “Not upset anymore,” she hissed, pleased.

He seated himself in his usual spot on the sofa, his hands folded in his lap, and waited for the moment that Snape would appear. He never did though.

Instead, there was a timid, unfamiliar knock at the door. Harry knew immediately who it belonged to. He watched, feeling almost petrified in his seat, as Draco Mafloy stepped carefully into the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Harry simply looked at him, half not believing he was really there. He looked different then when Harry had seen him last - older and taller. His blonde hair was still swept back off his face, but it was longer than Harry remembered, and was styled in a way that made his hard, angular features appear softer than they truly were. Or perhaps it was simply that Harry had spent two weeks looking at his mother, and he now saw more of Narcissa than Lucius staring back at him.

Finally, reluctantly, Harry turned his focus to the expression being directed at him. It was carefully orchestrated into something relaxed and blank, but the soft line of his mouth did nothing to disguise the fire that burnt faintly at the edges of his cold grey eyes. It was the kind of fire that might have gone unnoticed by someone unfamiliar with Malfoy, but Harry saw it as clear as the nose on his face.

He was angry - outraged even - but about what?

Harry didn’t care to speculate. Instead, he sat and looked back, and waited to see which of them would speak first.

Chapter 6: Draco: The Guest

Chapter Text

June - Hogwarts

The picture was an old one - a portrait from the shoulders up, taken shortly after Potter had landed having retrieving his egg in the first task, but before he had been taken to the first aid tent judging by the bleeding gash at his shoulder. In the background, a group of dragon tamers tried to gain control of an enormous horntail, but they never quite managed it before the picture looped back round again.

The photo was triumphant. The accompanying headline was not.

‘“YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNED!” DECLARE MINISTRY! BOY-WHO-LIVED MISSING!’

Draco unglued his gaze from the photograph on the front page of the Daily Prophet and turned his attention instead to the paragraph that had somehow been wedged into the corner in the smallest font possible whilst still being legible.

‘ In the early hours of this morning, the Ministry officially confirmed the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Cornelius Fudge, who also announced his resignation as Minister for Magic and the reinstatement of Albus Dumbledore as headmaster of Hogwarts, spoke to a select group of reporters to provide preliminary information on this developing situation. He has urged all witches and wizards in Britain to remain calm, but to act with caution.

This news comes in the wake of the confirmed abduction, by Death Eaters known and unknown, of Harry Potter from within the Ministry itself. The Ministry has stated that, while Aurors are perusing all avenues of investigation with the view of rescuing Potter, he is, at this time, presumed dead.

Read more on pages 2, 3, 4, and 5. Turn to pages 9 and 10 for a summary of the last wizarding war, and 11 and 12 for a dedication to the life and death of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.’

Draco found his eyes drawn to the near grin that threatened at Potter’s lips. They would twitch and tremble just the smallest amount, but the photograph looped before he ever managed a smile. It wasn’t the sort of thing that someone who had never seen Potter in person would even notice he imagined.

When the paper had landed in front of him five minutes ago, rolled up so that only the headline glared out at him, Draco had felt fit to burst with glee. His father had hinted that something was coming - something big that would secure their family’s position in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and killing Harry Potter certainly fit the bill.

But then, struggling with one hand, his other in a sling following the mess that Warrington had made of the night before (Goyle was still in the hospital wing, the skin of his left hand being carefully peeled away from his face), he had unrolled the paper, and revealed the picture on the front page. He’d found his gaze darting from Potter’s eyes to his mouth. It was odd. Potter’s mouth was straight and slightly parted when he looked straight at it, but when he lifted his gaze to Potter’s eyes, he swore he could see the hint of a smile in his peripheral vision.

He… he should feel glad. He did feel glad. This was it - this was the elevation of his family, and the beginning of a world where purebloods took their rightful place, and mudbloods were put in theirs. Looking at the Daily Prophet though, it was hard to feel smug. He just felt faintly sick. He’d meant it before, every time he’d insinuated that Potter would get what was coming to him, but it felt different now.

‘ Presumed dead’.

It felt so… final. Unreal. Potter couldn’t be dead.

He glanced up surreptitiously from the paper towards the Gryffindor table and his eyes found Potter’s friends immediately. Granger was crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked, and her bottom lip trembled as she gripped the paper in both hands. Weasley looked as if he had been drained of all blood - pale, almost grey looking. His sister was tucked under his arm, her face hidden in his chest and her shoulders shaking. Draco looked away quickly, unwilling to be caught staring, and glanced up and down the rest of Potter’s table. He picked out the members of Potter’s little defence group easily enough – they all looked distraught.

It felt similar to when Diggory had died, Draco thought. But Diggory had been easy for Draco to forget while he privately celebrated the Dark Lord’s return; he hadn’t known him personally - never even spoken to the boy. Potter though? Draco wasn’t sure he would ever be able to forget Potter.

Next to him, Pansy let out a quiet shuddering breath. He looked towards her sharply, and her eyes flicked in his direction. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

He glanced carefully up and down the table to ensure no one was listening, and asked quietly,“What’s wrong?”

She nervously licked her top lip, “I… I know we hated Potter but this…,” she trailed off weakly.

“But what?” He said more harshly.

She looked at him guiltily, shrinking in her seat a little and making him feel as if he were positively towering over her, “But I don’t think I actually wanted him dead,” she admitted as if it were some great betrayal. He could see how she watched the photo of Potter out of the corner of her eye, and he felt immediately ashamed for making her feel bad for not being full of joy at the news of Potter’s demise (he was dead - he wasn’t some vanquished literary character, he was dead).

He sighed and folded the paper over to hide Potter’s face from view. He found himself looking almost automatically towards the Gryffindor table and half expecting to find Potter glaring back at him. Instead, he found Ginny Weasley’s blue eyes fixed on him, red rimmed, watery, and furious. He looked away before the tears building in her eyes could fall.

“No,” he muttered reluctantly, “I don’t think I did either.”

July - Kings-Cross Station

He was uncomfortably aware of his signet ring in a way that he wasn’t usually. He found himself spinning it around and sliding it on and off his finger, then working it onto the opposite hand to see if it felt better there. It never did. He worked his thumb nail into the snake on the ring’s face, skirting around it and worrying at the snake’s bejewelled eye with the pad of his finger. The Malfoy crest was engraved on the inside, hidden from view. It was an heirloom, passed from father to son when the son first left for Hogwarts. Some of the other purebloods had similar rings - he knew that Pansy did.

He wondered if their’s sat as uncomfortably on their fingers nowadays as his.

Pansy left him on the platform with a grim smile - no-one was lingering this year. No extended goodbyes and shouted farewells or parting hugs. Students were collected and whisked away efficiently by parents who peered suspiciously over their shoulders and avoided eye contact with witches and wizards they had exchanged easy conversation with in September.

There were witches and wizards who tarried though - milling around aimlessly, some hidden behind papers or magazines. There was nothing distinctive about any of them and Draco found his eyes practically sliding off of them no matter how hard he tried to focus on them. They were Aurors, he was sure, and he could feel at least one set of eyes on him at all times, though he never caught anyone looking.

Despite the way she was pressed discreetly into a dark corner, Draco spotted his mother almost immediately. He dragged his trunk behind him across the platform, half expecting someone to leap out at him before he could reach her, but they never did. He frowned when she finally stepped out of the shadows - she was alone. She never collected him alone. The smile on her face was strained as she reached out her arms to him and pulled him to her chest in a fierce embrace.

“Where’s father?” He muttered into her ear; his attention was focussed on the shadow of a wizard he could see in the corner of his eye. He knew if he looked at him head on, his gaze would simply slide straight past him. It was an exceptionally strong notice-me-not charm, he was sure.

“Not here,” she whispered back to him. He heard her heels clicking against the cobble stones as she came off her tiptoes and stepped back from him. Her smile turned sad, “You’ve gotten so tall. You’ll be as tall as your father soon,” she said wistfully. She flinched at the sound a rock being ground between the platform and the sole of an unseen shoe, “Come - we need to leave,” she took his hand in hers and pulled him onwards.

He followed her silently through the barrier and into the muggle side of the station. She attempted a reassuring smile over her shoulder, but Draco wasn’t fooled for a moment. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

They walked for longer than he had expected, winding their way between muggles and through muggle London, disappearing amongst the crowds and skyscrapers. They were being followed, he was sure, but his mother never stopped to check.

It was only as they rounded a corner into a particularly dark alleyway, and the prickling feeling on the back of his neck finally abated, that his mother wrapped his arm firmly around hers and apparated them away.

He expected them to appear on the front steps of the manor - even with the additional wards and safety measures his father had put into place since the Dark Lord had become a regular visitor, he had insisted that the Malfoy’s should always be able to apparate directly to their own front door. But they weren’t on the front steps. He wasn’t even sure they were at the front drive. The Manor was nowhere to be seen, only an expanse of sparse woodland.

Though, he thought, as he readjusted his weight from one foot to the other, though he couldn’t see the Manor, he could certainly hear the front drives gravel crunching beneath his feet. He glanced down, and while there were small pebbles on the ground, there were certainly not enough to account for the sound his feet were making.

“Where-?” he started, turning to his mother in confusion when his eyes caught on a figure emerging from the woods in front of them. It was his father.

With the added context of his father sweeping towards him, his robes swishing across the ground but never once becoming snagged or caught, the scene around him became instantly recognisable even without the Manor looming in the background. This was definitely his home - he’d recognise the lands around their property anywhere. He’d spent enough time playing in them as a child. But… but where was the Manor and its grounds?

“Draco,” his father greeted him, a hint of relief in the way he exhaled after saying his name. He didn’t pull him into an embrace - Draco couldn’t remember the last time his father had hugged him - but he did rest an affectionate hand on his shoulder, “welcome home, son,”

“Father,” Draco greeted in return with a deferential bow of his head; he couldn’t help the way his eyes fixed incredulously on the trees behind Lucius where the Manor should have been.

“Ah,” his father said in understanding, releasing his shoulder to dig through his robes for something. He produced a thin slip of parchment and pressed it under Draco’s nose, “Read quickly, Draco,”

Draco had only just brought the parchment into focus and skimmed the words on its surface when it was snatched away and burnt to ash in a flash of flame from his father's wand. As the words he’d read - ‘Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire: The Den of Death and Snakes’ - finally gained meaning in his mind, he jumped in alarm as his family home began to emerge from the depths of the earth.

“W-what? What’s this? Another new ward?”

Lucius’s lips pressed together until they were a thin shock of white and he shook his head, “The Dark Lord felt that another layer of protection was necessary - he has placed the Manor under the Fidelius charm,” the charm rang a bell - wasn’t that the protection that Potter’s family had been under? He was jolted from his thoughts by his father placing a heavy hand on his shoulder again, “Listen to me Draco,” Draco felt a thrill of cold fear shoot through his gut at his sudden serious tone, “Things are changing. Our favour with the Dark Lord is threatened, and while we are under more scrutiny from the outside world than ever, our home is no longer safe either. I need to know that you are prepared to do what must be done - to fulfil your role as the Malfoy heir. Do you understand?”

Draco swallowed, feeling the weight of his father’s every word pressing down on his shoulders, but not quite understanding what he meant, “Yes, father,” he said firmly anyway. His father didn’t want questions; he would save them for his mother.

Lucius nodded and dropped his hand, “Come - let’s get you settled,” he led them forwards, Draco’s trunk levitating after them. He raised his left arm to the gates, and they faded to smoke to let them pass. Draco swallowed against the abrupt change in atmosphere - the air itself felt suddenly oppressive. Heavy and cloying and thick.

Lucius made to lead them down the main driveway, but Narcissa stopped him sharply, “No, Lucius - not that way,”

His expression turned immediately pinched, “But… Cissa-,”

“No!” Narcissa repeated hotly, “I forbid it,” she glanced at Draco out of the corner of her eye and her expression immediately smoothed, “We shall use the East wings private entrance,” she said, her voice calm and serene where before it had been brittle and anxious; she placed a hand to the small of his back and ushered him down the side path, “Come Draco,”

Lucius didn’t follow; he squared his shoulders and said, “As you wish - I must leave you here then. I have other things to attend to,” watching his father march smartly away from him without another word, Draco tried not to feel hurt. His father had other responsibilities now, he tried to remind himself. Responsibilities he would be expecting Draco to shoulder one day soon.

As stoic as he tried to remain, his mother knew him too well to miss the way his posture tightened to counteract the slump that threatened. She rubbed his back once, then lowered her hand to her side. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and noticed the noble way she held herself as she guided them towards the Manor. He could practically see her mask hovering a few millimetres in front of her face - it was proud and strong and cold. It was the mask she always wore in public. She had taught him the value of masks long ago.

‘When you swim with sharks, Draco, you show your teeth, or you get bitten.’

He rarely saw the mask in place when it was just the two of them though, and he’d never seen it when it was just the two of them at home before.

He swallowed back his nerves and slid his own indifferent mask into place: things really had changed.

It was only when Narcissa had led them through the east wing’s entrance and to the sitting room that the mask finally dislodged itself. Closing the door fast behind them, her shoulders shuddered with her careful exhale, and she attempted a reassuring smile.

“I have missed you, little dragon,”

Draco rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile threatening at the corner of his mouth despite the anxious fist in his chest, “I missed you too,” she reached out to him again and he allowed her to draw him towards one of the two sofas that sat flush against the back wall on either side of the room’s grand french doors.

With their knee’s rubbing together, she pressed a palm to his cheek and sighed, “You just keep growing don’t you,” she muttered, “It’s like I closed my eyes one day and my boy had grown into a young man. It breaks my heart sometimes,” she sat back and brought her hand to the gold chain that always lay around around her neck, just beneath her clothes and out of sight. She fiddled with the ring threaded through it; gold, vibrant and shining, with an enormous cushion cut emerald in a setting so delicate that it must have been held together by magic. It had been her mother’s engagement ring - she’d wanted to bequeath it to a son to propose with one day but had given up after having three daughters. When Draco had been born though, she had been overwhelmed with joy and had worked the ring from her finger there and then and folded her youngest daughter’s fingers around it. Or at least, that was how the story had been told to Draco.

“Mother… what aren’t you telling me? Why wouldn’t you let us go through the entrance hall?”

She licked her lips nervously and dropped the ring; it disappeared beneath her clothing again, “You must listen to me carefully, Draco,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper, “The Dark Lord is not happy with your father,”

Draco shook his head, confused, “But… the papers said that Potter had been taken - that he was dead,” her lips thinned, “isn’t that what he wanted?”

“Yes - but your father was clumsy about it. He left evidence - indisputable evidence - that the Dark Lord has returned. He destroyed an enormous portion of the Department of Mysteries. Even Fudge couldn’t deny that that had happened,” she bit her lip, “The Dark Lord was not prepared to be revealed to the world yet. He is angry, very angry, and he will blame us as much as he blames your father - do you understand?”

He swallowed back the panicked lump in his throat, and nodded, “Yes,”

She nodded back encouraging, “We must be careful. Very careful, Draco. We mustn’t put a toe out of line. It’s a miracle your father wasn’t punished more severely! When I think about what the Dark Lord could have ordered, I…,” she trailed off, swallowing heavily, tears gathering in her eyes, “It makes me feel sick,” she whispered, reaching out and bringing his hands into her lap, “Your father is right, Draco, things are changing,” she looked suddenly fierce, “and I’m going to teach you to protect yourself from that change,”

“I don’t know why you don’t let me teach him, Cissy,” they both jumped at the unexpected voice; Bellatrix stood half leaning against the door, the tip of her wand pressed against the tip of her finger as she spun it around mindlessly. She flashed a grin in Draco’s direction, “Hello, nephew of mine,”

He opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to say back, but his mother saved him the effort, “No, Bella,” she said firmly, her look fierce, “We’ve already discussed this; I will teach him,”

“Teach me what?” He tried to keep the anxiety his aunt inspired in him out of his voice.

“I’m going to teach you occlumency, Draco,” Narcissa squeezed his hands, “You need to be able to defend your mind before you go back to Hogwarts, which only leaves us a few months, so you’ll need to work hard, but you’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can do it,”

Bellatrix chuckled, “You know, there are faster ways of learning occlumency. Ways that will shut up Draco’s mind tighter than a Gringott’s vault,”

“How?” Draco asked curiously before his mother could interrupt again.

Bellatrix’s grin turned mean, “Torture,”

“No, Bella!” Narcissa snapped more harshly, but she went ignored.

“It works brilliantly really - builds defences faster and stronger than anything else. If you don’t go crazy that is, of course,” she added with a giggle, “It’s working quite well on our guest downstairs, but it remains to be seen as to whether or not he loses his mind,”

“Bellatrix!” His mother cried, furious, “Not another word!”

“Guest? What guest?” His mother seethed while Bellatrix grinned, “Downstairs? The cellars? Who’s in the cellars?”

“Bella - get out!” Narcissa commanded, a furious finger pointed towards the door. Bellatrix threw her head back and let out a gleeful cackle, but she didn’t argue, practically spinning out of the room and slamming the door behind her.

“Mother - who’s in the cellar?” He asked urgently again, his heart hammering in his chest. They were using his family home as a prison now too?

“Never you mind,” Narcissa said firmly, “No Draco,” she held up a hand when he tried to protest, “this is not up for debate. Listen to me very closely, son: you must keep away from the entrance hall. You are to stay in the east wing at all times, and if you wish to go into the gardens, keep to this side of the house,” Draco could feel the circulation in his hands being gradually cut off as his mother unconsciously squeezed his wrists, “There are more dangerous people in this house than ever, do you understand? Only the east wing is warded to keep them out. You must not leave the east wing. Do you understand Draco?” her nails were biting into his skin now.

“You’re hurting me!” Draco winced, trying to pull out of her grasp.

“Do you understand?!” She barked.

“Yes!” Draco cried, alarmed. She had never spoken to him like that before - the only time she had ever come close to shouting at him was when he had ridden his father’s broom without permission and had nearly broken his neck falling off.

She relaxed almost immediately, her grip loosening. He snatched his hands back and rubbed at his sore wrists. His heart hammered in his chest, and he swallowed back the panicked fear in his throat. There was something his mother wasn’t telling him - he understood that they needed to tread carefully, but he didn’t think that that warranted the unrestrained terror he could see on her face. What was going on?!

She dropped her gaze to his wrists, and she winced at the crescent moons her nails had made. He allowed her to draw his hands back into her lap, and she rubbed her thumbs soothingly against his skin. He swallowed nervously.

“I don’t understand though,” he admitted, “You say these people are dangerous - but aren’t we on the same side?”

She sighed, refusing to look up from where she carefully massaged feeling back into his fingers, “Your aunt, who loves you, just suggested we use torture to teach you something,” she turned his hands over to look at his palms and carefully inspected his fingers, “These are not the kind of people you have ever dealt with before Draco. Half of them have spent the last decade or more in Azkaban. I love my sister, Draco, but I know how dangerous she is,” she sighed and finally met his eyes again, “I’m just so afraid for you, Draco,” she admitted in a whisper, “I just want to keep you safe from…,” she swallowed and tears gathered in her eyes; she blinked them back furiously, “I just want to keep you safe,” she said firmly, carefully squeezing his fingers, “Do you understand now?”

He nodded, “Yes,” something was missing. There was something she wasn’t saying. Who was in the cellar? And who was she so determined to keep him safe from?”

She attempted a smile, “Okay. Good. Now - it’s very important that you learn occlumency Draco. You’re going to be surrounded by people who would try and use you to learn what happens in this house - Albus Dumbledore is a known accomplished legilimence, and while I doubt he would directly attack your mind, he will almost certainly collect information passively from the surface,” she hesitated, “But this will be a useful skill at home too,” she admitted nervously, “Being able to keep your thoughts to yourself is important. You’re a sweet boy at your core Draco, no matter how much you try and deny it.

“Life is about to change. Life is about to become very frightening in many ways, and I need you to be prepared. The position and safety of this family is down to all of us to protect. No matter what, there must be no doubt in the Dark Lord’s mind that we are anything but loyal and devoted servants, Draco. No matter what we think on the inside. Am I clear?” He nodded his fervent agreement - anything to wipe the anxious look from his mother’s face; she relaxed, and stroked his cheek again, “Good boy. Now - let’s have some supper, shall we? You must be starving!”

He followed her quietly and without complaint to the small parlour they enjoyed their meals in when it was just of the two of them. His mind was less than quiet though, one thought swirling round and round: he thought they were devoted.

August - Malfoy Manor

Draco was sat at the desk in his bedroom, suppressing a yawn as he finished off the potions essay he had been set over the holidays. The late summer sun was finally working its way down to the horizon. Normally, he’d have had all his schoolwork completed within the first week of the holidays, but the majority of his time had been taken up by occlumency lessons with his mother.

He was glad his mother had opted to teach him over his aunt - it had been difficult enough to learn with someone he loved and trusted riffling about in his mind. The idea of letting Bellatrix do that to him made him feel faintly ill. He doubted she’d have turned misty eyed and summoned biscuits from the kitchen when she’d stumbled over the memory of him admitting to Pansy that he hadn’t wished Potter dead.

His mother had called him sweet. She shouldn’t have though - he should have felt smug over Potter’s death, not sad. He was an enemy of the Dark Lord after all. An enemy of everything they stood for. Bellatrix would probably have called him weak, or pathetic. She wouldn’t have understood how you could hate someone, call them your enemy, and still regret their death. He didn’t quite understand it either.

She wouldn’t have told the Dark Lord though; of that he was sure - not when it would have put her beloved sister at risk. And him, he admitted to himself reluctantly. She was many flavours of insane, but he had no doubt that she loved him. She doted on him in her way, but her way was somewhat unhinged. She reminded him of how small children could become overwhelmed with affection for small furry animals - like she loved him so much that she found herself conflicted between hugging him and slapping him. It was frightening to begin with, but he’d gotten used to it he supposed.

His mother rarely left them alone together. Not because she worried her sister would hurt him though, but rather because she was afraid of what she might say.

Bellatrix alluded frequently to their ‘guest’ in the basem*nt. She’d sigh and stretch and say, “Well, I think I’ve given Mulciber and Macnair enough alone time. It’s my turn to make our guest sing now,” and his mother would stiffen and snap at her to be quiet and leave. He’d asked her twice more who was in the basem*nt, but she refused to answer. He’d risked it and asked his father once too.

Lucius had pressed his lips firmly together and wrinkled his nose and snapped, “Your mother said ‘no’ Draco - you can’t simply ask me when you don’t get the answer you like from her. It didn’t work when you were six, and it won’t work now,”

It had struck him as a strangely, ordinary paternal answer to give when they were discussing a person being imprisoned in their home. Imprisoned, and probably being tortured if Bella’s hints were anything to go by, and yet Lucius acted as if he had asked for a new broom. It was disconcerting.

He supposed, he thought to himself as he rolled up his completed and dried essay, it wouldn’t matter soon anyway - school started in less than two weeks. If the person in the cellar was still alive by the time he came back for Christmas, he’d be amazed.

He tried to keep his thoughts flippant, as if he were simply considering a dying house plant. It worked somewhat; his heart no longer raced like it was trying to escape when he thought about the poor bastard his aunt was routinely torturing.

It shouldn’t matter, he thought firmly. He shouldn’t care. Whoever they were, a blood traitor or a mudblood, either way they were an enemy of the Dark Lord and his new world order. He should be excited that they had someone so important in their grasp that they warranted months of interrogation. They must have important information to give.

He pushed himself to his feet and reached for his ink pot. He regretted the action a split second later when his bedroom door suddenly burst open. He flinched back, catching the pot and spilling ink everywhere. Before he could even swear in frustration as his completed scroll was soaked in ink, the ink was vanished from sight, including the pot and the few splotches that had absorbed into the parchment.

He whipped around to find his father at his door, his wand pointing at Draco’s desk, a serious expression on his face. His eyes flicked to Draco’s relaxed attire then back to Draco’s face, “Get dressed Draco,” he said sharply, “the Dark Lord is asking for you,”

Draco found himself jittery as he followed his father through the Manor, both with nerves and excitement. The Dark Lord had asked to see him - him! He held in the urge to ask his father questions; if he’d had any answers to give, they’d have been whispered urgently to him while he’d been throwing his smartest robes on.

Lucius was silent as they strode onwards, further and further from the east wing they actually lived in, and deeper and deeper into the rest of the house. Draco could feel the atmosphere around him changing. Despite the August heat, the house was practically chilly as they marched through the entrance hall, their footsteps echoing loudly. Draco glanced furtively in the direction of the drawing room and the cellars he knew dwelt beneath their feet.

Draco could hear voices as they wound their way through the labyrinth like west wing with its narrow halls and dark rooms - cruel laughter and murmured conversation echoed. He could see the warped silhouette of bodies through the rippled conservatory glass - he paused when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Was that Rodolphus? He’d only met the man a few times, but he was sure it was him.

“Quickly Draco,” his father snapped, and he hurried to catch up.

It was only when Lucius came to a stop at the end of a dark narrow corridor that Draco realised, they were there. He swallowed and tried to remember every lesson his mother had ever taught him - he emptied his mind and carefully drew metaphorical shutters around his mind, trapping his thoughts inside and keeping external forces out.

He didn’t hear his father knock, and he didn’t hear the invitation to enter. When his father opened the door and inclined his head, he stepped forwards past him and into the small dark study beyond. He swallowed at the sight of an enormous snake stretched out across the perimeter of the room.

“Ah, young Draco,” he found his gaze snapping away from the snake to meet blood red eyes; the Dark Lord’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile, “Please, join me,” a ghostly hand gestured to the unoccupied armchair at his side, “wait outside, if you please, Lucius,” he barely heard the click of the door as it closed, but it was loud enough to jolt him into action.

He bowed, and muttered, “My Lord,” before taking the offered seat. He felt his nerves pressing against his occlumency shields, but they held strong.

The Dark Lord watched him for a moment before he spoke, “I’m sure you are wondering why I have asked to see you at this hour, Draco,”

Draco swallowed before he spoke, “It was… unexpected my Lord. But not unwelcome. How may I serve you?”

A wide smile spread across the Dark Lord’s face with every word he spoke, “Ah Draco - even if your looks did not take after Lucius, I would know you were his son by your manner of speech. Careful and measured,” he paused, “Though I think, in a few years, you will be the more silver tongued between you. Lucius could perhaps benefit from a few lessons in occlumency; his mind is loud. Sometimes it is like being shouted at,” he chuckled, “Your mother though? Her mind is quiet… polite even. Reserved… like yours. I would know you were your mother’s son by your mind,”

Draco chose his words carefully, “My mother is an excellent teacher. She was concerned I might inadvertently give away information when I returned to Hogwarts - she wished to help me protect your secrets,”

The Dark Lord chuckled, “Not just my secrets, I’m sure,” Draco’s chest clenched but he forced the feeling down determinedly before it could gain traction, “Are you excited to return to school, Draco?”

“Yes - I enjoy learning, and I’ve missed my friends as well, of course,”

“How are your marks in school? I hear you did very well in your OWLs - E’s and O’s across the board, just what we expect from a wizard of such good breeding,” Draco suppressed his instinct to puff up with pride; it was the sort of thing his father would do, “Are you the top of your classes, Draco?”

“No,” Draco admitted reluctantly, his heart sinking; he wasn’t his father, who seemed able to manipulate and predict the path of every conversation he ever had, but he didn’t need to be to see where their’s was heading.

“And who is?”

“Hermione Granger, my Lord,”

“Ah… a muggleborn witch?”

Draco could feel a familiar defensiveness threatening to work its way into his voice. It was an old argument, one he had had with his father many times before - the shame of being bested by a mudblood, “Yes, my Lord,”

The Dark Lord hummed to himself, his long fingers tapping on the arm of his chair, “There are people in this world Draco, who believe that muggleborn witches like Hermione Granger are as bad as muggles themselves. People like your aunt Bellatrix would have us executing mudbloods left right and centre - and when I was a younger man, I’d have agreed with them. But it must be conceded that mudbloods are not muggles. They have magic in their veins, and that magic is precious - it is a gift. We are outnumbered by the mundane by more than a thousand to one. If we wish to take our rightful place in the world, then we shall not achieve it by squandering that gift, do you see?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat - his father would have had an apoplectic fit if he were the one talking about mudbloods being precious gifts, “I, uh… I’m not sure I do, my Lord,” he admitted in a mumble.

The Dark Lord offered him a wan smile, and chuckled, “No, I don’t suppose that you do, with your father being the short-sighted man that he is. The truth is Draco, that there is a place for mudbloods in the world I want to build,” he gestured vaguely with his hand, “There are many occupations that I’m sure would be acceptable for mudbloods, under the direct supervision of more suitable witches and wizards. A witch like Hermione Granger might make a fine shop assistant for example, but would I afford her the opportunity of making political decisions for the rest of wizarding Britain? Of course not! What understanding could a child of muggles possibly have of our wider culture? Would she understand the centuries of history that have shaped us to be who we are? It was a fine thing your grandfather did when he ousted that mudblood Leach from the Minister for Magic office. It was an outrage that someone of such poor breeding ever held the position in the first place - it is this sort of thinking that we are fighting against, Draco,”

“I… I heard she started some society trying to free house-elves,” Draco said carefully.

The Dark Lord let out a harsh, throaty laugh, “Absurd - exactly the sort of nonsense I would expect from a mudblood. No, I would not trust Miss Granger with making political alliances with the wizarding populations of Europe, or in administering justice, or in,” he scoffed a little, “teaching our young people. No, a witch like Miss Granger could perhaps pour tea or sell books. It is for her own good, as well as the good of the rest of our people. Mudbloods have no loyalty to our world, Draco. Should they wish, they could simply fade back amongst the mundane, and escape the struggles of our people. How could they ever be trusted to do anything of meaning when they have no skin in the game?

“And should these mudbloods refuse to know their place? To accept the role that has been assigned to them? Well,” he smiled a little, “perhaps the magical world would benefit from a little purification. I have never met the girl, and so I cannot say for certain, but Miss Granger sounds like the kind of mudblood that needs culling. It hurts me to say it, as the idea of sacrificing magical blood always pains me, but the kind of wizards who support her ilk, pureblood or otherwise, should also be purged from our people. One bad apple spoils the bunch, after all,”

“Like the Weasleys, my Lord?”

He inclined his head, “Indeed - the Weasleys and Potters and Prewitts have long been a thorn in my side. Blood-traitors, all of them. They shame the name of wizard. Now, only the Weasleys remain,” he chuckled lowly, “It has to be said though - there are an awful lot of them. It will be a challenge to wipe them all out, but one I’m sure your aunt will enjoy. There were almost as many Prewitts at one time as well,” he titled his head to one side, a considering gaze aimed at the fireplace as if he were remembering the Prewitts fondly.

He finally turned back to Draco, “The reason I asked to speak with you Draco, was not to wax poetically about my aspirations for the elevation of our people, as enjoyable as this conversation has been. No. I asked your father to bring you to me this evening, because sometime soon I may ask something of you,”

“Anything, my Lord,” Draco said, and immediately regretting his hasty interruption. He held his breath, half expecting to be scolded.

The Dark Lord’s smile turned sharp and pleased, and he continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken, “It will not be a dangerous task, but it may be unpleasant and difficult. I brought you here today, to remind you that we all have a part to play if we wish to bring our shared vision to fruition. That muggleborns have as much a part to play as purebloods, and that even if we would not choose the part we play, that does not make that part any less important. I know you do not understand now, but when it matters, you will,” he waited, his eyes fixed on Draco’s.

“Y-yes my lord,”

The Dark lord gave a sharp nod, “Excellent. Enjoy your next term at Hogwarts, Draco. I shall see you over Christmas, I am sure of it,” hearing the dismissal in his voice, Draco stood and left.

His father was waiting for him in the hall, his back pressed flat against the wall, his eyes fixed ahead of him. He looked round at the sound of the door opening, and it was only as his posture relaxed that Draco realised how tense he had been, “Come, Draco,”

He followed his father silently, and his attention turned inwards.

His heart was pounding.

Any excitement he’d felt at being summoned by the Dark Lord himself had fled, leaving terror in its wake - what was he going to ask him to do? All that talk about mudbloods and traitors… was that all it was? Talk? He couldn’t… he didn’t think he could kill someone, if that was what he was going to ask of him. But… he’d said it wouldn’t be dangerous. Surely killing someone would be dangerous, right?

He found himself dreading going back to Hogwarts. He didn’t like Granger or Weasley, but he didn’t know how he was ever going to look them in the eye again when his parents (and him now, he supposed) served a man who was actively working towards their murder. It reminded him of the crup he’d owned years ago - Calliope. She’d been ancient, full of arthritis with the hairs around her mouth having turned pure white. She’d been sick and in pain, and so his father had decided that the kindest thing to do was to put her down. Draco had been heart broken. His father had allowed him one last day with her - he’d said anymore would be cruel - but Draco hadn’t been able to enjoy that last day. He’d hardly been able to look at her, riddled with guilt as he was with the knowledge that his father was going to kill her by the days end.

And Granger wasn’t a crup. She was a person. When the Dark Lord executed her, she’d know exactly what was happening.

f*ck. Perhaps he needed to spend more time with Aunt Bella - to toughen up. To desensitise himself. How was he meant to follow the Dark Lord’s orders, if just the thought of a girl he knew (and hated) dying turned his legs to jelly. Though if he spent more time with her, he’d inevitably end up following her down into the cellars. She’d have him torturing whoever it was down there. Merlin, just the thought of it turned his stomach.

f*ck! If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get himself killed.

He had been so wrapped up in his own head, that he nearly didn’t notice when his father came to an abrupt stop. He looked up sharply and found them in the middle of the entrance hall, the doors to the drawing room to their left, the front doors to their right. It was the front doors that had caught his father’s attention.

They were thrown open, and a stocky wizard dressed all in black was leaning against them staring out into the night, smoke rising in a lazy haze from the cigarette he gripped in between his finger and thumb. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at the sight of them, revealing sharp, broken teeth. He turned slightly to see them better, bringing his cigarette to his lips, inhaling, and then blowing smoke back into the house. Draco had just enough time to take in his chin length dirty blonde hair, and the enormous scar on his right cheek, before his father was stepping surreptitiously in front of him, shielding him from the other man’s sight.

“Lucius!” The man said, his voice so oily it was practically sliding across the floor to them. Draco half expected him to open his robe and ask them if they wanted to buy a pocket watch, “And this must be Draco,” Lucius drew himself slowly to his full height, until Draco was sure that the other man couldn’t see him at all, “What’s got the two of you out for a nighttime stroll?”

“The Dark Lord wished to see us,” Lucius answered, his voice clipped and cold, “We were just heading back. I would appreciate it if you would not smoke in my home, Mulciber,”

Mulciber’s responding chuckle was a greasy thing that had Draco shuddering.

His response was interrupted however, by a sudden shrill scream that seemed to come simultaneously from the drawing room behind them, and the floor below. Draco flinched in alarm, and without meaning to found himself instinctively stepping closer to his father. He didn’t know why, but he expected the scream to end as quickly as it had started, but it didn’t. Draco didn’t know how long it went on for, but it was long enough for him to find himself nearly plastered to his father’s back as the voice petered off into pleading sobs.

“Bella does know how to make them scream, doesn’t she,” Draco snapped his eyes back to Mulciber - at some point he had backed out into the night so that he was no longer blowing smoke into the hall, “She can keep them going for hours and hours. She’s got far more stamina than me - not sure how she does it. Not that I’ve heard any complaints from the boy,” he said with meaning, a strange predatory leer on his face that made Draco feel as if insects were crawling up his neck.

His father didn’t acknowledge his words. He placed a hand on the middle of Draco’s back and hurried him onwards, keeping his own body between Draco and Mulciber at all times, “Do not smoke inside again,” was all he said.

Draco’s hands trembled as they made their way back to their rooms, but he couldn’t quite say why. There was something about that man, Mulciber. Something that made him feel itchy all over - something that made him want to scrub his skin clean. He opened his mouth more than once to ask a question, but he found his voice trapped in his chest.

He expected to be guided back to his bedroom, and so was surprised when he was steered instead towards the sitting room. At his confused look, Lucius simply said, “Your mother will want to see you,”

Narcissa practically threw herself at him when the sitting room doors were opened, holding him tightly to her chest, and then holding him away to inspect him. When she was finally satisfied that he was unhurt and intact, her concern turned to fury.

“Why did you take him to the west wing?” She hissed, pulling him further into the room, her arm around his back.

His father stayed by the door, his teeth bared, “I had no choice!” He snapped, “The Dark Lord asked for him - I could hardly refuse him!”

With them somewhere he felt safe, and with the light of the chandelier above them chasing away the shadows, Draco finally found his tongue, “Mother - who is in the cellars?”

Narcissa turned her wide eyes from him to her husband, “What happened?” She asked dangerously.

Lucius shuffled uncomfortably, “We stumbled across Mulciber in the entrance hall - there was a scream-,”

“Mulciber?!” Narcissa cut her husband off furiously, pulling Draco down onto the sofa next to her and squeezing his hands in her lap, “You introduced our son to Mulciber?!”

“Who’s Mulciber?” Draco asked in confusion, “And who the hell is in the cel-,”

His father spoke over him hotly, “I didn’t introduce our son to any-,”

“I told you! I told you I didn’t want him going near that side of the house!”

“It wasn’t my choice Cissa!” Lucius protested, “You don’t tell the Dark Lord no!”

“Who is Mulciber?!” Draco tried again.

“You must never go near that man,” his mother said urgently, “Do you understand me, Draco? Never. No matter what. If that man so much as looks at you, you get away from him as fast as you can,”

“And certainly don’t accept drinks from him,” his father added, but any illusion that Lucius had had that his wife would allow him to participate in the rest of their conversation was summarily dashed by the cold glare she sent in his direction. His shoulders slumped, defeated, and he left with a mutter that Draco didn’t hear.

Draco turned back to his mother the moment they were alone, “Mother - I heard screaming and crying. Who’s in the cellar?”

Narcissa’s lips trembled, and she leant slowly away from him. She shook her head once, then took a deep steadying breath in before she said the name, though in his heart of hearts, Draco thought he’d always known who was down there, he just hadn’t been able to accept it.

“Harry Potter.”

Chapter 7: Draco: Food Glorious Food

Chapter Text

December - Hogwarts

If Draco thought he’d have been able to get away with it, he’d have opted to spend the Christmas period at Hogwarts. Or anywhere, really. Anywhere other than the Manor. It was hard to look at your family home in quite the same way when you knew that Harry Potter was being tortured beneath your floors (and by your aunt, no less).

Blaise led the way down the snow-covered castle steps towards the carriages at the end of the drive, Pansy a step behind him and their trunks floating on either side of her. They’d ditched Crabbe and Goyle in the great hall - McGonagall had caught them bullying a third year Hufflepuff and he wasn’t interested in standing and watching their dressing down. McGonagall hadn’t been quite on form though - she’d kept looking over their shoulders in his direction. He wasn’t surprised she’d noticed he was different. It was hard to keep up with tormenting what remained of the golden trio when just looking at them made him feel sick.

Pansy glanced back over her shoulder at him, and he tried to look back at her with whatever expression she expected to see on his face. Judging by her frown, he hadn’t succeeded.

She knew something was wrong with him; they’d been friends since before they could talk - how could she not know? She’d even tried to ask him about it once. He’d apologised later, and part of him wished she would ask again. Maybe he’d find it in him to tell her if she tried once more. But she hadn’t, and Draco couldn’t blame her.

He felt the prickle of eyes on him, and looking across the steps he immediately found his observer: Snape. With his arms crossed over his chest, he watched him through narrowed eyes.

Draco turned away quickly. He always did these days. Looking at the man had been difficult for him ever since September.

He was well aware that Albus Dumbledore wasn’t the only skilled legilimence at Hogwarts, and if anything, he was more concerned by the idea of Severus Snape reading his mind than the headmaster. He imagined the headmaster was already well aware of who currently resided in the cellars of Malfoy Manor. If his aunt were to be believed, then Snape himself would have told him.

‘He’s a spy,’ she had whispered in his ear, ‘a double agent. Dumbledore believes Snape’s his man, and the Dark Lord believes he’s ours,’

‘Believes?’ He’d asked carefully, and the twisting sneer of her mouth was the closest thing to doubt he’d ever seen in her, but still she hadn’t answered. He knew what she thought though. And maybe she was right. Maybe Snape was working for Dumbledore, but Draco found it hard to believe that there was anyone in the world who could deceive the Dark Lord, and he wasn’t about to risk the man hearing the thoughts in his head. The doubts. The fears.

It was hard to look at him for another reason too, though.

He might have been a scornful git at times, but Draco had always thought him a good head of house for Slytherin, even if he was pretty awful towards the rest of the school. But it was hard to feel safe around a man - a teacher - who knew that one of his students was being tortured and did nothing to stop it. What was more frightening, was the thought that the man was helping to facilitate that torture. He’d never seen Snape in the house, but Draco had only left the east wing that one time. What if he’d been down there with his aunt?

He’d have dropped Defence if he’d known that the man was going to be taking the class that year. He’d only kept potions because his father would never have accepted him dropping it, but he didn’t hold Defence Against the Dark Arts in quite as high esteem.

He didn’t look back as the carriage carried them away. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck didn’t abate until they turned a corner and the castle disappeared from view.

Draco walked down the train carriage like a blinkered horse, his eyes dead ahead and fixed on the hood of Pansy’s cloak. He felt as if he were walking himself to the gallows, rather than going home to see his mother and father for Christmas. What if the Dark Lord was there?

It was a stupid thought. Of course, he was there. Why else would he have placed the Fidelius charm on the Manor, if he didn’t intend to make it his base of operations? Panic threatened in his stomach, but he pushed it down. He was grateful his mother had taught him occlumency before he’d found out that Potter was in the cellar - he wasn’t sure he’d ever have been able to successfully empty his mind if he’d known before he’d learnt that skill.

BANG!

Draco flinched and took a half step back in alarm, his eyes snapping from Pansy’s hood to the end of the carriage. Gleeful laughter filtered back to them, and he let out a breath of relief. Just a firework, or maybe exploding snap. Without meaning to, he found himself looking into the carriage to his left.

He recognised the occupants at once - Weasley and his sister, Granger, Longbottom, and Lovegood. He stepped forwards before they noticed him hovering outside. Weasley and Granger had restarted their little defence group at the start of the term, and their membership was larger than ever. Though they were officially known as the Defence Association now, Draco knew that they more frequently called themselves Potter’s Army.

Regardless of what Dumbledore and his Order did or didn’t know, Potter’s friends all thought he was dead, just like the rest of the world. He sometimes wondered if Potter wished he were dead.

His mother wasn’t waiting for him on the platform, but he hadn’t expected her to be. She’d written the night before to inform him she had ‘other commitments’, but that she would see him at home. He’d had to swallow back bile when he’d read her letter, his eyes fixed on the shaky quality of her penmanship. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

The atmosphere on the platform was somewhat more relaxed than it had been in July, though Draco didn’t kid himself into thinking it was because things were okay. Rather, the public had instead began to acclimatise to their new normal. Despite what Moody had said in fourth year, it was hard to maintain constant vigilance. Or Not-Moody, he reminded himself. It was ridiculous that one of their best Defence teachers had been a Death Eater all along.

On reflection, it was no wonder that the man had hated him: the son of a Death Eater who denounced his Lord to escape the consequences of his actions.

He ignored the eyes that followed him as he exited the train, and after offering Pansy a small smile, he passed through the barrier to the platform’s muggle side. He spotted his escort almost instantly.

There was a little old lady stood flush again a wall just past the barriers, a thick quilt wrapped around her hunched shoulders, and an enormous carpet bag over her elbow. To anyone not paying attention, she looked just like any other passing muggle, if a little eccentric. But Draco recognised the gold chain wrapped around her fist, and the emerald ring attached to it. Any doubts as to her true identity were erased when she jabbed her wand in the direction of a passing muggle, and the man tripped over the empty air and tumbled off the platform and into the tracks below.

There was an immediate scramble by alarmed passersby to help pull the now bleeding man back to safety. Draco expected Bellatrix’s polyjuiced mouth to spread into a wide satisfied grin, but the corner of her mouth only twitched before it twisted down into a focussed grimace.

He threaded his way carefully through the crowd, winding his way between the concerned on-lookers and towards his aunt. Her eyes flashed when she spotted him and her hand snatched immediately to grasp his wrist, and she was pulling him quickly away before he could even say hello.

“Come Draco - we must be quick,” she muttered urgently out of the corner of her mouth.

He stumbled slightly but righted himself quickly, “Where’s mother?” He responded quietly, “Why isn’t she here?”

“Later,” she snapped back in a whisper, tugging him out of the station and dragging him away from the crowds. She didn’t bother with leading him to a deserted alley, waiting only until they were moderately concealed by a passing bus to apparate them away.

Draco’s heart sank in his chest when, instead of leading him to the house’s east entrance, she marched them straight down the driveway to the house’s imposing front doors.

“Where are we going?” He hoped she didn’t hear the faint tremble in his voice; if she had, she didn’t comment on it.

“The Dark Lord wishes to see you, Draco,” her voice warped and warbled a little as the effects of the polyjuice potion began to wear off.

He swallowed back the anxious lump in his throat, “N-now? Can’t I see mother and father first?”

She spun on the spot, coming to an abrupt halt and pressing a hand to the centre of his chest. He winced at the sound of her bones popping as she lost the dowagers hump of her elderly disguise and straightened to her true height; shorter than him by several inches, but still taller than his mother.

“Listen to me, Draco,” she said, her voice urgent, “You must listen very closely to the Dark Lord. If you love your mother, you will do exactly as he asks,”

“What do you mean?” He replied immediately as anxiety worked its way back up from the depths of his chest and built into hysteria, “What’s happened to mother? Is she oka-?” he was interrupted by a sudden, harsh slap. He blinked at her in disbelief, his mouth hanging open.

“Get ahold of yourself, Draco!” She growled harshly, “Did your mother’s occlumency lessons teach you nothing? Clear you mind, and control your emotions, or you’ll be the death of us all,” and she span on the spot and resumed her march up to the house.

Draco wasn’t sure how he was supposed to clear his mind after that, but he tried, and by the time Bellatrix was knocking carefully on the dark wooden door to the room Draco had met the Dark Lord in before, his mind was at least quiet, if not calm.

Bellatrix opened the door for him, and then pulled it closed behind him with a click.

The setting was almost as if Draco’s memory from August had been transposed onto the room in front of him. Nagini lay stretched out around the edges of the room, and the Dark Lord himself sat in the same armchair as before with his hands steepled at his chin. The only difference was that rather than the lanterns above the the mantel piece, the room was instead illuminated by the crackling fire in the hearth.

The flames were reflected back at him in the Dark Lord’s red eyes, dancing like the devil himself was looking back at him. He supposed, in many ways, he was.

A slow smile spread across the Dark Lord’s face, “Draco,” his cold voice was twisted into something that resembled warmth, and he gestured to the seat that Draco had occupied the last time they had met, “it is wonderful to see you. Please, take a seat,” Draco did as he was commanded, inclining his head and muttering ‘my Lord’ as he perched nervously on the edge of his chair, “How has your term been?”

Draco swallowed, and strengthened his shields, forcing himself to relax back into his seat, though the straight line of his back never wavered, “It has been hard work, but enjoyable,” he answered honestly (though he left out the part where he sometimes hid himself in the girl's bathroom on the second floor and cried while a ghost comforted him).

The Dark Lord inclined his head, “And your grades - are you still second to the mudblood girl?”

It was with effort that his next exhale remained level and steady, “Yes, my Lord,”

The Dark Lord hmm'ed quietly, his expression neutral, “Do not trouble yourself, young Draco,” he said softly, his voice sounding abruptly as if he were whispering right next to Draco’s ear, though Draco couldn’t tell if it was an illusion of his mind, or if it was some spell meant to unnerve him, “when I am come to power, the mudblood shall know her true place,”

Draco inhaled and emptied his mind, “Yes, my Lord,”

“The loyal shall be rewarded, do you understand Draco?”

He was empty. His mind was empty. An enormous hall full of nothing.

“Yes, my Lord,” it was like splitting himself in two: the half of him that listened to the Dark Lord, and the half of him that focused on the vacuous space in his mind where he saw nothing, he heard nothing, and he felt nothing.

“I must apologise for taking up your evening - I am sure you are tired from your journey home and eager to see your mother, but I am leaving the country for a short while, and there is a matter of great importance that I must discuss with you before I do. Do you remember the conversation we shared shortly before you returned to school?”

“Yes, my Lord,”

“I told you that I would soon be asking you to complete a task for me, and it is that task that I would like to discuss with you,” Draco swallowed, and he could have sworn the sound of it echoed throughout the room; if he heard it, the Dark Lord continued as if he had not, “Your mother tells me that you are aware of the guest we have hosted in the cellars since late June, and of his identity,”

Wait, what?

He found himself swallowing again, “I am, my Lord,” he imagined walls, immovable and infinite circling his mind.

Potter? This conversation was about… Potter? Was he… was he going to ask him to torture him? Or… to kill him?

He was a blank slate. He was untouchable and remote, an island in the sea surrounded by walls on all sides that went on and on as far as the eye could see.

“The young Mister Potter has been relocated to the top floor of the east wing,” the Aethonan suite? “It is my desire that the young Harry is… shall we say, ‘re-educated’. He has been indoctrinated to the will of the fool Albus Dumbledore and his likeminded blood-traitor supporters. This is not Harry’s fault - it is all he has ever known. However, he deserves the opportunity to learn the error of his ways. Now, do not misunderstand me,” the hint of a mocking smile flashed at the corner of his mouth for the briefest moment, “I do not intend for you to be responsible for Harry’s enlightenment. That is a task too vast to achieve over three weeks.

“Rather, I require your assistance in helping Harry back to good health. He has lost a considerable amount of weight over the last six months, and I’m sure you can appreciate that he is somewhat dimmed. It is a task your mother has attempted over the last few weeks, and a task she has failed in,” his expression turned considering, and Draco willed his heart to stop hammering in his chest; surely the man couldn’t hear heart beats, could he? “Though, I must admit, I do not think your mother’s failure is truly her fault. I suppose it is like expecting a fire to blaze when you have no spark to begin with. Still. Failures must be punished. Do you understand, Draco?”

Draco’s voice trembled lightly as he spoke, and though his thoughts remained guarded, his emotions bled into his voice, “Y-yes, my Lord,” he licked his lips nervously, “Only… Potter and I. We aren’t friends,” Draco regretted speaking almost immediately; he did not imagine that the Dark Lord tolerated excuses.

A grin spread across his face, and it did nothing to sooth the twisting feeling in his gut, “I don’t need you to be his friend, Draco. If we keep to our fire analogy, your mother is the fuel, but you are the flint. You must jolt him back to himself, and whether you achieve that by antagonising him, or befriending him, I care not. But you will do it, because I, your Lord, command it of you,” his voice lost its soft cajoling edge and became abruptly hard and domineering, “I shall speak plainly to you Draco, so that I am not misunderstood. I ask much of my followers, with the promise of great reward. And Draco, I always keep my promises. But should you fail, understand that it is your dear mother that shall pay the price,”

Draco could hardly breathe. Terror sat like a weight on his chest, crushing his chest and pushing all of the air from his lungs while stopping him from taking in anything more than the oxygen he could manage in a shallow pant. He licked his lips trying desperately to wet his dry mouth.

Finally, he nodded shakily, and rasped out, “Yes, my Lord,”

The Dark Lord didn’t smile; his expression remained cold and unfeeling, “Good. You have three weeks, Draco,” he reminded him, “Do not disappoint your mother,” slowly, the Dark Lord released his gaze and looked back to the fire.

Draco’s hands shook by his side as he worked his way to the east wing; Bellatrix had not waited for him.

Despair and terror fought for dominance, swirling round and round in his mind, suppressing every other thought or feeling. How the f*ck was he meant to try and… and mend Potter?! He’d told the Dark Lord that he and Potter weren’t friends, but it was such a drastic understatement that it felt like a lie. Potter hated him - he hated Potter. They always had, and they likely always would, and while the Dark Lord had said he didn’t need him to be Potter’s friend, he wasn’t sure how to fix someone without being nice to them. Hell, he didn’t know how to fix someone full stop. He was a sixteen-year-old schoolboy, not a mind-healer for f*ck’s sake!

Oh… oh God, but what if he failed. f*ck! What would happen to his mother? Would he torture her? Kill her? Lock her in the cellars like he had done to Potter?

Something like resolve reared its head in his gut: he had to do this. His would do this. His father might have let his mother down by bringing the Dark Lord’s wrath down upon them, but he would undo the damage Lucius had done, by succeeding in the task he had been set. He would. Whatever it took - he’d have Potter cursing his name and spitting poison if he had to.

He would succeed, and his mother would be safe.

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he didn’t notice the figure smoking in the entrance hall’s grand doorway until his name was called.

“Ah, Draco, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s eyes snapped up and found Mulciber reclining against the door frame, a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The end glowed yellow as he inhaled, and taking the cigarette from his lips, he exhaled through his nose into the house. He gave the cigarette a sharp flick by his side, and its burnt end floated to the rug below as ash.

Draco unglued his feet, “It is,” he said flatly, taking a step away from the man.

Mulciber mirrored him though, “Wait,” he grinned, broken teeth flashing at him as he tossed the cigarette out into the night, “not gonna’ tell your dad about the smoking, are you? The doors’er open and everything,” his grin had an almost nervous edge, as if he really was worried that Draco was about to run off and tell on him.

Draco paused reluctantly, “No - I’m not,”

The grin turned relieved, but there was something about his wide eyes that Draco didn’t quite believe, “Oh, good - thanks. Don’t want to get on the wrong side of your dad, you know? What am I talking about: of course, you know. Strikes me as quite the authoritarian father, old Lucius Malfoy,” he said it with a wink, as if they were sharing some private opinion.

Draco’s gut twisted, “Yeah,” he muttered, every ounce of pureblood aristocratic bearing leaving him, “I guess,”

Mulciber’s lips closed to cover his teeth, and his smile turned pleased, “So it’ll be our little secret?” He pushed his robes back from his sides to slot his hands into his trouser pockets, and in doing so revealed the double wand holster at his side. He noticed Draco looking, and glanced down to his hip, “Oh,” he said, “yeah - I always carry two,” he turned back to Draco, his eyes roaming curiously over Draco’s body, “Better to be safe - you know? A wizard’s only as good as his wand, after all. Though I usually carry a blade or two as well,” he opened his robe a little wider to reveal the handle of a blade strapped across his ribs, and he tapped his left foot to draw Draco’s attention to the knife handle sticking out above his boot, “never hurts to be prepared,”

Draco nodded, inching further away from the man, a heavy, icy feeling spreading out from his stomach, “I suppose,” he said, “I need to go,” he turned to leave, but Mulciber called out again.

“Wait!” He took another step closer to Draco, his hand held out to stop him; Draco felt as if the man’s words were pinning him in place - except it wasn’t Mulciber’s words stopping him from moving, but his own fear, “So… I heard that Potter’s going to be your new pet now,” he said conversationally, rocking back and forth ever so slightly on his feet.

Draco found himself sneering a little without meaning to, “I think it might be the other way around, actually,”

Mulciber let out a bark of laughter, “Definitely not. Never let yourself forget Draco: no matter what obsession the Dark Lord has with the little bird, he’s just some half-blood whose whor* mother died for him. When the Dark Lord takes over, he’ll be forgotten. He’ll either be dead, or just another nameless, markless, subject. But you? You’ll always be a Malfoy. A pureblood. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper, right?”

Draco flinched back at the recital of his family’s motto, feeling as if ice water had been poured over him. Why did he even know that? It was as if Mulciber was trying to make him feel… special. If his mother hadn’t warned him away from the man, he thought it might have worked. Even with the warning, he felt a hint of smug pride threaten to bloom.

He needed to leave.

“Right,” he mimicked, “I uh, I need to go now,”

Mulciber nodded, still smiling, “Of course - I’m sure your mother wants to see you,” Draco nodded, and began walking away: he fought against the urge to look over his shoulder when the man called after him, “Have a good night, Draco!”

His hands shaking for a different reason now, Draco resolved immediately not to tell his mother or father about their conversation. He didn’t know why, but he felt convinced that they would blame him for the strange, uncomfortable exchange. He should have just kept walking and ignored him – it’s what his mother had told him to do, after all. Get away if he talks to you.

Shame crept in from his toes and crawled up his ankles and legs, but before it could truly take hold, he was stepping into the sitting room, and he was thoroughly distracted by the sight in front of him.

His mother was sat perched on the edge of a sofa. As far as families went, Draco knew that his was exceptionally pale, but tonight his mother looked positively translucent, as if a vampire had sucked her dry. Bellatrix was stood over her, her hands lying carefully on top of his mother's as she helped steady her trembling hands to pour herself a cup of tea. His father was opposite them, leaning so far forwards out of his seat that he was almost standing. His chin rested between his thumb and forefinger and his grey eyes were fixed intently on his wife’s face. A glint of gold caught Draco’s eye, and he spotted his mother’s gold chain wrapped around his fist.

“Mother!” He cried, alarmed, closing the door fast behind him before rushing closer, “No - don’t stand,” he scolded before she could leap to her feet, “What happened? You look terrible!”

Her relieved expression at the sight of him changed into something that he thought was meant to be amused and reassuring, “Why thank you, little dragon, you look wonderful as well,” her voice was hoarse, as if she were recovering from a cold. Or as if she had been screaming.

Bellatrix tutted a little, “Have some tea, Cissy,” she said, the gentlest he had ever heard her, “It will be good for your throat,” she stroked a hand over her youngest sister’s hair, still half hunched over her, and Narcissa smiled tiredly up at her.

“I’m fine, Bella,” her calm assertion was ruined somewhat by the way her voice croaked and the painful cough that follow, “I am fine,” she repeated more firmly.

“You’re not fine!” Draco and his father said as one, though Lucius spoke calmly where Draco did not, “Is this…,” Draco continued, anger building in his chest, “Is this because of Potter?” He spat the name in a way he hadn’t in months - he found the familiar hatred comforting almost.

Narcissa sighed, her expression turning sad. She hesitated, then glanced between her husband and sister, “Will you leave Draco and I alone, a moment?” She asked quietly; his aunt made to protest, “Please Bella,” she interrupted, “please. Just for a moment,”

Bella swallowed, and straightened reluctantly, “Fine,” she said sharply. She turned a half-arsed sneer in Lucius’s direction, “Come along, brother-in-law. Let’s see what your half-rate house-elves have prepared for dinner,”

Lucius attempted to scowl at her, but Draco thought it might have been for Narcissa’s benefit, “Indeed,” he said cooly, pushing himself to his feet, “Will Rodolphus be joining us?” He straightened his robes.

Bella snorted, “Not tonight - him and Rabastan are enjoying a ‘night on the town’,” she said it meaningfully – a code that they both understood, Draco thought. He didn’t care to work it out though. They were probably torturing muggles or something awful.

Lucius rolled his eyes, “Of course they are,” he sneered. He paused to drop a kiss to Narcissa’s crown, before carefully working her chain back over her head.He turned to Draco and hesitated; he seemed to almost sag, “Welcome home, son,” he said quietly, resting a hand on Draco’s shoulder before following Bellatrix out of the room.

Draco waited only until he heard the door click closed before he started talking, “What happened?” He demanded furiously.

Narcissa pressed her lips together, her expression sad, “The Dark Lord set me a task, and I failed,” she said quietly, “He wished for me to improve the health of the Potter boy - to get him eating properly and gaining weight. He has gained weight,” she added, “just not enough to satisfy the Dark Lord. He is… listless,” she said slowly, “Severus says he is somewhat feistier when they interact, but that he has fallen silent even with him,” she brought her trembling thumb to her mouth and worried at her nail for a moment before dropping her hand with a sigh, “He’s afraid of Severus, and I can’t connect with him,” she admitted, “I’d have struggled before, I think, but now… after what was done to him…,” tears filled her eyes but she sniffed them back determinedly, “But I think you may succeed where neither of us can,” she said firmly.

Draco scoffed, sitting back heavily in his seat, “We hate each other,” he said bitterly, his mind conjuring its own mental picture of Potter for him to consider hatefully, “we always have,”

His mother hesitated, then shook her head slowly, “I don’t think you hate him as much as you say you do, Draco,” she whispered, as if telling him a secret.

Draco raised a disbelieving eyebrow, “Oh, really?”

“I think… I think you actually know him quite well,”

“Yeah - I know how to piss him off,” he said sarcastically, and his mother scowled at him.

“Don’t you take that tone with me Draco Malfoy,”

He wilted immediately at her sharp tone.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I just… I just don’t want to fail. I don’t want him to hurt you because I fail,”

Her smile was small and sad, “Oh, Draco,” she said with a sigh, leaning forwards to press a trembling hand to his cheek, “I would happily bear your every hurt for the rest of your life, if I could. I’m your mother, and I love you,” a single tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek; Draco sighed into her palm and closed his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying the comfort she offered. She stroked her thumb carefully just under his eye, “Come. We shall talk about this more tomorrow,”

Draco nodded reluctantly and followed her to dinner.

The next afternoon found Draco sitting on the garden’s low stone wall that circled the house, in front of the sitting room’s enormous french doors, his cloak wrapped tightly around him against the chilly air. His mother had told him to wait for her there - she’d always enjoyed sitting outside during the winter, wrapped up against the elements and a cup of cocoa in her hands. She called it bracing but Draco just thought it was freezing.

No matter how much he tried to empty his mind, it kept circling back to Potter.

He hated him, he thought viciously. Even though he’d said it, he hadn’t realised just how true it was when he’d told Mulciber that he was Potter’s pet. He felt like a dancing monkey being trussed up to try and entertain Potter enough to stop the Dark Lord from torturing his mother. He was grateful for the shields that protected his thoughts from the outside world - they could easily get him killed. Even Bellatrix, riddled with concern for her hurt sister, would be just as likely to torture him herself as to be sympathetic with his position. Her love for the Dark Lord was fanatical, and he knew that many others felt the same.

No. Those thoughts were better kept inside. It was much safer to dwell on how much he hated Potter. He felt his lips twist into a snarl against his will. How was he ever meant to persuade the idiot to eat, when all he wanted to do was throttle him?!

He took a deep calming breath and hunched forwards, wrapping his arms around his body and gripping onto his arms. He needed to calm down. He needed to think of his mother, not of Potter. This was all for her, not for him. He loved her, and he’d do anything to keep her safe, and if that meant baby-sitting stupid f*cking Potter, or- or riling him up until he stopped being pathetic, then he’d do it. He’d do whatever it took.

“Hot chocolate?” Draco flinched and looked up sharply. His mother had somehow walked right up to him without him noticing, and was smiling down at him, a mug held out for him to take.

He accepted it gratefully and eyed her bare fingers as she sat down next to him on the wall, crossing one leg smartly over the other, “Thank you. Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves? Your fingers must be freezing,”

She rolled her eyes and knocked their shoulders together playfully, “I’m meant to be mother, not you,” she joked, lifting her cup to her lips and sipping at it carefully. He’d almost have thought that nothing was wrong if it weren’t for the tremble that remained in her fingers. He swallowed heavily, and bowed his head, “What’s wrong?” She asked lightly.

He sighed, “I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him,”

She sipped at her drink again and licked chocolate from her lips as she considered her answer, “Neither do I,” she admitted, “he doesn’t say much himself, to be honest. Or at least, not to me,”

“Am I meant to try and make friends with him? Because we’ve been enemies for years mother - I’m not sure how I’d convince him to forget it all, especially considering that it’s our home he’s imprisoned in,”

She smiled sadly at him, “I know dear,” he looked up, alarmed by the thick quality of her voice. She looked away abruptly to avoid his gaze and cleared her throat. She swallowed twice more before she turned back to him, “I’m not sure you need to be his friend. The Dark Lord wants you to draw him out of his shell; put a bit of life back into him, yes?” He nodded carefully, “Well, you’ve spent five years winding him up, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps all you need to do is treat him as you normally do?”

Draco snorted, “I can hardly do that,” he muttered, sipping at his own drink, “What if Potter tells him I’m upsetting him or something? What if he-,” he choked on his words slightly, “What if he tortures you because of it?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, her breath coming as a plume of mist in the air, “I don’t know Draco,” she said simply, “All you can do is try,”

She looked sadly down at her drink, and Draco found himself hating Potter all over again.

The next morning, Draco stood at the door to Potter’s rooms for a long time, simply staring down at the handle and the silhouette of a horse embossed into it. He didn’t want to go in, he thought furiously. Not simply because he didn’t want to see Potter, but because he didn’t want the pressure of saving his mother on his shoulders. Not when he was half convinced, he’d fail. How could he possibly succeed? He wouldn’t put it past Potter to refuse to eat simply to cause Draco and his loved one's harm!

f*ck. sh*t. He took a deep breath and held it, then let it go in a rush. This was going to be difficult - but it was going to be impossible if he didn’t open the f*cking door. He clenched and relaxed his fists repeatedly, psyching himself up, then lifted a hand to knock on the door. He hesitated, and breathed for a moment, his eyes fixed on the back of his own hand. He closed his eyes and knocked quietly.

He opened the door before he could second guess himself, his heart hammering in his chest, nerves and fury fighting to get out but he tried his best to hold them back with his occlumency shields. Stepped into the room, his eyes found Potter immediately.

He didn’t look how he remembered - if it weren’t for the longer than usual unbelievably wild hair, he might not have recognised him at all at first glance. His eyes were quickly drawn from Potter’s hair to his eyes. No. Not his eyes. His eye. The left one was missing, and in its wake was an eyelid sunk back into its socket. His mind drifted back to the scream he had heard - had this happened then? He looked from the empty socket to the remaining eye. Even that wasn’t as he remembered, the previous vivid green now dulled, though he saw the hint of something feral at the edges. Something wild waiting to break free.

He paced further into the room and the door shut closed behind him.

Potter was skinny. He’d always been lithe, but now he was a few pounds of skeletal, his cheeks sunken in and his cheek bones so high they looked like they could cut him. He froze when he noticed the small three-headed snake around his neck; a Runespoor. The snake watched him, and he watched it.

Finally, he looked away from the snake, and realising that Potter wouldn’t, he spoke first.

“Potter,” the name came out more harshly than he’d intended, but he found himself bolstered by the familiarity of it, like a crutch holding him up.

Potter’s eye flashed, and he responded almost immediately, “Malfoy,” his own name was said with just as much scorn.

Draco paced carefully closer to the armchair furthest from Potter, eyeing the suite as he went. His mother was unreasonably fond of it, he knew, but he had always found the horse theming a bit much. He tore his gaze from the horse bust above the mantel piece and seated himself carefully.

He looked at Potter, and Potter looked at him, and neither of them spoke. His eyes flicked again to the snake.

“Why do you have a Runespoor?” He drawled, reclining lazily in his seat and drawing on years of experience in belittling Potter; his mother had said to treat him like he usually did, after all.

Potter’s eye twitched, and he answered slowly, “It was a gift. From Voldemort,”

Draco masked his own flinch at the name with a snort and a sneer, “A gift? From the Dark Lord?” He found himself feeling even more like a plaything to keep Potter entertained, “Of course it is. I hear that the Dark Lord is rather fond of you these days. Merlin knows why though - he clearly doesn’t know how much of a waste of space you are,” Potter’s lips twitched into something that might have been the beginnings of a snarl, but he said nothing, “What is it about you, I wonder Potter?” He drawled, “How is it that a half-blood of no significant magical talent has got the Dark Lord all hot under the collar, I wonder?”

“Are you jealous?” Potter snapped back immediately, “Jealous that your precious ‘ Dark Lord’ pays me more notice than you?” He snorted, crossing his arms over his chest, “Must be difficult for you. Shown up by Hermione at school. Shown up by me at home. So much for pureblood superiority I guess,”

Draco opened his mouth, outraged and fully prepared to shout something cutting back, but he was interrupted by a crack. One of the house-elves appeared between them, her wide, watery eyes flicking between them nervously. She let out a little squeak, and snapped her fingers, and breakfast appeared on the coffee table between them. A bowl of steaming porridge for Potter, and scrambled eggs on toast for Draco.

Draco took a deep, steadying breath. He couldn’t blow up now. He needed Potter to eat his breakfast, he reminded himself.

“Eat,” he said flatly, reaching for his own plate, “You obviously need it. You’re wasting away - you look like a stiff breeze would snap you in two,”

Potter scowled at him and reached for his spoon. Draco didn’t miss the way he closed his hand an inch too soon initially, before he reached further and snagged the spoon the second time. Bye-bye depth perception, he thought hatefully, cutting into his toast. He might have felt bad for Potter a few months ago, but not now. It was his fault his mother was being tortured.

For a moment, chewing his toast, Draco thought maybe this would be easy. All it took was pissing Potter off to get his appetite up. But then Potter got halfway through his bowl and stopped. Draco felt himself grinding his teeth without meaning to.

“Finish your breakfast,” he snapped.

Potter sent him a withering glare, and the right head of the snake at his throat hissed angrily, “Tippy,” he called clearly, and the elf returned with a crack; she bowed lowly.

“Yes, Harry,” just ‘Harry’, Draco thought with a sneer. Not even respected by the house-elves and yet Draco was his bloody plaything.

“Would you take away my bowl please, I’m finished,” the elf hesitated, her eyes flicking towards Draco, before she nodded. The bowl disappeared with a pop, and then so did the elf.

Potter sent him a smug smile and it took all of Draco’s willpower for him to not start immediately shouting at him.

He considered sniping at Potter some more, relieving some of his frustration on the other boy, but caution held his tongue. There was no point talking to him when there was no food to persuade him to eat. No - he’d use his time in a more constructive manner.

Draco rolled his eyes, pushing himself to his feet, and heading to the bookshelf to pick out something to read until lunch. While Draco read about the contractual applications of blood magic, Potter sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the horizon outside the window. Occasionally, he hissed to the snake around his neck, and every time he did Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but otherwise he said nothing, and he did nothing.

Draco found his lips tipping into a sneer. Pathetic.

At around midday (judging by the sun in the sky, as the room was strangely devoid of clocks), Tippy returned again with a crack. With another snap of her fingers, lunch appeared for them both. For Draco, paella and crusty bread. For Potter, a bowl of beef stew. Once again, Potter picked up his spoon (the first attempt this time) and began to eat, but before he was even halfway done with his meal, he was fishing out chunks of beef and offering them to the snake around his neck.

Draco was going to need a mouth guard before the end of the holidays, he was sure, unless he wanted to lose the enamel on his back teeth.

“That’s for you - not the stupid snake,” he hissed furiously; he ignored Potter’s outraged exclamation and cried, “Tippy!”

The elf appeared instantly with a crack. She bowed low to the ground, her eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet in front of her, “Y-yes, M-master D-Draco?” She stuttered.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Fetch some cuts of beef for the snake - it's to get its own food every day. Or as frequently as snakes are meant to eat. It shouldn’t be eating from Potter’s bowl,” he scolded gently; just because Potter was an idiot didn’t mean that the elf deserved to be punished.

“Y-yes, Master Draco,” she bowed so lowly her nose nearly touched the carpet. With a snap of her fingers, a plate appeared on the table with five large cubes of raw beef set out neatly on its middle. Tippy disappeared just as quickly as she had come, probably sensing the building tension in the room. Draco wished he could disappear as easily.

Potter said nothing though, simply glaring at Draco and reaching for the plate of raw meet. Draco felt that the patience he displayed as he watched Potter offering the snake cube after cube deserved recognition. He waited until the snake had finished, the three mouths opening wide into sleepy yawns, their tongues lazily tasting the air, and their middle significantly thicker than when they had begun eating.

“Now,” he said harshly, “finish your lunch,”

Potter looked at him as if he was insane, throwing his hands up and exclaiming, “Why do you even care?!”

Draco froze, cold fury unfurling in the base of his spine and working its way up his back and into his throat. Precious Potter, he thought viscously. So used to being the centre of attention that he couldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe Draco wasn’t worried about him at all. He was so self-centred that it made more sense to him that Draco was worried about him, rather than simply following orders.

“Let me be perfectly clear, Potter,” he said coldly and slowly, “Believe it or not, but I don’t give two sh*ts about what happens to you. They could drag you back down to the cellars and torture you for another six months for all I care,” Potter flinched and dropped his gaze to his hands in his lap, “All I care about it my mother,”

Potter looked up sharply, “Your… your mother?” He stuttered out, his expression suddenly confused and faintly worried.

Draco sneered at him, “Yes,” of course - the selfish prick hadn’t even considered that his mother might be getting hurt; Merlin, he hated him, “If you don’t start eating properly, then my mother’s going to be the one getting hurt. Not you. Not me. Her. So, I don’t care if I have to hold you down-,” Potter looked away abruptly, shifting in his chair in a way that made him look deeply uncomfortable, “-and shove a tube down your throat. You will start eating more. Do you understand me, Potter?”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Draco saw a flash of real, bone deep fear in Potter’s eye. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared though, disappearing into a painfully blank expression, as if Potter had simply picked up his personality and tucked it away elsewhere. Panic stuck in Draco’s throat - f*ck. Had he pushed too far? Had he pushed him backwards? f*ck his mother was going to be tortured and it was all his fault.

But then Potter reached out a hand, grabbed his spoon, and began to slowly and carefully finish his bowl. By the time he was finished, his expression was pinched and uncomfortable and he had a hand pressed to his subtly bulging stomach.

Draco didn’t care though. It had worked. Maybe… maybe he could do this.

Chapter 8: Draco: The Polyphemus System

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t leave Potter’s rooms until nearly nine o’clock that evening. Not until he’d seen him finish every scrap of food on his plate. He’d expected to return back to his room to collapse in his bed and maybe try and complete at least some of the schoolwork he’d been set, but he’d been surprised to find his mother sat at his desk, twirling her necklace around her finger anxiously.

She jumped to her feet the moment he stepped over the threshold, “Draco,” her voice was tight and stressed, “How… how did things go?” She trailed off nervously, dropping the hand from her throat.

“Well, he ate all of his meals,” Draco said feeling suddenly bone tired as he toed off his shoes; it felt strange to wear shoes in the east wing, the part of the manor he would have actually classed as his home. It felt even stranger to sit around Potter wearing only socks or slippers though.

His mother visibly wilted with relief, a careful smile appearing, “Oh… oh Draco that’s a wonderful start! I knew you’d succeed where we’d failed,” she reached forwards to take his hands in hers and to pull him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What happened to his eye?”

His mother froze at the question: it had been one that had been rolling around his mind all day, but the idea of asking Potter himself had just made the hate in his gut twist into something frightened and nervous.

Her expression turned sad, and she stroked the back of her hand against his cheek, “It must have been… difficult for you. To see him like that. I… I hadn’t considered that. I’m sorry, Draco, for not warning you,”

Draco shrugged uncomfortably, “S’fine,” he mumbled; normally his mother would have frowned at him and told him to speak clearly, but that evening she only petted the back of his hand, “What happened to it?”

She let out a steady breath, “I haven’t asked him,” she answered, something evasive in her tone, “Probably for the same reason that you didn’t,”

“Right,” Draco muttered, rubbing a hand across his face. He hadn’t realised that being so full of hate could be so tiring.

His mother interpreted the action another way however, “Oh, Draco,” she pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his back and leaning their heads together, “I understand, I feel the same sometimes,” Draco said nothing, not quite sure what feeling his mother thought they shared, “It’s okay to feel this way - I taught you occlumency for a reason, so you could feel this way without fear,” she pressed a kiss to the side of his head and stroked his hair, “How did you get him to eat?” She asked curiously.

Draco… didn’t want to tell her the truth. Something told him that if he told her that he’d basically shouted at Potter to get him to eat, she’d gain the sad, disappointed expression that he hated to see aimed in his direction. But he didn’t know what else he was meant to do.

“I was a bit of a git to him,” he admitted vaguely, “Provoked him a bit, you know,” he shrugged, “You said to treat like I normally do,” he pointed out, “It seemed to work,”

She nodded, “Right. Yes. I understand,” she worried at her lip, her eyes fixed somewhere to the side of him, “I worry,” she said suddenly, “About you. About him. You’re just boys - children! And he’s… and you’re…,” she sniffed once then seemed to remember herself, closing her eyes until she had composed herself again; she turned her serious gaze to him, “Just… tread carefully, Draco. I think he might be even more fragile than he appears,”

He nodded as if he understood, but really, he didn’t.

For two weeks, every day spent with Potter was near identical.

He’d arrive in the morning, knocking only out of habit, and never waiting for permission to enter. He’d push his way into the room, sneer Potter’s name in greeting, hear his name snarled in return, then he’d drop himself heavily into the armchair closest to the door. Minutes later, Tippy would appear, and with her their breakfast. Where Draco’s varied, Potter’s was always porridge topped with sunflower seeds. It was the same at lunch and supper - Draco would be served something from the long list of foods that the elf knew he liked, and Potter would receive some kind of stew or casserole. Draco wondered if they were as bland as they looked. Were they depriving Potter of flavour for a reason or was the Dark Lord merely attempting some new form of torture?

Not that he cared, particularly. So long as Potter ate every single bite, that was all that mattered. It was almost inevitable that at the end of every meal, Potter would sit with an uncomfortable expression on his face, his hand resting against his stomach. Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the dramatic display.He acted as if he’d eaten the largest meal of his life three times a day, but to Draco’s eye the portions were on the small size; he’d have been surprised if even his mother would have been satisfied with them.

Still. It didn’t matter. So long as Potter ate, he could cope with a little theatrics. He’d even spent Christmas Day with the other boy, spending only a few hours in the evening with his family, but it was worth it. His mother’s hands had finally stopped shaking, and if it was up to him, they would remain steady. The only anxious thought that niggled at the back of his mind, was what would happen after he left. Potter might have been eating, but the Dark Lord had demanded a spark.

If there was some flicker of life within Potter, beyond the literal rise and fall of his chest, Draco had yet to see it.

It was with a week left of the holidays that their monotonous routine changed.

Every day without fail, Draco would enter the suite to find Potter exactly where he’d left him the night before: sat on the far end of the sofa dressed in dark casual robes, his hands folded in his lap, his three headed snake curled around his neck, her heads resting at the junction where his shoulders sloped up into his neck. It was where he would spend the entire day until Draco left him in the evening, unless he needed to relieve himself. This morning was no different.

They had finished breakfast and Potter was sat on the sofa as usual, practically puffing his cheeks up in discomfort, while Draco paced restlessly up and down the bookshelves. He’d finished his first book, ‘The Blood That Binds Us, Volume One: Contracts and Bonds’ (which had been surprisingly interesting, being unexpectedly gory and, at times, p*rnographic, especially considering it was a book about wizarding contracts) within a few days and had practically absorbed five more in a desperate attempt to escape the monotony of every day spent babysitting Potter.

When the Dark Lord had given his command, Draco had been concerned that they might tear each other's hair out. Maybe curse each other a little. He’d have preferred curses to this though - Potter would at least need to speak to him to curse him. He’d hardly said a word since that first day.

Stood in the far corner of the room, Draco glanced away from the two books he was struggling to choose between and towards Potter. He rolled his eyes. Potter was as he always was; quiet and unnaturally still, his eyes fixed on the horizon outside the window.

“Do you ever do anything?” Draco drawled, the frustration of being cooped up with Potter for two weeks catching up to him and loosening his tongue, “You always just sit there, staring out the window,” he looked over his shoulder to the sofa and found Potter unchanged; he rolled his eyes and began a slow stroll across the bookcases, his finger trailing across their spines, “The view isn’t going to change you know. Though I suppose neither of us know how long you’re going to be in here, so it might eventually,”

Potter stirred slightly, his head twitching and inclining in Draco’s direction.

Draco paused, licking his lips as he considered. Riling Potter up had been enough to get him to eat - wait. No. Actually, that wasn’t true, he realised. Potter hadn’t started eating until he’d known that Draco’s mother was at risk. Stupid saviour complex. No, since that first day, Draco hadn’t tried to rile him up at all. The most he’d done was deliberately chew too loudly just to watch the increasingly irritated tick in Potter’s jaw. Perhaps he should try again… perhaps that was the key to making Potter’s ‘spark’ return (the thought made him want to gag - like Potter was special or something).

And it wouldn’t be a hardship. If anything, it would be an excellent excuse to take out a little frustration on the four-eyed twat. Draco hid the mean smile that threatened on his face by turning back to the bookshelf and resuming his slow progress along it.

“You could be here for years, Potter. The wards around this house are impenetrable, you know? Only a Malfoy by blood can change them - so that leaves my father and me, and neither of us are letting you out,” he heard Potter shift in his seat, “and no one's getting in either, I hope you know. Wards can be broken by someone with the right skill set, sure… but no one’s breaking the Fidelius charm,” he paused dramatically, watching out the corner of his eye as Potter’s head turned slowly to look at him, “That’s the charm your parents used, wasn’t it?” Potter said nothing, “Though, of course they placed their trust in the wrong soul didn’t they. I wouldn’t get your hopes up of the same thing happening here, though. Somehow, I can’t see the Dark Lord walking up to the Aurors and telling them how to find you,” he shot a nasty grin over his shoulder, and he felt a thrill of excitement in his chest at the barely suppressed rage in Potter’s eye.

A distant part of Draco realised that he wasn’t simply trying to get a rise out of Potter, no matter what he said. He was being cruel because he’d had his hide hitched to Potter’s against his will. Because he couldn’t trust Potter to keep eating after he was gone. Because he was terrified that Potter was going to actually turn into a human statue and get his mother killed. And lastly, he was being cruel because it felt good - because he wanted to.

“Since you’re here for the duration,” he continued more brightly, “you might as well read a book or two; you are surrounded by them after all. Or did your stupid muggle relatives not teach you to read?” He paused, a passing rumour suddenly returning to him, “My father heard something once, when he was on the school board, that you nearly didn’t get your letter to Hogwarts because they kept addressing it to a cupboard,” he snorted, “Apparently, they didn’t realise until they’d sent you nearly two hundred letters. Did you know that?” Potter’s expression tightened and his cheeks flushed, his eye darting away. Was Potter… embarrassed? “Was that true?” Potter glanced back at him reluctantly and visibly hesitated before he gave a single small nod, “How come all of your letters were going to a cupboard?” He asked, genuinely curious, turning side on to Potter and holding his hands behind his back as if Potter were a specimen he was observing with vague interest.

Potter looked away again and stayed silent for a long moment. He licked his top lip and answered quietly, “It was my bedroom,”

Draco snorted on reflex, “What, like a house-elf?” He taunted. It was only when Potter didn’t answer and his whole face and neck flushed red in furious humiliation that Draco realised, he wasn’t joking. A flash of shock briefly interrupted the bubbling hatred that had been simmering in Draco for weeks now. Potter’s bedroom had been a cupboard. Had Potter been… abused? Draco’s stomach clenched.

He didn’t know what to do with that information. He didn’t know how to use it to provoke Potter in a way that didn’t leave him feeling dirty, but it was far to late to change tactics now. Potter wouldn’t accept sympathy or comfort from him, and Draco was in no place to offer it either. And so, he put it to one side, and pushed along his previous path.

He let out a small laugh, “Well, you learn something new, every day I suppose,” he said flippantly, turning away from Potter and resuming his careful pacing, “Regardless, I don’t see why you choose to just sit there and stare rather than reading something. I’m presuming Granger didn’t write all of your essays, so I know you can. Let’s see… what do we have here…,” he peered closer to the shelf, “There’s… ‘The Art of the Wand’ by Mykew Gregorovitch - something you might find handy. You could try and make yourself a new one!” Potter scowled at his bright tone, and he continued, “Or there’s ‘The Poison of Love’ by Laverne de Montmorency - though I’m not sure if that one’s fiction or nonfiction to be honest. Or perhaps…,” Draco’s finger trailed across the books when his eyes caught on a title that made the hateful thing inside him gasp with glee, “this one, Potter,” he worked the enormous book free and pulled it smoothly from the shelf. Potter flinched back, his expression turning alarmed as Draco strode towards him, the book he’d selected open in his arms as he flicked his way through its contents, not sure he’d find what he was looking for. He let out a bark of laughter when he did, and he dropped the heavy open book into Potter’s lap; the snake around his neck hissed furiously and flinched back, three sets of fangs bared in his direction.

A detailed diagram of a solitary glass eye gazed back at them. Potter stared down at it - judging by what Draco could see of his blank expression, he hadn’t quite understood what was in front of him.

“‘Magical Prosthetics and Orthotics: Manufacture and Customisation’ twenty fourth edition, edited and updated by H. Pulsifer, originally written by Josefina Calderon,” Draco announced smugly, “Translated from the original Spanish,” he added helpfully, grinning down at the back of Potter’s head, “Merlin knows why we have a copy - I think mother uses this suite to store all the books she has no intention of reading but can’t throw away for one reason or another (value, heirlooms, gifts and the like). How fortuitous for you though!” He crowed patronisingly, clapping his hands together, “It’s like it was meant to be. We’ll have you looking like Mad-eye Moody in no time,” even as he finished speaking, Draco could feel in his gut that he’d gone too far.

As if in slow motion, Potter lifted his chin to look up at Draco, and Draco was reminded of the time he and one of the Weasley twins had attacked him on the quidditch pitch. His eye was blazing with fury and his teeth were half bared into a snarl.

Suddenly, Potter was on his feet, the book tumbling out of his lap to the floor as he stood. Draco had the briefest moment to take half a step back before Potter was lunging at him, his hands outstretch to shove Draco as hard as he could. Even with their height difference, and their significant weight difference, Draco still found himself forced to take two steps back to stop himself from being bowled over.

Draco braced himself, preparing to fight back, when Potter simply side stepped him and marched furiously across the room towards his bedroom. He slammed the door with such force, that the portrait of a winged horse that hung on the wall next to it let out a frightened whiny and galloped out of the frame.

The silence was deafening.

Draco swallowed heavily; his eyes fixed on the closed door. He felt as if his feet had suddenly become nailed to the carpet below. He stood frozen, simply blinking and waiting to see if Potter would come back. It took him a long time to realise that he wouldn’t.

He looked down at the feeling of something digging into his ankle and found the cover of the book sticking up against him awkwardly where it had fallen to the floor. It was more for something to do than anything else that Draco picked it up off the floor and carried it with him to sit down on the armchair that faced Potter’s door.

There was a kind of ringing in Draco’s ears - the kind that only existed to draw attention to how quiet everything was. He hadn’t realised how used he’d gotten to the sound of Potter breathing until it was gone. Or the occasional exchange of hissing between him and his serpent.

He looked down to the book in his lap and stroked his thumb against the gold embossed title. With nothing better to do, and desperately needing a distraction from the explosion that had just happened, he opened the book and began to slowly leaf through it.

The first page contained a portrait of the author, who flicked her long dark hair and smiled genially up at him. He swallowed and turned the page.

‘Through the power of magic, witches and wizards throughout the ages have been able to overcome many of the challenges that life brings, no less than the challenges of poor health…’

He shouldn’t have said what he said but storming off seemed like an over-reaction.

‘… however, despite our many advances, there does not yet exist a method by which to mend injuries and ailments inflicted by magical means, most commonly by curses…,’

Perhaps it had been a low blow though. Bringing up his eye. And immediately after laughing at him for (probably) being abused, too. His eyes flicked to the bedroom door, and he turned the page.

He paused, finding himself momentarily distracted by the intricate diagram in front of him: it was a prosthetic arm made of multiple sweeping panels, carved as if to mimic the flow of muscle, and interconnected by thin wires. In some places the panels were flush together, but in places where flexibility was required, Draco could see free air. The wrist of the diagram in front of him flexed this way and that and the fingers bent and straightened methodically.

‘ … in constructing prosthetic limbs, it is important that first the correct materials are chosen. Much in the way that wood is the preferred material for wands, wood (usually imbedded with enchantments to improve weight, durability and permeability) acts as an excellent conduit for the magic required not only to give the limb motion and sensation, but also to maintain its integrity…’

He wondered what Potter was doing in his room. Was he simply sitting in silence, the way he had done for the last fourteen days with Draco? Or was he having a heated hissed conversation with the snake? For the first time, Draco wondered what the snake thought of him. It probably hated him.

‘ … another key component for magical prosthetic limbs are noble metals (most frequently gold or platinum): these act as a binding and conductive agent…’

f*ck… this wasn’t how Draco had envisioned his day going. What if Potter didn’t come out at lunch? What if Draco had just undone everything and he stopped eating again?

‘ … for more cost-effective prosthetics, copper may be used as an alternative, but this has implications for the longevity of any enchantments applied. Without proper routine maintenance, prosthetics made using copper may fail unexpectedly. Note: silver is not recommended however, due to the metal's susceptibility to corruption from outside magical sources (including that of the prosthetics maker themselves) …’

Should he knock on the door? Apologise? He could imagine it now:

‘Sorry for being a dick Potter, only I’m terrified you’re going to get my mother tortured and/or killed. Be a good chap and eat a biscuit, will you?’

Draco found himself snorting derisively. Yeah. Maybe not.

‘…the imbedding of wand cores is desirable in order to create a replacement with movement that is long lasting (Note: superior wand cores are not a necessity). Enchantments may be used as an alternative, but these must be reapplied bi-annually, and may eventually interfere with other charms that are necessary to apply to the prosthetic. While initially cheaper, such systems are likely to be more costly in the long run…’

None of this was his fault, though. What did he have to apologise for? He hadn’t asked to be thrown into this stupid room with him! He wasn’t the one who’d taken Potter’s eye! He hadn’t locked Potter up or kidnapped him (but his father had) or tortured him (but his aunt had). He was as much a prisoner here as Potter!

Frustration had him flipping furiously through the book - diagrams and drawings and instructions were a blur as he rushed past them until he found what he’d been unconsciously searching for. The eye that had had Potter storming out of the room. He watched as the pupil contracted and expanded, then flicked over to stare back at him, before turning to gaze into the middle distance.

‘Historical Ocular Prosthetics: The Polyphemus System.’

He paused - historical?

‘The Polyphemus System has been the predominant type of ocular prosthesis in use for nearly two thousand years. It remains especially popular amongst Auror groups due to the tactical advantage of an eye that can see in all directions with penetrating vision. However, for the civilian population it is less than ideal: as well as drawing unwanted attention with its unusual appearance, the Polyphemus System can become incredibly uncomfortable with extended wear, and the characteristics that allow it to be free moving also mean that it can be easily dislodged and lost (or stolen by wizards wishing to incapacitate the wearer). In recent times, the-,’

Draco flinched at a sudden crack and tore his gaze from the page in front of him. Tippy stood in front of him. She made to bow but froze when she didn’t find Potter sitting in his usual spot. She turned unsure eyes in his direction. He clenched his teeth.

“Yes, Tippy?”

“Y-your lunch, Master Draco,” she squeaked, snapping her fingers. A plate of tomato and mozzarella salad and toasted ciabatta appeared. She hesitated, “What about Harry, sir?”

“Master Harry,” he corrected sharply, feeling suddenly intensely irritated by the elf’s continued lack of respect, “and yes, lunch for Potter as well,” he’d get Potter out of his bedroom even if he had to drag him out.

“Yes, sir,” she said at once, snapping her fingers and conjuring a familiar bowl of stew. For a split second, Draco felt a twinge of sympathy for Potter - he wouldn’t want to eat the same thing every day either. He swallowed the sympathy back though, pushed himself to his feet, and marched over to Potter’s bedroom door.

Fist raised, he hesitated and caught the urge to pound his fist against the door. He sighed, and knocked politely, “Potter - lunch is here,” he called, his voice held deliberately level. He waited, holding his breath as he strained to hear for even the slightest hint of movement on the other side of the door - but he heard nothing. He clenched his jaw against the frustration he could feel beginning to build, “Potter!” He barked more sharply, knocking firmly against the door, “Get out here - its lunch time,”

He waited, his teeth grinding, his nose flaring with each carefully controlled breath in and out, trying for the first time in two weeks to keep his frayed temper under control. But still, nothing.

BANG! BANG!

He hammered on the door, “Potter!” f*cking Potter, “I don’t give a sh*t if you’re busy crying into your pillow!” f*cking Potter and his stupid snake and his stupid eye, “Get out here now!” Draco was asking one simple thing of him - was it really that difficult? “HEY!” He struck the door as hard as he could, “Are you listening to me?” f*cking Potter! “Come and eat this stupid stew right f*ckING now! Do you hear me?! Eat your lunch and then feel free to carry on this childish display,” he sneered furiously, “Hide in here all day if you want to - but I’m not having my mother tortured or killed just because you’re having a meltdown!” He paused, panting, waiting to hear for movement.

For a split second, there was nothing, and Draco had been about to start beating down the door when he heard the sound of feet, muffled against the carpet striding towards the door. The door was wrenched open, and Potter shouldered his way past him without saying a word. Draco caught the briefest glance of his face. He’d accused Potter of crying into his pillow, but he hadn’t considered that it might actually be true.

But Potter moved too quickly for Draco to gather his thoughts, marching towards his bowl and sitting with purpose on the sofa. The spoon clattered noisily against the bowl as Potter snapped his hands out to grab it, but he misjudged and overshot, nearly knocking the utensil onto the carpet.

Depth perception.

He recovered though, catching the spoon and brining the bowl up under his chin. Tears still leaking down his face, his cheeks flushed red, Potter began to practically inhale his dinner. He ate faster than Draco had ever seen him eat before, chewing with purpose and glaring down at the stew as if it had wronged him personally.

Potter had made his way halfway through the bowl before Draco managed to unstick himself and cautiously approach his own lunch. Potter grimaced at he swallowed.

“Slow down - you’re going to make yourself sick,”

“f*ck you!” Potter barked, panting and staring up at Draco, “f*ck. You,” he punctuated each word with a jab of his spoon in Draco’s direction, “You wanted me to eat,” he sniffed, his gaze faltering as he lost his bite, “So I’m eating,” he finished in a mutter, turning back to the stew.

The bowl was empty in minutes, and Potter was practically green. He had his eyes closed and the back of his wrist pressed firmly against his lips while he cradled his stomach with his other hand. Draco could feel dread building in his gut. He was expecting it when Potter leapt abruptly to his feet again, though this time he rushed in the direction of the bathroom, throwing the door open and not wasting time with closing it.

Listening to Potter retch and vomit, the shame that had been incessantly pressing down on Draco since Potter had stormed out the first time finally worked its way past his defences, and guilt replaced resentment. f*ck.

He pushed himself carefully to his feet, his eyes fixed on the ajar door. His hands shook with the adrenalin flooding his system. f*ck. This was his fault. He swallowed thickly. When the retching stopped, he paced slowly towards the bathroom. Was this a good idea? Should he stay where he was? He’d caused enough harm, surely. The sound of Potter panting was briefly obscured by the flushing of the toilet.

And then Potter started crying. Quiet sobs that Draco could barely hear.

He moved on autopilot, nudging the bathroom door open and stepping inside. For a moment, Draco couldn’t see him - he could only hear the whimpers that bounced off the tiled walls as an echo that seemed to go on forever. And then he spotted him - sat, curled into a ball wedged between the toilet and the wall, his face buried in his knees, his glasses on the floor. The snake had abandoned her post from around his neck for the first time in the last two weeks, and was instead curled around his forearm, her three noses nuzzling into his hair.

One of the heads - the fiercest one - spotted him and bared her teeth threateningly in his direction.

If Potter noticed his approach though, he said nothing. Draco slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the wall opposite Potter, and simply watched as he cried. He felt almost numb. Numb except for the building shame. It made his tongue feel like lead in his mouth. He crossed his legs, and slowly let the truth he’d been so desperate to ignore come to the forefront of his mind.

He didn’t hate Potter. He wasn’t angry with Potter. It was simply easier to hate him, and be angry with him, then it was to feel those things about the person they were meant for: the Dark Lord. Easier and safer.

Potter wouldn’t torture his mother for making him cry, or shouting at him, or laughing at him, or for making him eat breakfast, or for disappointing him. Potter was an easy target and there were no consequences for treating him poorly - the Dark Lord had said as much.

Well. There were consequences. The consequences were directly in front of him, he just hadn’t thought he cared about them until he was watching it happen.

He suddenly recognised the feeling inside of him that his mother had been so sure that they shared - horror. This, all of it, it was all so dreadfully cruel. A loathsome scenario that he and Potter had both been thrust into, except that of the two of them, Draco held all the power. Potter really had been made his pet.

It was only the shuddering thought of Mulciber that brought Draco back down to Earth, and he was alarmed to see that Potter had fisted his hands harshly in his hair.

“Don’t do that,” he stretched out a hand instinctively towards the other boy, but he was too far away to reach him, “you’ll hurt yourself,”

Potter responded with a rasping hysterical laugh, “Can’t,” he lifted his chin slightly so that Draco could see his eye, “Can’t hurt m’self. S’the room. Warded. Can’t even drink m’tea if’is too hot,” he mumbled, while the snake around his wrist darted closer to investigate his face more closely; the right kept her eyes firmly fixed on Draco though, “Vol’mort doesn’t want me to try and kill m’self… I think so a’least,”

“Do you want to?” Draco asked carefully, “Kill yourself, I mean,” he clarified at Potter’s confused, bleary expression.

Potter shrugged, “Not usually. Not yet,” he said, sounding thoroughly defeated.

Draco struggled to find something to say. Not for the first time, he felt completely in over his head. He didn’t know how to deal with this at all - but this, their current situation, it was his fault. He had to at least try and make it right.

“Do you want some water?” He made to stand, but flinched back when the right snake struck out, her jaws snapping through the air. She was nowhere near him, but still it had taken him by surprise.

Potter reacted immediately, curling a hand round the snake's head and encouraging her back into his body. He spoke to her, but his words were a mixed garble between English and parstlemouth, “No!… no stop… bite… can’t. Don’t… you… him. Atropos stop. Can’t bite him… don’t,”

Draco relaxed back against the wall, watching with interest as Potter argued with the furious snake, “What’s her name?” He asked curiously.

Four sets of eyes turned to look at him, and Potter sat up slowly, “Uh, this is Clotho, and Atropos, and Lachesis,” Atropos snarled at him, Clotho looked back curiously, while Lachesis looked mostly indifferent. Of course, Potter had named each head.

It was only as Potter straightened, his head popping up out of his arms, that Draco’s eyes were drawn to his neck. It was the first time he’d seen it bare over the last two weeks - the Runespoor was constantly curled around it. But now, with the snake around his arm, Draco was able to see the crescent shaped scar that peaked up above Potter’s collar.

They were teeth marks, jagged and cruel, and Draco felt nearly drowned in guilt again.

He’d been so convinced that none of this was his fault, that he was as much a victim of this as Potter, that he’d allowed himself to become the thing he’d been so adamant he was not - another of Potter’s tormentors. It was disgusting how swiftly he’d gone from regretting Potter’s death, to feeling horrified that he was being tortured, to… to this. He imagined Bella would be proud, and that thought alone was enough to make him feel sick. Perhaps the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, he thought bitterly. His mother though…

“Your mother calls them the Moirai,” Potter added, interrupting his train of thought.

He cleared the emotion he could feel building in his throat, “Yeah, that makes sense,” his mother was going to be so disappointed in him. She’d called him a sweet boy. He doubted she’d think him sweet anymore.

“I don’t want your mother to get hurt,” Potter said quietly, his eye fixed on his knees, “Especially because of me,” f*ck, Draco could practically see her crumpled, sad expression now - she’d been so obviously worried about Potter as well, “I… I’m sorry she’s being hurt,” his voice was thick with emotion suddenly and a few more tears trailed down his cheeks, “I’m trying, I swear, I really am, I just… I get full so quickly,” he rubbed a miserable hand against his stomach, “I’m sorry. I’m trying,”

f*ck. He needed to fix this.

“Will you come and sit in the sitting room with me?” He asked carefully, “It’ll be more comfortable in there,”

Potter slumped a little where he sat but nodded. Draco considered holding out a hand for him to take, but it felt like a disingenuous step too far. He wouldn’t take his hand, if he were Potter. And of course, there was the snake to consider. And so instead he fetched Potter’s glasses while he pushed himself up from the floor and offered them to the other boy when he was finally upright. As Potter had stood, his robes had lowered, revealing more of the bite mark at his neck. Draco couldn’t help but look at it - it was uneven and jagged, as if whoever had made it was missing half their teeth.

He looked away sharply. He wanted to know what had happened, as much as he didn’t want to know. Potter accepted his glasses silently, and Draco led them back into the living room.

“Tippy!” He pretended not to see the way Potter flinched slightly at his raised voice.

Tippy appeared at once with a crack in the middle of the room, “Yes, Master Draco?”

“Clear away Potter’s bowl and bring us a pot of ginger tea to settle Potter’s stomach please,” Tippy disappeared without further comment, taking the bowl with her.

Draco snatched up the book where he’d left it on his chair and slotted it back onto the bookshelf. It hit the back panel with a thud. Draco resumed his seat just as Tippy appeared, bringing with her not only the teapot, but also a small plate of ginger biscuits.

Potter’s eye darted nervously between the plate of biscuits and Draco’s face, and Draco felt just that little bit more like a monster. He soldiered on through the feeling.

“I hope you like ginger, Potter,” he said, pouring them both a cup and adding a biscuit to the edge of their saucers. Potter looked at him like he had grown three heads like the snake around his neck, but he accepted the saucer anyway, and Draco didn’t comment or flinch when the Runespoor snapped threateningly at him (he thought it was the head called Atropos but couldn’t be certain).

“It’s okay,” Potter muttered, “Why ginger?”

Draco shrugged, relaxing back into his own seat and trying to find some new normality between them, “It’s meant to be good for settling an upset stomach - I thought everyone knew that,”

“I didn’t,” Potter made to bring the cup to his lips, but froze just before he could slurp at the liquid. He lowered the cup with a sudden frustrated noise.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked warily, blowing carefully over the top of his own cup.

“It’s too hot,”

Draco frowned in confusion, “So? Just blow… oh,” and Potter’s words came back to him. He really couldn’t drink his tea if it was too hot, “Pass it here,” he felt Potter’s gaze on the back of his neck as he carried the cup into the bathroom to add a splash of cold water. He accepted it back looking faintly bewildered, but he was at least able to carefully sip at it now, “Don’t worry about the biscuit,” he said quickly, “Eat it if you can but… but don’t worry,”

Potter just looked at him carefully, watching his face as he drank his tea as if he were nervous about what Draco might do next.

He probably was, a small voice reminded Draco. No matter how Draco tried to cut it, the crux of the matter was that Potter was effectively a prisoner in his family home. He was Draco’s prisoner, as much as Draco had no desire to be a jailer. And Draco hadn’t exactly been benevolent. He’d be on edge too.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said abruptly.

Potter looked away uncomfortably, “What have you got to be sorry for? You didn’t put me here. You didn’t torture me or-,” Potter swallowed, “You didn’t do this to me,”

“I… I know, but I’ve been… I just. I- I’m sorry, alright?” he said harshly, but then immediately regretted his tone, “I guess… I guess I’m afraid,” he admitted reluctantly, “Afraid of what he’ll do to my mother mostly, and to me,”

Potter lowered his saucer slowly into his lap and Draco felt as if his gaze were trapped in place, fixed on Potter’s solitary green eye that stared back at him. He watched as Potter swallowed heavily and carefully licked his lips.

“I’m scared too,” Potter whispered, “I don’t feel it the same, though. I used to be terrified, but… but not anymore. Just feels kind of normal now,” he muttered, and Draco wasn’t quite sure if he was actually talking to him, or to himself, “S’like coming down for breakfast and there being this overwhelming smell of bacon, but by the time you leave for class, you can’t smell it at all anymore. You know what I mean?”

Draco nodded, “I think so,” he felt the horror his mother had alluded to creeping back in, “My mother says it's called going nose blind - the bacon thing I mean, I uh… not the fear, uh, thing,” he stumbled awkwardly over his words, “She uses it as an excuse to own as many perfumes as possible, I think,” he finished, despairing somewhat that he had awkwardly compared Potter being unable to feel normally anymore to his mother’s fragrance habits.

Potter smiled a little though, “She does always smell nice,” the smile faded though as Potter stared into the cup cradled in his hands.

“She does,” Draco agreed; he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

They sat together quietly, sipping at their tea and not talking. More than once, Draco considered getting to his feet and finding a book to read. He even briefly contemplated playing the harpsichord for something different to do, but in the end, he stayed where he was, gnawing absentmindedly at his thumb nail and swirling his cooling tea.

Potter flashed him a nervous look when their supper arrived and Draco felt as if an ice bucket had been poured over him. That single look had acted as a spotlight on the new dynamic between them - the dynamic that Draco had enforced. Any part of him that remained in denial as to his role as jailor was firmly quashed.

“Don’t- don’t worry about it,” he muttered into his cup, “Just… just have what you can manage,”

In the end, neither of them touched their meals.

Draco left around seven - what was the point in staying when neither of them were eating? He found himself compelled to find his mother. He could feel a confession desperate to break free from his chest. He practically threw himself down the east wing’s staircase, swinging himself around the bannister and marching through the corridor towards the sitting room.

He hoped she was there and not in his parent’s private rooms. He wasn’t sure how his father would receive the knowledge that his son was sickened by the atrocities that had been committed in their home, and his own role in Potter’s imprisonment, but if he was with his mother, he was about to find out one way or another. Draco was barely keeping his imminent outburst in as it was.

He pushed his way into the sitting room, and he was so stuck in his own head that he nearly walked straight into someone. The sight of pitch-black robes and black hair had Draco’s occlumency shields slamming down immediately. He swallowed back the words that were threatening to escape and forced them into his chest.

“Professor,” he said cooly, internally wincing at the slight tremble in his voice.

Severus Snape raised a single eyebrow, “Mister Malfoy,”

“Draco! I wasn’t expecting you till much later, is everything alright?” Narcissa stood from her chair, a concerned frown on her face. He glanced from her to Snape’s cool expression. She may have been willing to lower her guard around Snape, but he was not.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he steadied his breath and willed his heartbeat to slow, “I was hoping to speak with you, mother, but I can see you’re busy,” he made to leave the room with a short bow, but Snape stopped him.

“I was on my way out anyway,” Snape half turned back to his mother and inclined his head, “Narcissa - I shall see you in a week,” black eyes turned themselves on him and practically bored their way into his skull, “Draco,” and he swept passed him, his cloak billowing behind him and briefly whipping around Draco’s legs as he marched from the room.

Draco closed the door firmly behind him.

Narcissa took half a step towards him, “Draco - what’s wrong?” When he didn’t answer, she made to move closer, “Dr-,”

“Stop,” he said shortly, holding up a hand to halt her, “Please. Please, just stop,” Narcissa froze, “Tell me the truth. What happened to Potter’s eye?” Her expression shuttered immediately. He watched as her chest rose and fell with each careful breath, “Tell me… please just tell me,”

She clenched her hands into fists, and all she said was: “Bellatrix,” but it was all Draco needed to hear.

“Why?” He responded immediately, “Because the Dark Lord told her to?”

She shook her head and said quietly, “No… no, that Dark Lord didn’t tell her to,”

“Then why?” He snapped.

“Because she wanted to,” she said simply, her voice fragile as she twisted her hands together.

Draco closed his eyes against the clenching sensation in his chest, “Is that who we are? Is that who I am?”

“No - no, Draco, that’s no who-,”

“But it is,” he interrupted, “It is who I am,” his voice caught in his throat, and he opened his eyes to see his mother’s pained expression, “It’s exactly who I am. I’ve spent two weeks hating the boy who’s been tortured in our home for months, all because his torturer tortured you too. Two weeks! Because I love you, and I don’t love him,” his lip trembled, “You know; the only reason he started eating was because I told him the Dark Lord was threatening to hurt you,” tears gathered in his mother’s eyes, “That was all it took. And yet today, I was still unnecessarily cruel to him. Because I hate him. But I don’t really - I hate the Dark Lord,” she let out a small nervous gasp, a tear escaping, but he ignored her, “I hate him because of what he did to you, but it was just that much easier to hate Potter. H-he was sobbing and crying on the floor because of me. Looking at me like he thought I was going to hurt him - torture him like Aunt Bella.

“I need you to tell me what he did to deserve this, mother,” he practically begged, “Did he do something wrong? Or is it because he’s not a pureblood? Is it because the Dark Lord commanded it? I need to know that he somehow deserved all this because otherwise I-…! I don’t know how to live with it!” She said nothing, “I don’t know how to look at- at Bellatrix or- or at father either!”

“Your father hasn’t touched him!” his mother protested vehemently.

“But he brought him here!” Draco cried, his hands held out imploringly in front of him, “He kidnapped him, and brought him here - didn’t he?”

Reluctant, silent tears pouring down her cheeks now, she nodded, and whispered, “Yes,”

“Tell me he deserved it,” Narcissa unstuck her feet, approaching him slowly, “Tell me that he deserved it - that he had it coming,” she shook her head, her hands reaching out to cradle his, “Tell me- please tell me-,”

“He doesn’t deserve this, Draco,” she said softly, pulling him closer, “He didn’t do anything, except be targeted by the Dark Lord as a baby,” she cradled his head down onto her shoulder, running her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, “He doesn’t deserve this,”

Draco folded his arms around her and for the first time, let himself cry. He cried for the version of his father that had died in his mind. He cried for his belief system that was beginning to quake and crumble around him. He cried for the horror story his life had become. But mostly he cried for the boy with one eye and a three-headed snake as his only true companion.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmured into her shoulder, “This was all so much easier when I blamed him. When I hated him,”

“Oh Draco… you’re just a boy. I’m sorry that this weight has been placed on your shoulders,”

“He’s just a boy, too,”

He heard her sigh in his ear, “I know, little dragon, I know.”

Draco had been stood outside of Potter’s door, his hand on the handle but not turning it, for at least three minutes. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like forever when all he was doing was standing there, working up the courage to step inside.

He was terrified of what lay on the other side. Terrified that Potter would look up at him again with that single wary eye. He imagined it was how Potter would look at his father. He’d always wanted to be like his father, but now the memory of every single passing comment that had ever been made to compare them made him feel sick. He didn’t want to be like his father, kidnapping a teenager because he was ordered to. Or like his aunt, torturing them because she wanted to.

He’d never held particular stock in the kind of morals that seemed common amongst Gryffindor’s and Hufflepuff’s; those of self-sacrifice and extolling kindness to every stranger that came along, and he probably wasn’t about to start now. But he felt there was a wide gulf between looking out for his own interests and those of his loved ones, and murdering children - he just needed to figure out where on that spectrum he fell.

He took a deep breath. f*ck, he should just get it over with.

He knocked firmly with one hand and turned the door handle with the other.

On the other side of the door, Potter looked much as he had the night before, sat in his usual spot with his snake around his neck - all but for one detail. He had a book open across his lap.

Draco eyed it warily as he approached, “Good morning,”

Potter blinked in surprise - it was the first time he’d greeted him with anything other than a sneered ‘Potter’.

“Good morning,” Potter responded carefully, glancing nervously down at the book in his lap then back to Draco, as if afraid of his response.

Draco could immediately see why as he settled into his chair; a diagram of an eye stared back up at Potter. He swallowed. He’d address that in a moment.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

Potter expression turned immediately wary, “Sorry, what?”

“For breakfast. What do you want?” Silence: Draco huffed in frustration, “Look; if it’s so important that you start eating, surely it doesn’t matter what you eat so long as you eat something, so it might as well be something you want. Unless you’ve been eating porridge every day by choice,” he snarked, only to immediately feel guilty for his tone. He opened his mouth to backtrack and apologise, but he was interrupted by Potter’s derisive snort.

“No,” he said flatly, “I wasn’t aware there was a choice,”

Draco’s chest stuttered in relief, “Well - there is now. So, what do you want?”

Potter looked down to the book in his lap as he mulled over his answer, “Scrambled egg on toast?” He said carefully, “And orange juice?”

Draco nodded sharply, and cried, “Tippy!”

The elf appeared with her usual crack and deep bow, “Master Draco - Tippy is getting breakfast ready. It will be here soon,” she said sounding both nervous and reproachful.

“Change of plans, Tippy. Harry and I would like scrambled egg on toast and a glass of orange juice each for breakfast please. And a pot of tea,” he added, “Black, this time though,”

Tippy glanced nervously over her shoulder at Potter, then back to Draco, “Master Severus is saying that Harry is to be having porridge though,” she muttered nervously, her eyes flicking this way and that as if Snape were about to leap out of the walls.

“Master Harry,” Draco stressed, “has asked for scrambled egg on toast. And you are a Malfoy house-elf, not Snape’s. If he has any issue with the change in menu he can speak to me,” the idea of the man confronting him made a small part of Draco quiver in fear, but he stamped the feeling down; he would not have Snape usurping his position as Master to his own house-elves, “Do you understand?”

She bowed again, low and deep, “Yes, Master Draco,” and she was gone.

For a moment, the room was silent, and then Potter said, “I told her not to call me master, you know,”

Draco rolled his eyes, “Of course you did - it’s disrespectful. For her not to call you master. She’s probably been having an aneurysm over it,”

Potter looked immediately guilty, “I did have to ask her multiple times,” he admitted.

Draco sighed, “At least let her call you master when you have company,” he said reproachfully, “It’ll reflect poorly on both of you, if she doesn’t. Like she’s disobedient, and like you’re so worthless that even the elves don’t respect you,” Potter’s expression shuttered at the word ‘worthless’, and Draco immediately regretted using it, “Anyway - I didn’t expect you to be reading that,” he nodded at the book in Potter’s lap, “Sorry, again,” he said awkwardly, wondering when the compulsion to constantly apologise would go away, if ever, “Any good?”

Potter considered the book, trailing a finger across its pages while the other hand absentmindedly stroked one of his snake’s heads (Clotho, perhaps?), “It’s interesting,” he said slowly, but then offered nothing more.

“Could you get one made?” Draco asked carefully.

Potter shrugged, “Doubt Voldemort would let me…,” he frowned, his expression turning considering, “Though… if I had a wand, and the necessary components, I could try and make one myself. I’d have to learn about runes though, but like you said, I’ve got plenty of time. Might as well use the time well,” he offered Draco a bitter smile, “Not that I have the components. Or a wand,”

Draco shuffled awkwardly in his seat, “Could always try and learn wandless magic?”

Potter looked confused, “You can do magic without a wand?”

“Yeah - it's mostly only really powerful wizards that can do it, but in some places its standard practice. Wands are mostly a European thing - and American too, I guess. Here - look,” he pushed himself to his feet and approached the bookcase along the back wall, searching through the spines for the one he had spotted the day before, “This is it,” he pulled the book free, “‘The World History of Magical Education’ - hang on, give me a second,” he returned to his seat, leafing quickly through the pages for what he was looking for, “This is it -,” he stood the book up and turned it so that Potter could see the page he was looking at, “Uagadou - it’s a school in Uganda. They have wands there, but they don’t really use them much,”

Potter shifted closer curiously, “What do they do instead? And how come they can all do wandless magic if only powerful people can do it here?”

Draco shrugged, “They use hand gestures, I think - and I guess they must learn magic that way as young children so it grows with them,” he looked around at the books that surrounded them, “You could probably find a book on it in here, though,”

Potter looked dubious, “I dunno’ - research was more Hermione’s thing,” and he looked instantly sad at his mention of Granger’s name. Draco found himself at a loss as to what to say. His instinct was to respond with something dry and witty, but he thought the nerve he’d flayed open the day before might be too raw, and so he held his tongue.

He was saved from answering by Tippy’s return.

Potter didn’t finish his plate, but he did finish his orange juice, and he only very briefly sent a nervous look in Draco’s direction when he put his knife and fork down. When the plates were taken away, they simply looked at one another. Draco took a steadying breath and took a leap of faith.

“I can teach you about runes, if you like,” he offered casually.

Potter’s expression became something careful and hopeful, and Draco had to slam his occlumency shields in place to carry the weight of the guilt that threatened to crash down on him.

He’d try and make amends, he thought firmly to himself. It would never be enough, but it was all he could do. For the crimes committed against him, technically, the Malfoy family owed Potter a life debt even if he didn’t know it. Draco wasn’t sure he could save Potter’s life, but he could at least do this.

“Yes please,” Potter answered.

For lunch, they had cottage pie. Potter looked briefly panicked at the size of the portion on his plate, and so Draco scooped nearly half of it onto his own without a word. He was careful not to eat it though, just incase Potter wanted it after all.

For super, Potter let Draco choose, and so they enjoyed steak and chips, and though Draco would have preferred it if Potter had finished his plate, he wasn’t about to turn down Potter’s left-over steak. When Tippy came to take their plates away, she hovered for a moment.

“What is it Tippy?” Draco drawled, eyeing the roll of parchment that Potter had handed to him. In an effort to teach Potter runes, he’d had the other copying runes in lines, like one might teach a small child the alphabet. It might have seemed rudimentary, but it was how Draco had learnt, and Potter was gradually improving his quill strokes, even if he couldn’t remember what they all meant yet.

“Would… would masters’ be wanting desert?” She squeaked.

Draco turned his eyes to Potter and waited; Potter answered almost immediately.

“Treacle tart,”

Even though he hadn’t finished his super, Potter still managed to find enough space to enjoy a few bites of his tart. He ended stretched out on the sofa, his face tipped up towards the ceiling and a hand resting on his stomach.

“Worth it,” he muttered.

Draco could feel that things were beginning to tentatively change between them. He wasn’t quite sure that he knew how to be kind to Potter - he wasn’t even sure if he actually wanted to be, despite how determined he felt to make amends for his family's crimes - but now, when they sat and sniped back and forth between them, it felt more like goading and baiting, then torturing and tormenting. He could handle goading.

By the last day of the holidays, Draco was sure he was beginning to see the edges of the old Potter creeping back in. He’d started rolling his eyes, and huffing in frustration at him, and scoffing and snorting in disbelief, and calling Draco a ‘pointy git’ when he was being particularly annoying.

Each one was like a little flash of the personality hidden beneath Potter’s sad eye and downturned mouth. They never lasted long, but each one lingered in Draco’s mind for hours. Hell, he’d even laughed out loud when Draco had managed to flip a spoon full of custard into his own face (though it was less a bark of laughter, and more a small titter, but still; a laugh was a laugh).

Potter had taken him by surprise though when, as Draco stood to leave following their final day together, he had suddenly said, “Do you think they’d let us write to one another?”

Draco blinked down at him, not quite believing what he’d heard. Had Potter asked to be pen pals? Really? There might have been more peace between them over the last week than there had ever been, but they were hardly friends.

Potter flushed bright red at the silence that hung between them, and looked away sharply, “Never mind,” he muttered, “Stupid idea,”

Draco licked his lip carefully, “Why do you want to write to me?”

Potter hesitated, then turned his gaze back to him. There was something desperate and pained in his green eye; something that pleaded and begged for connection. He looked away before he spoke though.

“When you’re around… sometimes I get these flashes. Flashes where I feel like me again. The me before all of this,” he glanced around listlessly at the room, from the harpsichord to the bookcase, to the drawing table to the blazing fireplace behind them, “The me from before June and the Department of Mysteries, and Bellatrix, and Mulciber, and Macnai-,” Potter seemed to run out of air suddenly, snatching his breath and closing his eye; he swallowed heavily, “I miss knowing who I am,” he whispered, “I miss me,” he opened his eye carefully, and peered up at Draco, “When you’re around, I feel like a real person again,”

And once again, Draco felt the weight of the world placed squarely on his shoulders.

He was just a kid, a desperate voice said in the back of his mind. He hadn’t known how to fix Potter when he hated him, and he certainly didn’t know how to fix him now he felt indebted to him.

But maybe Potter wasn’t asking to be fixed. Maybe, Potter was simply asking for the tools to fix himself.

Draco took a steadying breath. He could try. At the very least, he owed it to Potter to try.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 9: Severus: Battle Lines

Chapter Text

December - 1996

Albus was sat behind his desk, his hands steepled at his chin, his eyes fixed on the fractured ring that lay between them, as if he expected something more from it. Severus wasn’t looking at it though. His attention was fixed firmly on the headmaster’s lined face.

He was lucky that Severus had come with him. The ring had been protected by some particularly strong magic, with more than one deadly curse layered atop the shack that housed it. Severus was surprised that there had been only one body within - some poor unwitting muggle no doubt. They had been there long enough that their bones were dry and bare, but even then, they harboured the remnants of the curse that had killed them. Dispelling that alone had taken an hour. But that wasn’t what Severus had been most needed for in the end.

No: his greatest contribution to the whole endeavour had been preventing the headmaster’s mad impulse to put the cursed ring on.

“What were you thinking?” He asked coldly; the headmaster sighed and avoided his eyes, “Hmm? What on earth possessed you to try and put on that ring? How could you not foresee that it would be cursed? Was the corpse in the corner of the room not indication enough?”

Albus wiped a tired hand across his face, lifting his half-moon spectacles above the bridge of his nose to rub at his eyes, “Folly, Severus,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “Folly. Hubris. Arrogance. Take your pick - they’re all equally appropriate,” he let his glasses fall and offered Snape a tight smile, “Riddle is fond of accusing me of being an old fool, and I fear I have proved him correct today. I’m lucky you were there to stay my hand, Severus,”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he responded cooly, his eyes flicking to the ring, “Why?”

“A long forgotten fantasy… one I thought I’d put to bed years ago,” Albus sighed and grasped the ring between his fingers, holding it up to the light and inspecting the black stone set into its face; it was still intact despite the sorry state of the setting that housed it, “I thought myself a changed man, but I suppose a Nundu can never truly change its spots,”

Severus exhaled heavily through his nose, unwilling to badger the man for answers, “You’re not making any sense,” Albus only smiled, “Fine. Keep your secrets, but may I trust that you will not attempt to wear any other Horcruxes we find in the future?”

“Yes Severus, you can - I sincerely doubt we will find any others that resonate with me in quite the same way,” his smile turned grim, and he tucked the ring away in a small drawer in his desk, shutting it with a resolute snap, “Thank you again, for saving me from myself,”

Severus ignored him, unwilling to be lured into the man’s riddles, “What now?” He glanced briefly to the sword of Gryffindor where it had been returned to its display cabinet above the headmaster’s head, “If you are to be believed, we are several Horcruxes short,”

Albus sat back heavily in his seat, “Indeed we are, Severus. I believe the key to finding the rest of the Horcruxes lies in Riddle’s past. I have managed to gather several memories that may guide us as to what his chosen vessels may have been, but too few to indicate where they may be hidden. It is this that I believe we may find truly troublesome. I’m sure you can appreciate the challenge we face,” Severus said nothing; that he would describe only one part of this endeavour as troublesome was laughable, “I am certain that the snake, Nagini, is one such vessel, but as for the others I have only educated guesses,” the headmaster’s expression turned shrewd, “I have been able to procure a memory that confirms my original suspicions, however; Riddle did indeed intend to split his soul into seven pieces, he discussed as much with Horace,”

Severus raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Slughorn admitted to discussing such dark magic with the Dark Lord?”

“In a manner - he was the provider of the memory, but I did have to rather bully it out of him. He provided a doctored memory upon my original request, but he was persuaded to be more forthcoming eventually. Horace had rather a sweet spot for Lily, you understand. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I used this affection to my advantage,”

Severus felt his nostrils flare; he chose not to comment on the fact that Horace wasn’t the only man whose affection for Lily Evens had been worked to the headmaster’s advantage, “You mean you played on Potter’s abduction and assumed demise?” Albus nodded looking distinctly uncomfortable; Severus snorted, “Perhaps we should re-sort professor’s when they return to the school,” he said dryly, “I do wonder what house you would have ended up in,”

“And I you, my friend,” Albus’s eyes twinkled back at him, and Severus found himself instantly irritated by it, “You have displayed some distinctly Gryffindor qualities over the years,”

Severus ignored him, “Is that why you finally decided to place me as the Defence professor? So that you had an excuse to bring Slughorn back to Hogwarts and within your reach? I would argue that this was a short-sighted decision, Albus. The curse surrounding the defence post is well established. I will be gone from Hogwarts one way or another by the end of the year, and you will find yourself in need of a Defence professor yet again. We can only hope that the curse does not demand my life to ensure that I leave my post,” he said coldly, though he didn’t truly believe he would need to die to fulfil the curses requirements.

Albus gave a considering hum, “Ah yes, another lasting legacy of Tom Riddle in this school - his last one I hope. It is a complicated piece of magic that has proven to be quite resilient; I can only hope that it will dissipate once Riddle is successfully destroyed but you never know with tenacious magic like this. But to answer your question: I do not believe that your life is at risk, Severus, and though it may turn out to be short sighted, I think it was worth it,” he hesitated, “I may have anticipated Riddle’s next move,” he admitted, “If he wishes for Harry to stand by his side, he will expect him to do so as a fully trained wizard. He will need a teacher, and you are the obvious choice. I imagine that the Dark Lord himself will be asking you to leave Hogwarts once the year is out,”

Severus didn’t bother suppressing his grimace, “Oh goodie,” Potter was a dreadful student; he always had been. The last thing he wanted was to try and educate the boy under the threat of the cruciatus curse. It didn’t help that having the boy’s accusing look turned in his direction made him feel as if his guts had turned to lead - or that more and more now he could hear Lily’s accusing voice whispering in his ear. Sometimes it was an echo from the past, but occasionally it was an imagined phrase his mind had invented to torment him with (not that he would tell Albus that), “Anyway,” he hurried the topic along, unwilling to dwell upon Lily’s imaginary scorn, “you didn’t answer my question. What is our next step for destroying the rest of the Horcruxes?”

“I am currently investigating several avenues of interest. When I know more, I shall tell you Severus, I promise,” Severus wanted to snap back; they didn’t have time for Albus to play his cards close to his chest! “Will you have time to attend this evening’s meeting?”

Severus knew he wasn’t referring to the Order meeting being held that evening. Instead, he meant the private, secret meeting being held after it. The meeting being held to discuss Potter. It was the first of what Severus expected would be many such meetings. He wondered if Lupin would be able to persuade Black to attend - he had yet to reappear at the regular meetings. Severus was struck by an unexpected conviction in his chest: if Black didn’t appear, he’d drag the man down to the meeting himself. He owed it to Potter, as his godfather, to be there, and Severus owed it to Lily to make sure her son wasn’t forgotten.

“Yes, but I may be late for the regular meeting; I promised Narcissa that I would visit her this evening. The Dark Lord has been quite liberal with his use of the Cruciatus curse over the last forty eight hours,” he felt the smallest twinge of guilt; it was his own report of Potter’s unsatisfactory condition that had prompted her torture, “Without medical attention, she runs the risk of long term neurological damage, and she can hardly attend Saint Mungos at this time: it may be her husband who is wanted for questioning by the Aurors, but I’m sure they’d be satisfied with her instead,”

Albus hmm’ed to himself, “Don’t rush yourself, Severus. The meeting will be somewhat delayed as it is - Bill Weasley has a private report to share with me beforehand,” he lowered his chin to peer meaningfully over his spectacles, though he didn’t care to elaborate and Severus didn’t bother to ask; no doubt he’d find out about the report’s subject when the headmaster decided it required Severus’s attention, “How are Harry and Narcissa getting along these days?”

Severus couldn’t help but grimace, “They barely speak. Narcissa struggles to connect with him,” how did one connect with the child tortured and abused in your home? “He is more verbose with me, if she is to be believed. Though we’re not exactly getting along well either,” he added dryly; Albus didn’t look surprised, “The boy is asking questions about loyalties, and outright lying is difficult with that Runespoor constantly about his neck. I am having to rely on half-truths and cruelty, but even then, he says his snake calls me ‘The Deceiver’,” he paused, “It is… challenging,”

Challenging was an understatement. The experience was making him hate the Dark Lord and Albus in equal measure. He’d never liked Lily’s son, but he never expected he would be actively tormenting the boy. Though he recognised that his treatment of him could never have been described as fair, it hadn’t been quite so cruel either. The boy had never been afraid of him before.

It ran contrary to every posthumous promise he had made to Lily, and he found himself struggling to reconcile his role in the Order with the crimes inflicted upon her son that he did nothing to stop. And he could stop them, if he really wanted to. He could bundle the boy away in the dead of night and apparate him back to the Order. But they would know it was him, and then who would act as spy?

Albus’s expression turned sad, “I see,” he paused, “Is there anything about Harry’s condition that I should be aware of in advance of this evening's meeting?”

Severus knew him well enough to hear the part he didn’t say. Was there anything he should know that no one else should know?

“No,”

Albus nodded, “Alright. I shall see you later then, Severus.”

He was unsurprised to see the subtle tremor in Narcissa’s hand when he arrived at the manor. It was a well-known side effect of the crucistus curse, and one that usually resolved on its own. He’d given her a potion to steady her hand the night before, but still her teacup wobbled dangerously. She had been right to ask for his help - such tremors risked becoming permanent without the proper attention.

She sighed in relief upon seeing him, “Severus,” at her side on the sofa, her sister scowled and said nothing.

He inclined his head, lowering himself to the sofa opposite them and setting his potion’s bag carefully on the coffee table that stood between them, “Narcissa, Bellatrix,” Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed, “I see that the effects of the chelidonimum miniscula have worn off,”

Narcissa pressed her lips together, her eyes flicking with displeasure to her teacup; though her hand was unsteady, the liquid inside had been charmed to remain perfectly still, and was at no risk of splashing on the carpet below, “Unfortunately - is there something else you can do Severus? I can’t have Draco seeing me like this,” though her voice was firm, her words were faintly desperate, “He’s got enough to worry about as it is. He must focus on the task at hand,”

“Indeed,” he agreed smoothly, snapping his bag open and removing one of the tiny, cylindrical crystal vials he had brought with him, “Here,” he leant across the coffee table and held the vial over her tea, grasping the vial at either end and pressing down with his thumbs until the vial snapped at its tapered waist, emptying its contents into her cup, “Drink this - it will help with the tremors whilst we mend the root cause. I brought several more with me, but I suggest you limit yourself to one a day, lest you wish to experience a migraine most unpleasant,” she nodded and drank deeply from her cup until her hand was steady.

“Will it take long to mend?” She asked cautiously, lowering her empty cup to the table.

“Perhaps a few weeks,” he said, sorting through his bag and removing more potions and vials, “It is highly likely that the tremors will resolve by themselves in a few months, but should you be subjected to the cruciatus again…,” he trailed off, his meaning plain.

Narcissa pursed her lips together, “I see,”

“I will visit you daily until you no longer need the chelidonimum miniscula,” he assured her, ignoring the suspicious gaze of her sister next to her.

“You will come in the early evening?” She asked anxiously, “I would prefer it if Draco did not see you here; he would only ask questions. It would not do for him to be distracted,”

He inclined his head, “As you wish,” he glanced briefly about the room before refocusing on the task at hand, “He is visiting Potter now then?” He raised his wand and began the set of spells he was now more familiar with than ever, though usually he was using them on Potter.

“Yes,” Narcissa answered tightly, “He’s been with him all day,”

“Tippy has just served them their evening meal,”

Severus didn’t look around at the voice that had appeared from the doorway, too focussed on the readings that floated above Narcissa’s head.

He did, however, say, “Lucius,” in a cool greeting as the man swept into the room and took up residence in the armchair closest to the fire.

“It’s ridiculous,” Bellatrix muttered, “He should punish the boy, not Cissy. He’s the one not eating,”

“Yes, such an excellent idea,” Lucius said dryly, crossing his legs, “Let’s take the boy not eating and torture him some more. That’ll be sure to sort his appetite right out,”

Bellatrix sneered at her brother-in-law, “I don’t know why we care if the boy eats at all! The boy’s a filthy half-blood - let him wither away, what does it matter?!”

“The Dark Lord says it matters,” Snape interjected coldly, “He clearly has plans for the boy and it’s not our place to question him,” he paused his casting to offer Narcissa a vial from his bag, “Drink this,” she did as he asked with a grimace, and he resumed his work.

“I’m not questioning the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix denied viscously, “There are few more devoted to the Dark Lord than I - I simply dislike seeing my dear sister hurt for the sake of that brat!”

Lucius considered her with cold interest, “Your logic has always astounded me, sister-in-law. If anyone is to blame for the boy's condition, surely, it’s you? You are an excellent torturer after all. We all heard it,” he snapped his fingers and a glass of amber liquid appeared at his elbow; he sipped at it, his eyes fixed always on Bellatrix, “We all heard it for six months,”

Bellatrix let out a bark of laughter, “If we’re following that path, brother-in-law, then surely, it’s you who’s to blame? You’re the one who destroyed the Hall of Prophesy! You’re the one who dragged that filth into your halls!”

Lucius opened his mouth, fury in his eyes, but his wife interrupted him, “Can we please stop assigning blame,” she said curtly, accepting a second vial from Severus and swallowing it with a grimace, “Regardless of where it lays, our family has been assigned a task, and one we must not fail at,”

“Indeed,” Severus agreed coolly, sitting back and cancelling his spell, “But regardless, I would prefer it if you would keep such near treasonous conversations either within your own minds, or amongst yourselves, but certainly not whilst I am present. I am unwilling to sit and become complicit in such discussions when I am merely here to help you,” he finished pointedly.

Bellatrix scoffed, “Of all the people to cry treason! It is not us who spend their evenings whispering into the ear of Albus Dumbledore!”

“At the behest of the Dark Lord,” Severus reminded her, narrowing his eyes on her, “Or do you question the Dark Lord’s wisdom in regard to that as well?” He asked dangerously.

He found yellowing teeth bared in his direction, “I do not question the Dark Lord,” she practically growled, “But I do question you. Where were you when the Dark Lord needed you most? You could have found him at any time, but instead you kept yourself glued to your precious headmaster and that damned school,” she scoffed, “I find it difficult to believe that you have been playing the role of loyal spy all these years,”

Severus exhaled carefully through his nose, creating the image of an enraged man controlling his temper, rather than revealing the irritated frustration he truly felt, “This is a matter I am prepared to be questioned on by the Dark Lord - but not by the likes of you Bellatrix,” she hissed through her teeth, “And if we are asking questions about what we have all been doing while the the Dark Lord was out of power, I am not the only one you should be asking,” though Lucius didn’t shift uncomfortably in his seat, his complete lack of movement was just as telling, “Now, if that will be all Bellatrix,” he drawled, “then I will take my leave. Narcissa, I would suggest you get an early night. The treatment for this ailment is draining,” he warned.

She nodded, her expression pinched, “In a little while,” she agreed, “but I’m going to wait for Draco in his rooms first. He’ll no doubt need some support after what I’m sure has been a difficult day,”

It made Severus’s chest tighten just the smallest amount to hear her worry after her son who had been forced to keep a tortured boy company. There was no one in this house who worried after Potter. What would Lily have said, he wondered? Not that it mattered. She was gone, and of her, only Harry Potter remained, though in what form and for how much longer he couldn’t have said.

He expressed none of this.

He pushed himself smoothly to his feet, snapping his bag closed, “We shall discuss this further tomorrow Narcissa,” his eyes flicked briefly to where Lucius rolled his tumbler mindlessly side-to-side against his chin, his own gaze fixed on the hearth and the blazing fire within, “Good evening.”

He was one of the last to arrive for the meeting, filing in at the back of the queue and ignoring the way that some of their younger members looked back at him with poorly disguised suspicion. As if to compensate, Shacklebolt greeted him with a firm handshake before he filtered through the crowd to the seat that had been saved for him. No such seat had been saved for Severus, but he hadn’t expected one to be, and so instead he stood with his back pressed against the wall and his arms folded over his chest.

This was the first meeting they had held since relocating to the dining room from the kitchen. It had been set up as a kind of war room, with locked filing cabinets in the corner of the rooms, and the snarling posters of wanted Death Eaters pinned on the wall alongside significantly more normal photos of witches and wizards of interest. On the wall behind the head of the table and high above Albus were a different set of photos - those of the dead.

Motivation, Moody had said, to keep them all fighting the good fight. A reminder, Lupin had said, of all they had lost, and all that was left to lose should they fail.

Smiling pictures of Order members from years gone by gazed down at them, and at their head in the very middle, just visible above Albus’s tall hat, was the photo of Potter that the Daily Prophet had published the day after he’d been taken. Triumph burned in his eyes, even as he winced almost imperceptibly at the wound to his shoulder. Before they’d relocated, it had been pinned to the back of the kitchen door, though Severus had always ignored it. He couldn’t ignore it now. The edges of the page were frayed somewhat, as more than one person had made touching it as they left an almost ritualistic part of drawing the meetings to an end. At least Potter was not forgotten here, though it was of little comfort to the boy.

As the last person entered, the door closed with a snap, and the air fizzed as a strong privacy ward snapped into place. Severus didn’t know why they bothered now, when no nosy children occupied the house, when they had never bothered before. He glanced to his right as someone settled back against the wall next to him, and he was surprised to find Black. This was the first meeting Severus had seen him at since June. The man offered him a grim twitch of his lips and turned his attention to Albus at the head of the table, and Severus ignored him in turn.

At least he wouldn’t have to drag the man out of his bedroom after all.

Severus briefly catalogued who was and wasn’t present. All of the Weasley’s were stood together in the same corner of the room, plus Lee Jordan but sans their matriarch (who was no doubt entertaining her youngest children at home), and the eldest son, who sat at Albus’s side. Shacklebolt had seated himself between Diggle and Moody (he was the person who had likely saved his seat), and Tonks was stood whispering into Lupin’s ear. The man didn’t seem to be listening though. Despite inclining his head downwards to better hear the witch, his eyes were fixed firmly on Black, his lips pressed firmly together.

It would appear that Black’s appearance had taken him by surprise as well. Lupin’s eyes flicked to his and the man gave the slightest smile. Severus nodded in return.

The clearing of a throat silenced the room, and all eyes turned to Albus.

“Good evening everyone,” he began seriously, “Unfortunately I must begin this meeting with some unpleasant news: I have spoken to Robards this evening, and it appears that a left arm has been recovered that has been identified as belonging to Emmeline Vance,” there was a smattering of murmurs and distraught gasps, but Albus spoke above them, “There is evidence to suggest that her arm was removed while she was still alive, but despite this the Auror office are not optimistic and have declared her missing but assumed deceased,”

“If-if she’s dead,” Jones stuttered, her eyes red-rimmed, “Then where’s the rest of her?! Why just chop off her arm?”

Albus hesitated just long enough for Moody to interrupt, “The Aurors are probably expecting the rest of her to pop up at some point - intact or otherwise,” he growled darkly. Next to him, Shacklebolt winced at his phrasing, but nodded his own reluctant agreement.

“Do you mean they’re expecting more body parts?” Asked Johnson, horrified.

“Potentially,” Albus interjected before Moody could continue, “but none of us know for certain. Unfortunately, this is another example of the Death Eaters interjecting terror into the lives of the witches and wizards of this country. This serves as a harsh reminder that while Voldemort has remained fairly quiet since June, he is in no way inactive. Dear Emmeline is one of nearly fifty reports that the Aurors are investigating of people gone missing, and she is not the first to begin to reappear in parts,”

“This is just the beginning still,” Moody reminded them harshly, “The Dark Lord had eleven years to work up to mass terror attacks last time, and he’s more cautious this time round. He’s learnt what rushing in could cost him,” more than one person looked to the photo of Potter pinned on the wall, “He’s recruiting right now. Making sure people know on a person-by-person basis what happens when you oppose him,” his electric blue eye whirled around the room, focussing on each person in turn, “This is the calm before the storm. One day soon, something big will happen, and it will all go to sh*t again. We must all be ready,”

The room was deathly silent. Jones wiped furiously at her face, her expression hardened, but still the corner of her lips trembled.

“Yes,” Albus said finally, “thank you Alastor. You are indeed correct. If we learn any more of what has happened to Emmeline, or if the people responsible are brought to justice, then we shall of course keep the wider Order appraised,” Severus wondered exactly who ‘we’ were, “I know that many of us here were close to her. She shall not go forgotten,” there were a few nods, “Now, we must move onto further news - Tonks?” He gestured to her with an open palm.

Tonks cleared her throat a little and stepped forwards away from the wall, “Right,” looking past her, Severus could see that Lupin hadn’t moved, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his gaze fixed on Black, “We’ve received intelligence that there has been some surveillance of Ollivander’s shop in Diagon Alley. We weren’t sure if it was just broader monitoring of the alley itself and that’s just where the Death Eaters have decided to work form, but Ollivander has reported some suspicious folk poking around his shop as well,”

“And doing what?” Asked Charlie Weasley curiously.

“Asking him pointed questions - about wands, about muggleborns, about You-Know-Who. And being generally threatening,” she added, “Someone tried to capture him as well, but he managed to fight them off,”

A Weasley twin snorted, “I’d maybe have led with the attempted kidnapping,”

Tonks only rolled her eyes at him, “Anyway,” she continued, “the Aurors haven’t caught them and all we know from Ollivander’s description is that they were short and dumpy with a borrowed wand - who knows why that was an important detail - but no one's tried since, and the Aurors have assigned him a security detail of hit wizards who are routinely checking for monitoring spells. Short of putting him in protective custody, which he has refused, there’s not a lot else they can do,” she finished with a shrug.

“Well, we can keep an eye as well,” said the other Weasley twin, nodding to his brother and to Jordan between them, “We’re just down the road from him. We can pop in and sort out an alarm system with him so we can come running if we need to, and we can alert the rest of the Order too,” the other two nodded.

“Me and Bill hang around that way quite a bit as well,” Charlie pointed out, “Might be a good idea,”

“Indeed,” Albus said heavily, “A very good idea,” he said slowly, “I imagine you have a product or two in that joke shop of yours that Ollivander may find useful as well,”

A Weasley twin flashed the shadow of a grin, “Of course - we’re more than happy to donate to a worthy cause,”

Jordan nodded, “The Peruvian Darkness powder might be useful for him to have on hand,”

“Excellent, excellent,” Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard, “It’s decided then. If anyone has anything to add to this matter, I shall direct them to you three then, if that is acceptable? Good, now onto the next piece of business - the Ministry’s proposal of a werewolf registry,” Albus said grimly. Severus felt Black stiffen next to him and heard him hiss through his teeth; he wasn’t the only one grumbling in displeasure.

“Ridiculous,” Arthur Weasley muttered, “As if the werewolf community needed another reason to go running into the arms of You-Know-Who,”

“Robards is grasping at straws,” Shacklebolt admitted in his deep calm voice, “Other than marked Death Eaters, he’s no way of discerning supporters of the Dark Lord from your average wizard. He’s trying to raise confidence in the Auror office - he wants to be seen to be doing something,”

Bill Weasley snorted, “By intensifying the persecution of an already persecuted group in wizarding society? What do you think Remus?”

Lupin looked briefly like a dear in headlights, but recovered quickly, finally looking away from Black, “Well… statistically speaking it's going to identify a swathe of Voldemort’s supporters. At last count, sixty to seventy percent of werewolves were in favour of him,”

“You don’t have to play devil’s advocate against your own interests, Remus” Black said harshly, taking Severus by surprise, “It’s wrong. We all know it’s wrong. As if the Ministry hasn’t done enough to make life difficult for werewolves,” he finished with a mutter.

Lupin offered him a pinched smile, “Yes, Sirius, thank you,” he said, his voice clipped, “I’m well aware that it’s wrong, and I’m certainly not arguing in favour of its implementation. Now if you’d let me finish,” Black said nothing, “I agree with Arthur. Just the mere mention of this register is going to turn more and more desperate werewolves into Voldemort’s arms. And they won’t just be privately supporting him anymore, they’ll be actively joining the likes of Greyback and his ilk and taking up arms against the Ministry. And us,” he added.

“I have tried to dissuade the Minister from putting it into law,” said Albus, tapping his fingers across the surface of the table, “He is currently ‘sitting on it’ as you might say, but rumours of it have already begun to circulate,”

Severus snorted, “Well then,” he said at length, “the Minister’s decision hardly matters at all then, does it?”

“What do you mean?” Said Charlie Weasley.

“The mere whisper of this register will be enough for many werewolves to turn to the Dark Lord - it no longer matters what the Minister actually decides. And once they are within the fold, leaving is not an option,” he said darkly, “You should have done more to keep this quiet, Albus,”

There’s was an immediate rumble around the table in defence of Albus, but he raised a hand to quieten them, “Enough, enough - Severus is not wrong, the damage may already have been done,” Severus eyed the Order members who were still grumbling. Fools, the lot of them, taken in by the air of omnipotence that Albus projected so successfully. The man may have been one of the most brilliant wizards of the age, but none of them had had to stop him from wearing a cursed ring earlier that day, “I shall continue to persuade the Minister against this course of action, and suggest that he puts out a statement vehemently denying it was ever being considered…,”

It was at this point, that Severus stopped listening.

There was a disconcerting feeling growing in his belly, one that had been there ever since the day Lily was killed, but that had been making itself known with more insistence as time went on. If he had to give it a name, he’d have called it disillusionment. He, like so many others, was so used to viewing Albus as a supreme all-knowing figure, that watching his failures had a different kind of impact. It made him question the world around him. It made him question things that had once been certainties: that Albus Dumbledore knew best.

That Albus Dumbledore had a plan.

But he’d said he would protect Lily, and she’d died, and the accomplice to her murder, Peter Pettigrew, had escaped and lived under the man's very nose for years. How had he not known?

Then there was Sirius Black, a man Severus detested (and with good reason) but who had been unfairly confined to Azkaban for twelve years for a crime he did not commit, and with no trail. How had he not known?

And then there was Quirrell. He’d told Severus to keep an eye on him, but had he known that the Dark Lord resided attached to the man? How had he not?!

And then there was the Ginny Weasley and the Chamber of Secrets. And then there was Barty Crouch Junior impersonating Moody for a year. And then there was choosing to leave Potter in ignorance rather than giving him the very information that could have kept him on guard. The information that could have saved him.

How had he not known?!

Severus was gradually coming to a realisation that made him feel cold. Albus Dumbledore did not always know best, and he certainly didn’t always have a plan.

Perhaps it was unfair of him to expect so much of a mere man, but truth be told he had never thought of Albus that way before. It was hard to look into the knowing twinkle in his eye, and not feel taken in by the illusion of authority and control. And Lily Evens’ son was paying for that naïveté. No more though. Severus’s eyes were wide open, and while he still believed in Albus and the Order, he would never close them to the man’s failings again.

His attention was caught once more by the mention of Potter’s name.

“And what about Harry?” Severus found the attention of one of the Weasley twins on him, “How is he?”

Albus interrupted before Severus was forced to think of something to say, “I understand that we are all still concerned for Harry’s well-being,” he said smoothly, “but as much as we love and miss him, we cannot continue to torture ourselves by dwelling upon him constantly. If there are any significant changes, I assure you that you will all be made aware,” the twin wilted somewhat, a frown building at his temple, “If we are to have any hope of rescuing Harry, our focus must be on what we can achieve here and now. I am not saying we are to forget about Harry,” he gestured to the picture of Potter above his head and Severus watched as the image looped, “not at all. But if we are to be of any use to him, we must move forward,”

The twin said nothing, but as the Order slowly filtered out, Severus was sure he could see some of Potter’s school mates exchanging unhappy looks.

“It’s a load of old sh*t, if you ask me,” Severus didn’t jump at the low mutter from Black at his shoulder, but it was a near thing, “He wants us to forget about Harry,” Black continued, his eyes following the Weasley twins as they shuffled out of the room, looping behind Albus to press their fingers to Potter’s photo, “Remus says it's about moral,”

Severus found himself for the second time that day stuck in a mutinous conversation he didn’t want to have, though at least in this one he was not particularly concerned about the repercussions, “It is about moral,” he pointed out quietly, nodding at Minerva as she left, “but yes, I also think he wishes for them to forget about Potter,” Black turned to him, naked surprise on his face, “What?”

He hesitated, “I didn’t expect you to agree with me,” he said, sounding faintly bewildered.

A sneering smile curled at Severus’s lips involuntarily, “Trust me Black, you’re not the only one made uncomfortable by the notion,”

Black said nothing, he only rolled his eyes and worked his way through the crowd and further into the dining room to take a seat next to Lupin. Severus hesitated, eyeing Lupin and Black on one side of the table, and Kingsley and Moody on the other. His knee jerk reaction was to sit as far from Lupin and Black as possible, but something stopped him. He was surprised when it was Potter’s voice that whispered in his ear rather than Lily’s.

‘Whose side are you on really, I wonder?’

Whose side was he on?

“Are you gonna’ stand there all-day Snape?” Moody snapped impatiently.

Severus narrowed his eyes on the ex-Auror, and chose the seat at the end of the table directly opposite Albus, “Do you have somewhere to be, Mad-eye? I was under the impression that you were retired,”

“Thank you, gentleman,” Albus said lightly, stopping Moody before he could growl something in response, “Now is not the time, please,” Moody grumbled and readjusted his robe collar, “As I have already told each of you in turn, we are here this evening to discuss the evolving situation with Harry at Malfoy manor. I have made the decision to withdraw these conversations from regular Order meetings, as I feel they risk acting as a distracting force for other members. As I told Fred, any information that is relevant will be fed back to the wider Order, but for now, discussion of Harry shall remain amongst ourselves,”

“How often?” Lupin said at once, “How often will we be having these meetings?”

“As often as they are necessary,” Albus continued patiently, “Severus shall keep me appraised of the situation and I shall establish from there the frequency of these gatherings,”

“You shall decide?” Black snapped, “You? So, what we do and do not know about Harry shall be decided solely by you?”

“Sirius, I am not trying to hide things from you,” Dumbledore said with the withering tone of a man repeating a well-worn conversation for the millionth time, “but if there has been no change, then it seems pointless to gather like this,”

“It’s not pointless - it will never be pointless,” Black said harshly, but he stopped speaking abruptly and looked away from the headmaster. For a moment Severus thought he had become overwhelmed with emotion, but then he noticed the angle of Lupin’s forearm; he had placed a hand discreetly upon Black’s knee under the table.

“That’s not what I meant, Sirius,” Dumbledore said gently, “but we have a finite amount of time available to us. I would make the most of that time,” Black didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the photo of Potter; Dumbledore sighed, “Right - Severus,” he began, “If you would start us off - how has Harry been?”

Severus cleared his throat, “He has been withdrawn, as to be expected. Narcissa Mafloy has been tasked with keeping him company, but she has reported that they don’t speak much to one another - she has tried but says that he appears uncomfortable and unsure of how to behave around her. He has been somewhat less withdrawn with myself, though has asked me twice whose side I am on, and other than to call me a choice word (that I’m sure Black would agree with), we also have not spoken much,” Black looked up with a confused frown at his name, “The Dark Lord has now resorted to placing the Malfoy boy with him instead in an effort to, ah, galvanise Potter - but I imagine that he will be calling Draco a c*nt by the end of the Christmas holidays as well,”

Where Moody, Shacklebolt and Albus reacted with surprise, Black released a loud bark like laugh, “Harry called you a c*nt?” He asked incredulously, sounding strangely gleeful.

“Well, I was making my best effort to be one in all fairness,” Snape answered dryly.

“I’ve never heard Harry swear like that before,” Lupin muttered to himself, his eyebrows somewhere up near his hair line.

“He’s still got some spirit left in him then?” There was something hopeful in Black’s expression.

Severus hesitated, “I… couldn’t say,” he said reluctantly, “I only see him for less than an hour a day, and I would hesitate to evaluate his mental state on a single outburst,”

Black’s expression fell, but Mad-Eye interrupted anything else he might have had to say, “Never mind the boy’s spirit,” he growled, “We’re not interested in his spirit - we’re interested in his allegiances! How goes Voldemort’s plan to turn him?”

Black reeled back, outraged, “Never mind his-! I thought this was meant to be a meeting to talk about Harry’s wellbeing,” he barked, “Not to immediately throw him to the dogs!”

“Sirius, please,” Lupin cajoled.

“It has only been two weeks, Mad-Eye,” Severus answered cooly, “The Dark Lord may be an especially charming individual, but even he would struggle to change a person’s entire ideology in two weeks,”

“What’s the plan if he does succeed?” Lupin asked quietly, and the table fell suddenly silent. Next to him, Black looked as if he were torn between starting an argument and bursting into tears.

“The cruel reality is, that we must be prepared for the worst,” Albus began firmly, “We love Harry - we all do, but we can’t possibly know how long he will be under Voldemort’s thumb. We must begin making plans to contain Harry if we must, and then to de-programme him and bring him back to himself,” the knot that had been winding itself tighter and tighter in Severus’s gut began to slowly loosen, “Lee Jordan has familial connections with some well-respected mind healers - I will ask him to contact them in order to assist us with creating a plan to enact in order to help Harry,” he’d half expected Dumbledore’s first plan of action to be discussing putting the boy down, “We may end up having to take him out of the country for his own wellbeing. We must be prepared for all eventualities, yes?”

He looked at them each in turn. Severus nodded back to him, then glanced to his side and spotted Black and Lupin’s relieved expressions. Counter intuitively, the knot in his gut began to rewind itself again. He couldn’t help but wonder… Albus had said these conversations may eventually need to happen in Black and Lupin’s absence, to spare them from making difficult decisions.

He glanced back to Albus and noted the ever-present sparkle in his eye, and distrust added itself to his gut. This felt like appeasem*nt - an offering to placate Black and Lupin for as long as possible. He wondered if Albus would even investigate mind-healers.

He glanced between the men on either side of the table - Lupin and Black, and Shacklebolt and Moody. The table felt like a battle line drawn between them. He wondered which side Albus would fall on. He wondered which side he would fall on.

At the head of the table, pinned to the wall, Potter’s eyes stared down at them all.

Chapter 10: Harry: The Adversary

Chapter Text

Harry found himself sitting in a contemplative silence long after Malfoy had left his rooms for the final time that evening. He was going back to Hogwarts tomorrow. He was going back to school, and Harry wasn’t going anywhere. He felt more trapped than he had in over a month. Even though he was a prisoner, he hadn’t particularly felt like one for the week that he and Malfoy had actually been talking to one another. He felt… he felt… he didn’t know how he felt.

The Moirai sat wrapped around his neck. He could tell that she was growing, and quickly too. Her coils were beginning to sag down his back, and her heads now struggled to fit neatly under his ear when they were stacked one on top of the other. He wondered how big she would be when she finished growing. Or perhaps she was like a crocodile, and she would never stop growing as long as she lived.

He could hear her voices murmuring to one another - they were talking about Malfoy. He seemed to be all they spoke about recently.

“He was cruel and emotional,” Atropos hissed. She was right. He had been cruel, and he had certainly been emotional.

“He was afraid and overwhelmed,” Clotho argued, and Harry couldn’t disagree with her either. It had been difficult to look at his face while Harry had been sat crying in the corner of the bathroom. The naked vulnerability looking back at him had made Harry feel, for the first time, that there was someone else as devastated by his situation as he was.

“He made him cry. He is unsuitable,” Lachesis said firmly with a snap of her jaws. He sighed to himself. This was an argument he’d heard repeated more than once, and though Lachesis was meant to be the one to decide their direction, she seemed unable to keep her sister-selves in line.

“But he has been happier this past week. He laughed,” Clotho pointed out, “when the Suitor flicked yellow gloop into the white hairs atop his head. He laughed,” she wasn’t wrong, that had been funny. The shocked look on Malfoy’s face, the custard dripping from his fringe. He almost found himself smiling again but for the other half of her sentence.

Harry breathed out heavily through his nose. The Suitor. They had been referring to Malfoy as that since the moment they had laid eyes on him, and nothing Harry said would dissuade them from the moniker. Other than Atropos that was - instead, she called him -

“The Pretender also made him cry every night for two weeks solid,” she growled.

“He is a poor suit,” Lachesis agreed, “We can find him a better mate than that,”

Harry could sit and listen no longer, “He’s not a Suitor,” he muttered, but he found it difficult to put conviction into his voice. It was a strange and trivial conversation to be having with a snake, and though he had bigger and significantly more pressing concerns, he found himself drawn into it despite himself, “Draco Malfoy is a dick - he was just made to come and keep me company because Voldemort thinks it’ll stop me from losing my mind. He didn’t want to see me, just as much as I didn’t want to see him,” though, that was of course, a lie. He’d asked to see Mafloy, even if it had been in a fit of madness. He did hope Voldemort would let them write to one another though, he found himself thinking anxiously. Malfoy was a dick, but he also made Harry remember who he was supposed to be - that being the antithesis to all things Draco Malfoy.

Clotho nodded enthusiastically, dragging her sister heads forwards to peer up at Harry from his chin, “Yes! A Suitor!”

Harry hesitated, then sighed, “Can you clarify what you mean by suitor?”

Clotho gave a wistful sigh, “A potential mate. To keep warm on cold nights. To breed with and grow eggs with and have hatchlings with. To watch the stars with and hold tails with,” the dreamer indeed.

“Idealistic,” Atropos hissed, “Unrealistic. Foolish. Better mates available. Do not leap at first opportunity, more shall come,” not that she knew it, but that was patently untrue. Other than Snape, Voldemort, and Malfoy’s mother, he sincerely doubted he’d be seeing anyone else at all for the foreseeable future.

Harry ignored her, feeling a little like he had entered the twilight zone, “By your definition, Malfoy can’t be a suitor. We’re both male - we can’t mate, or uh, breed - no babies coming our way or whatever… no eggs I mean. We can’t make eggs together, so no hatchlings either,”

Clotho blinked up at him, her tongue flicking out to taste the air, “Why not?”

Harry opened his mouth, and then decided against explaining the birds and the bees to a snake, “It doesn’t matter, just… just don’t call him that in front of Voldemort. I can’t see it going down well,”

“He is no suitor,” Lachesis growled, “He is unworthy. That is the end of it,”

Clotho fell into a sulking silence, while Atropos gave a satisfied nod, clearly pleased with the conversation’s conclusion, and even though Harry hadn’t wanted to be a part of the discussion in the first place, he couldn’t help but think heavily on it.

He… he really did hope that Voldemort would let them write to one another. Malfoy felt like a totem - a reminder that there existed a world beyond his rooms. A world beyond Voldemort and Death Eaters and pain, and even a world beyond Dumbledore and the Order. In Draco Malfoy, he saw a memory of life before everything had gone wrong. A life when he went to school with Ron and Hermione and all he had to worry about was homework, and when Malfoy himself was his greatest enemy. Malfoy was a tangible reminder of who he was meant to be, rather than the person he was being moulded into, and he was determined to cling onto that image until his dying breath.

“I think I’m going to miss him,” he found himself admitting out loud without meaning to. Atropos offered him a withering glare, Lachesis huffed through her nose, and Clotho sighed dreamily.

“Suitor,” she muttered happily to herself, and Harry immediately regretted opening his mouth.

He was distracted by Tippy popping into existence. She bowed low to the ground, “Harry,” he was sure that the deep bow was to compensate for dropping the ‘master’ from his name as per his request, “would you be liking Tippy to run a bath?” She squeaked, twisting her hands in front of her.

He sighed and nodded. He’d never liked baths before, but something about them now felt ritualistic. Something to look forward to at the end of every day: hot soapy water and the echoing silence of the bathroom cleansing his mind and body both.

Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom with his shirt off, the sound of the bath running behind him, Harry considered his appearance.

It may have been his mind playing tricks on him, but he thought perhaps he looked as if he’d gained weight. His face was less thin, he was sure, and his stomach was beginning to gradually lose its concave appearance. He still looked unwell though: the permanent dark circles under his eyes were still fixed firmly in place, and his lips were so pale as to be barely distinguishable from the rest of his face.

He found his gaze fixing itself on the sunken socket of his left eye. His mind drifted to the book Malfoy had dumped into his lap. He’d told Malfoy that maybe he would try and make his own replacement eye, but he hadn’t really meant it - it had been merely a passing fancy. He hadn’t even half an idea as to how to go about making a muggle prosthetic eye, let alone a magical one. But halfway through the week, when Malfoy had hummed his approval at Harry’s latest attempts at runes, he’d had the briefest flash of surprised triumph in his chest, and for the first time he had begun to seriously entertain the idea of making an attempt.

He had the time - he had more time than he’d ever had in his life. What he lacked were the resources and the skills. Skills he could learn, but the resources? He had a strong suspicion that Voldemort would be overly accommodating when it came to those - except for a wand. He doubted he could do anything to persuade him to give him one of those.

“Harry, sir?” Tippy squeaked, “Your bath is ready,”

He sighed to himself, turning away from the reflection that had been made hazy by the steam filled room.

All he could do was try.

The next morning found Harry stood staring up at the bookcases that lined the room feeling just slightly overwhelmed. Around his neck, the Moirai had followed the direction of his gaze, and had hissed disinterestedly before slithering beneath his collar to enjoy his body heat. He could feel three tongues darting out occasionally and brushing against his skin. He wished he could just bury his head and forget as well.

He bit his lip, contemplating his options, before he cautiously opened his mouth and said, “Tippy?”

The elf appeared with a crack, looking faintly bewildered as if she had never imagined that Harry might call on her, “Yes, Harry?”

“Do you know if there are any books in this room about wandless magic?”

She hesitated, a hand creeping up dangerously towards her ears, “Tippy is not allowed to answer questions,” she reminded him.

Ah, “Right… uh…,” he tried again, “Tippy, please summon any books in this room on wandless magic,”

Tippy’s hand began to lower slowly as a contemplative expression appeared on her face - he could only guess that she was considering whether or not doing as he asked clashed with some pre-existing command. Finally, she nodded, and with a snap of her fingers, two books soared from the shelves and landed one on top of the other on the drawing table. She disappeared with a crack before he could say thank you, as if she were terrified, he might ask her to do something else.

The sight of the books was… disheartening. He’d assumed, incorrectly it appeared, that with the size of the library around him, the selection of available books would be greater. He was even more disappointed, when upon closer inspection, he realised that one of the books she had summoned was the book that Draco himself had showed him about international wizarding schools. He disregarded it immediately and turned to the second book: The Wand and the Spirit: Unshackling the Magic Within.

Well. That sounded more promising.

Harry had barely opened the book in his lap, when he was interrupted by the door opening. A familiar but unwanted face appeared.

“Potter,” Snape greeted cooly as he approached, his eyes fixed intensely on Harry as if he were hunting for something.

“Snape,” Harry answered, mirroring his less than friendly tone as the professor took up his regular armchair; Snape’s lip twitched in displeasure, though Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of his tone, or because Harry had dropped the ‘Professor’ he might normally have used, “Tell me - now that Malfoy is gone, are we resuming our previous routine? You in the morning, then Mrs Malfoy for the rest of the day?”

If Snape was surprised by his chattiness that morning (it was not unusual for him to say nary a word to the man), he didn’t express it, “No,” he said flatly, “It may surprise you to hear, but I am an extraordinarily busy man, and I do not have the time nor the energy to attend to you every morning of the week until the end of time, or until the Dark Lord loses interest in you,” Harry scowled at his scathing tone, “You shall see me once a week, unless the Dark Lord requires more of me,” once a week… the weekends perhaps? That would make the most sense. It would be a useful way to keep track of the days. A derisive snort from Snape took him by surprise, “What on earth are you reading?” Harry glanced down to the book in his lap, “I’m not sure what you’re expecting that book to teach you Potter - it may interest you to know that it’s a favourite of Professor Trelawney’s,” Snape said mockingly, “She assigns it to her NEWT classes, you know,” Harry felt his heart sinking; he flicked the book open and skimmed its contents page. He realised immediately that Snape was right - it was all about meditating to open the readers ‘inner eye’ in order to better divine the future. f*ck. Snape continued to chortle, raising his wand and using it to conjure the diagnostic charts that Harry had become well accustomed to seeing floating above his head, “I never knew you had an interest in such rubbish - though, you’ll be interested to know that you failed your divination OWL,”

Harry felt his interest peaked immediately - Snape knew his OWL results? He ignored it in favour of saying scathingly, “Still a c*nt I see,” Snape flashed his teeth at him in a mean grin, and Harry looked away quickly, fury making his heart race.

He found himself reading the books opening section for something to do other than shouting at the man next to him.

‘For nearly three thousand years, wands have been the cornerstone of European magic, with witches and wizards who are able to perform wandless magic being among the most powerful and skilled of their kind. However, it is this reliance on wand magic that has acted as an obstacle to the wider development of magical disciplines in Europe that do not rely on wand work. For example, divination, occlumency, legilimency, and other skill sets that have no requisite for a wand (such as becoming an animagus) are far less developed in European countries than they are in Sub-Saharan nations, where wands are a relatively recent introduction.’

Harry paused. Actually, this sounded far more relevant than he’d first thought. He read on:

‘There is a perception amongst the wizarding masses, that divination is a branch of magic that one cannot learn without an innate aptitude for the discipline. This author disagrees. This author argues that this innate aptitude, is rather an innate ability to connect with the magical core that exists within each and every witch or wizard. It is through this connection, that a true seer is able to divine the future. The purpose of this book is to help the reader learn meditation techniques that allow them to connect with their magical core, so that they might better utilise the divining techniques available to them in order to gain an insight into future events.’

In fact, this book sounded almost perfect! Maybe… perhaps… he’d have to read it properly, but it certainly sounded useful (if he could teach himself the meditation techniques at least - he’d had little success with emptying his mind to learn occlumency after all).

He had been on the verge of becoming excited, when he realised that Snape had been sitting, staring at him in silence. He looked up, and found that Snape wasn’t actually looking at him, but rather at the gold cloud above his head, and the black force that snaked through it. He swallowed at the sight of his magical core. That didn’t look good.

“What’s wrong with it?

“It’s still split,” Snape muttered, “But… if that were truly the case, I’d have expected you to be a drooling mess on the floor by now,”

“Right. You gonna’ do anything about it?”

Snape scowled at him, and pushed himself to his feet, “I do not answer to you,” he reminded him coldly. He left without another word.

“The Deceiver tells the truth,” Lachesis muttered sleepily under his clothes. Harry didn’t ask her to clarify which bit she was referring to; he hadn’t particular thought he was lying about any of it, but it was nice to know that even when she was half asleep, she was looking out for him.

Harry took the briefest moment to consider whether or not he should be concerned by what Snape had said. He quickly came down on the side of ‘not’ - he couldn’t do anything about it and being a ‘drooling mess’ sounded like something he wouldn’t be particularly aware of even if it did happen. In fact, in many ways it sounded more appealing than his current experience of the world. It sounded like it wouldn’t hurt at least.

He tucked the thought away for another time and stood. For the first time in weeks, he felt apathy give way to motivation - a motivation to learn. Returning the unhelpful book on wizarding schools, and pulling out the book on prosthetics, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Hermione felt all the time. He felt the smallest twinge of sadness thinking about her, but he ignored it. It would do him no good to dwell on it. It wasn’t as if Hermione would know how much time he did or didn’t spend thinking about her and Ron.

With Calderon’s book in his hands, Harry dropped himself back onto the sofa. He reached out a hand to snag a slice of toast (Tippy must have appeared when he’d been distracted) and turned the book to the section that had been occupying his thoughts for the last week.

The diagram of an eye stared back up at him, before it blinked and whirled around madly.

He found himself cringing internally.

All he could think of was what Malfoy had said when he’d dumped the book on him in the first place - he didn’t want to look like Moody. He didn’t want to have an eye that whirled around in all directions and drew attention to him. He wanted… he wanted to look how he had before, he thought sadly to himself, but he was beginning to think that that was impossible.

He skimmed the page in front of him, a feeling building in the back of his throat like he might burst into tears at any moment, when his eye caught on a sentence:

‘In recent times, The Wednesday System has been the prosthesis of choice for the civilian population. Unlike the Polyphemus system, this replacement is bound to the wearer’s magical signature and can therefore only be removed by the wearer. Though this prosthesis does not have an extraordinary range of movement or penetration like the Polyphemus System, it is significantly more comfortable for the wearer, and is a more covert choice for those wishing to avoid drawing attention to their prosthetic. For more information on The Wednesday System, and detailed construction information, turn to page 362.’

Harry flipped eagerly to the detailed page, and relief flooded his chest at the image in front of him: an ordinary, if somewhat vibrantly blue eye stared back at him, blinking occasionally and darting about the page, but never moving beyond what he would have considered a normal range of movement. For the first time in weeks, Harry felt a genuine smile threaten at the corner of his lips.

It was interrupted immediately however, by a knock on his bedroom door.

Narcissa Malfoy entered after a polite pause. Her eyes found his immediately, and her expression fell into a familiar polite smile as she progressed further into the room. He thought she looked paler than she had before, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Good afternoon, Mister Potter,” she greeted cordially; her gaze suddenly shifted to the book in his lap and her eyes flashed in surprise, “Oh - you’re reading,”

“I’m sorry,” Harry found himself blurting out abruptly; she froze, “I… I’m sorry you were being hurt. Because of me,” he broke their shared gaze to stare down at the book in his lap, “I don’t want you to be hurt because of me,”

For a moment there was silence between them, and then the hesitant shuffle of her heels against the carpet as she stepped closer, “That’s kind of you,” she said gently, taking him be surprise as she lowered herself carefully down to the opposite end of the sofa, “but it’s not your fault, Mister Potter,”

Harry nodded at the book in his hands, “You can call me Harry,” he muttered.

“Well then it’s only fair that you call me Narcissa,” she said primly; he glanced up and found a strained smile on her face. It was a stupid thing to say really. He’d never once used her name, first or second, “Now, will you tell me what you’re reading?” He lifted the book to show her the diagram he had been staring down at and her expression froze, “Oh,”

“Malf- uh, Draco,” it felt ridiculous to refer to her son by their shared surname, “showed it to me. Well - shoved it in my face really,” her face turned pained, and he hurried to continue, “It’s… it’s amazing really, I guess. The things that can be built to uh… y’know…,” he finished in a mutter. He wondered if Malfoy had told her exactly how he’d been introduced to the book in his lap.

“I see…,” she said at length, “Were you… hoping to acquire one?”

Harry snorted, “I doubt Voldemort would-,” he ignored her flinch, “- be persuaded to get me one. But… Draco suggested learning to make my own. He was helping me practice the relevant runes before he left,” he nodded in the direction of the parchment on the drawing table, “Not that it’s much use I guess,” he admitted with a shrug, “I’d need all of this to even get started,”

“May I see?” she accepted the book and ran her finger down the list of components and instruments required, “Many of these tools require magic to work,” she said hesitantly, as if afraid of bursting his bubble.

He shrugged, “I know. Draco mentioned wandless magic. It’s probably a pipe dream but…,” he shrugged again, more weakly, “I’ve got nothing else to do with my time,”

She nodded slowly, tracing a finger across the diagram of an eye in front of her, “Draco mentioned something about you writing to one another during term time?”

Harry swallowed to temper his own eagerness, “Yeah - I… if we were allowed to. S’nice to speak to someone from before,” he mumbled.

“Even Draco?” She said, a hint of humour in her voice as she cast a knowing look in his direction.

“I… I’m not quite so afraid of him,” he admitted, and she lost her smile immediately, his implication clear: that he was afraid of everyone else.

“I see… well Harry, it may mean nothing, but I wish to assure you that you have nothing to fear from me,” Harry nodded. She was right, it didn’t mean much, “I brought these with me,” she reached into her pocket and pulled free a wad of rolled up parchment and a quill with ink, “I shall have to ask the Dark Lord’s permission for you and Draco to exchange letters, but if he agrees then you should use this parchment. It’s charmed so that only the writer and recipient can read it - Draco and I have used it for years,” she hesitated, “I don’t want to get your hopes up…,” she cautioned.

“Yeah, no, I understand,” he said quickly, reaching out and accepting the parchment and quill eagerly.

“The Dark Lord will be visiting tomorrow,” Harry ignored the familiar anxious twist in his gut, “I shall ask the question on your behalf, and should he agree, I’ll send your letter along with my own. Is that acceptable?”

He nodded, flashing her his best attempt at a grateful smile, “Yeah - thank you,”

She clapped her hands together, “Right then,” she pushed the book from her lap and closed it with a snap, “Shall we have some lunch?”

Calling their silence as they ate comfortable would have been a gross exaggeration, but he certainly felt less awkward around Malfoy’s mother than he had before. Judging by the way that Narcissa gradually stopped compulsively readjusting her skirt as she finished her sandwiches, he’d have said that she felt less tense too.

“So,” Narcissa said once their plates had been vanished by Tippy, “tell me about this book Draco found,”

“Oh, uh, if you like…. I know its probably a waste of time,” he muttered, pulling the book closer and flicking it open to the relevant page, “I’d need all kinds of things to even get started, like uh… like a torch and this thing….” He tapped a drawing to indicate the ‘thing’ he was referring to, “this tool that spins to grind or polish the glass depending on what attachment you use. Though… both of those would need magic to work,” he admitted, his heart sinking, “And I’d need the right kind of glass as well to make one of these, rather than the kind that Mad-Eye wears,” he flicked between the diagram of The Prometheus System to The Wednesday system.

“What’s the difference?” Narcissa prompted, and Harry found himself leaping into a lengthy explanation of all that he’d learnt already.

“Kind,” Clotho muttered into his ear as Narcissa listened to him patiently, his speech varying between being halting and nervous, and overly verbose and enthusiastic as he found something like obsession settling into his bones. He felt like he had when Sirius had planted the idea of them living together in his head at the end of third year; plans formed quickly and took root deep in his heart. He knew he’d only be disappointed when it was all ripped out again, but he hadn’t felt anything approaching happiness in so long that it was difficult not to indulge himself, “The Mother is kind,” Clotho said with a yawn.

The Mother. The Deceiver. The Suitor. Harry couldn’t help but note the reductionist nature of the nicknames they assigned the people who came into Harry’s new life. He wondered what they called him?

When he asked the question later, lying in bed long after Narcissa had left and he’d had his usual bath, Lachesis had looked at him, tasted the air, and simply said, “Ours.”

He’s being half dragged, stumbling and falling occasionally, his knees and palms digging into tiny, painful stones. There’s a hand twisted in his shirt, pulling him up and onwards. He hears a chuckle.

“Come along little bird, the Dark Lord wants us outside,” he tries to peer up at the slick voice but finds himself being jerked onwards, “Hush now, don’t cry - we’ll go inside again soon,” he shudders at the feeling of a hand stroking his cheek and tries to flinch away. The owner of the hand laughs and pays him no mind.

Suddenly, they’re stopping, and Harry finds himself half collapsed against someone’s leg. He tries to lean away but the spinning in his head has him nearly toppling over. He’s encouraged back against the leg by a hand fisted in his hair. The hand releases him, and he feels something (a thumb, he thinks) pressed first against his lips and then into his mouth for a moment. He doesn’t even have time to gag against the taste of it before its being removed again.

“Control yourself, Mulciber,” says a high piercing voice. A voice Harry knows.

“Yes, my Lord,” the voice above him says demurely.

Harry feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickling: someone is looking at him. He peers over his shoulder, but it's mostly pointless. He can just about make out a face turned in his direction, and what he thinks might be blonde hair, but that’s it.

An involuntary gasp of alarm escapes him when he’s roughly pulled by the collar of his shirt to make him face forward again, “Watch little bird, you’re meant to look,” a hand pets his cheek but leaves his mouth alone.

He can see the blurry outline of a great house, and hedges on either side of him. He can hear the high piercing voice again, but he can’t tell what’s being said. He glances up dizzily at the sudden burst of gold that streaks through the air and spreads outwards towards the house, settling over it like a blanket. He hears gasps around him as the gold dissipates into nothing, leaving the blur of the house in its wake, unchanged as far as Harry can tell.

He swallows back a sudden feeling of nausea.

“Amazing,” he hears from above him, “Gone - poof! Just like that,”

“And with this, my loyal followers, only those who have been deemed trustworthy shall be able to find us. For those of you gathered here, I say this: Lord Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters may be found at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire,” he hears a chuckle, and the voice adds, “What a lair of death and vipers we have made, don’t you think, Lucius?”

Harry awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest and his fingers trembling faintly. Snuggled under his shirt, the Moirai slept on. He carefully pushed himself to a sitting position, cradling the snake to stop her from dropping like a stone into his nap. He licked his top lip and tried to control his breathing.

He supposed he should be grateful that he hadn’t had more nightmares, though he was surprised that it was this that his subconscious had chosen to dredge up, and not the torture or the-

He clamped down on the thought immediately, screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath. No. No, he couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t. He refused. He’d blocked it out for a reason, and it benefitted no one to dwell on it now.

“You are frightened, what is wrong?” A sleepy voice hissed; three pairs of eyes gazed up at him. He couldn’t be sure who had spoken, but he supposed it didn’t matter.

He released a shaky breath, “Nothing,” he assured her, “Nothing is wrong,”

“Liar,” Atropos half-growled. Harry ignored her, pressing a palm to his chest as he willed his heart to calm down.

It was only then that he realised that something was slightly different about his room - he frowned, glancing about as he tried to figure out what. He had been about to reach for his glasses when he realised what it was: being the dead of winter, he had been waking before the sun rose, and going to sleep long after it had set. Now, for the first time, he could see the glow of the dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains and pooling on the carpet below the window.

Without meaning to, he’d slept in. Not for the first time, he longed for a watch. Being unable to tell the time was becoming singularly disorientating.

He was pulled from his grumbling by a pop, and a familiar, blurry figure appearing at the end of his bed.

“M-master Harry,” his heart sank at Tippy’s trembling voice, “Y-y-you must b-be g-g-getting dressed!!” She stuttered in an alarmed squeak, “The D-Dark Lord has arrived in the house!”

Harry breathed heavily through his nose to suppress the knee-jerk flash of alarm in his belly, “Well f*ck,” he said flatly, before he leapt clean from the bed. The snake curled in his arms grumbled in displeasure, squeezing around his forearm to stop him from accidentally dislodging her. She reluctantly allowed him to deposit her on the dressing table so that he could throw the stiff, black robes that Tippy had summoned for him over his head. He ignored her furious swearing as she jostled around his shoulders as he rushed from the room to brush his teeth.

His heart nearly stopped in his chest when, upon exiting the bathroom, he found that the Lord Voldemort was already seated on the sofa with his back to the crackling fire. Red eyes narrowed on him, and pale lips spread into something that resembled a pleased smile. The Moirai peaked over his shoulder, and her mutters of displeasure fell abruptly silent.

“Ah,” Voldemort said as a slow exhale, “Harry. You are up late this morning, I hear,”

Harry swallowed dryly and carefully straightened himself, holding his head up high, “Yes, my Lord - sorry, I didn’t mean to,” it was only now that Harry realised that three weeks with Malfoy had made him forget what it was to be constantly afraid. It was like putting a painful pair of shoes back on and finding your blisters burnt a thousand times more. He tried to settle himself back into the feeling, to saturate himself in it so that he no longer noticed the chill in his gut.

Voldemort waved away his apology, “Nonsense Harry, I’m glad you are sleeping more soundly,” he curled his finger and beckoned Harry closed, “Come, sit with me and have some breakfast. Severus tells me you are gaining weight - this is excellent, but we have a long way to go,”

Harry approached, breathing carefully through his nose as fear settled back into his bones as if it had never left. He took a seat on the sofa, carefully choosing a spot close enough to the Dark Lord that it wouldn’t look as if Harry was deliberately avoiding any proximity to the man. He imagined he would only be asked to shuffle closer if he did. Spotting the toast rack on the coffee table, he leant closer and picked a slice (his fingers missed on the first attempt) and bit into it, breathing carefully and deliberately through his nose. Next to him, Voldemort reached for a cup of tea and blew across its surface. He took a sip, the sound of him swallowing making the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

It made him almost wish Malfoy wouldn’t come back. He’d been a balm to the constant terror in Harry’s life, but in doing so he had obliterated any tolerance Harry had built up against the feeling.

Harry barely suppressed a flinch when Voldemort spoke again, “Tell me, Harry, how have you and young Draco been getting on?”

He should lie, Harry thought, to protect Draco and his mother, but he doubted he could do it well enough to convince the Dark Lard: half-truths and understatements it was then, “We didn’t get on to begin with,” he said carefully, “or much towards the end. But seeing him made me feel a bit more normal. Less… less afraid,”

Voldemort’s lips twitched in a smile, and he leant forwards to snag his own slice of toast, pausing to butter it in a display that made him appear painfully human. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of the manipulation - a performance to make Harry see him as just any other man. He couldn’t tell if it was working, but he imagined he wouldn’t until it was too late.

He’d heard once that placebos sometimes worked even when you knew they were a placebo: perhaps this would work in the same way.

“That’s wonderful to hear, Harry. I had hoped he would have that effect on you. I understand from Narcissa that you have asked to write to him while he’s away at school?”

“Y-yes please,” Voldemort glanced at him out of the corner of his red-eye, “my Lord,” Harry added quickly.

Voldemort settled back in his seat, but didn’t bite into his slice of toast, “I have considered the suggestion at length, and have decided that you have permission to communicate with Draco, though I ask that you do not try to post anything that you believe would displease me. I shall not bother with specifics,” he said dismissively, “You are a clever boy. You do not need me to tell you that attempting to persuade Draco to pass letters onto the Order would not go unnoticed, and would result in the privileges that have been extended to you being revoked,” his gaze turned suddenly hard, and Harry felt it like a slither of ice in his chest, “Am I understood?”

Harry could practically feel cold stone under his hands again.

He swallowed heavily, “Yes, my Lord,”

His eyes fixed on Harry, the Dark Lord took a bite from the slice of toast and chewed it slowly, his eyes never wavering once. Harry didn’t know what the test was, but he knew that if he dropped his gaze, it would be considered failed. Finally, he swallowed and said, “Excellent,” he exchanged the toast for tea, “Eat your breakfast Harry, before it grows cold,” Harry obeyed him without a second thought, “Narcissa also mentioned you had discovered a book of some interest to you,” Harry froze, “A book that provides details on manufacturing prosthetic eyes,”

Harry rushed to swallow his toast, and nodded, “Yes, my Lord,”

“Fetch it for me,” Harry did as he was told, and didn’t miss how Clotho nervously nudged her nose into his throat, seeking and giving comfort in equal measure. Voldemort hummed to himself as he accepted the enormous book, opening it with a tap of his finger on its cover; it opened obediently to the correct page. He considered the diagram in front of him with detached interest, “The creation of such an object would require magic, I am sure you realise Harry,” red eyes flicked up to him.

Harry nodded, “Y-yeah…,” he muttered, “I-… I thought maybe I could learn to… to do some of it wandlessly,” Voldemort raised a single eyebrow, “It would give me something to focus on, at least,”

Voldemort chuckled to himself and shook in his health, “Indeed,” he said, a mockingly indulgent edge to the word; he shut the book with a snap and set it to one side, “You know, I’m surprised Harry - you haven’t asked what I’ve been doing over the holidays. I haven’t visited you in weeks. As your host, some would say this rude of me,”

Harry didn’t need to be prompted further, “What have you been doing over the Christmas holidays?”

“I’ve been meeting with the werewolf communities in Great Britain, Harry,” well, that wasn’t an answer he had been expecting; Voldemort chuckled, “I have surprised you, Harry,”

“I… I find it difficult to believe that you like werewolves. Or care for them,” Harry admitted reluctantly, “Most wizards seem to have something against them. Are prejudiced against them. Remus can barely get a job,”

Harry was beginning to hate the sound of the Dark Lord laughing at him, “Oh, Harry, I am no fonder of werewolves than I am of mudbloods. But unlike most, I believe that werewolves have a place in wizarding society. Even if it is not a place they would like, most would be better off under my regime, if not all. Even your friend Lupin. Wormtail has told me all about him, you know. Destitute, homeless at times. In my world, he would have a place - a protected place,” he emphasised, “I wonder if Dumbledore can claim that,”

“Dumbledore has always tried to help Remus out,” Harry found himself saying defensively.

“Has he, Harry? Has he really? How?”

“He gave him a job at Hogwarts,”

“And how did that go?” Harry didn’t answer, “Exactly. He was thrown out, and his true nature exposed, I understand. Dumbledore has an unbelievable amount of influence within the legislative branches of our government, you know? All you need to do is open a chocolate frog to read his many titles: Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock. And not once has he used this influence to try and make life better for your friend Remus. Instead, he prefers to keep him beholden to him. He’s not the only one, you know,”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “What… what do you mean?”

“Well, let's take Rubeus Hagrid, for one,” the Dark Lord folded his hands in his lap, “A man expelled from Hogwarts for a crime he did not commit. A man banned from performing magic for a crime he did not commit as a mere teenager,” he tilted his head, his eyes fixed on Harry, “Even then, all those years ago, Dumbledore had influence. And yet at no time did he try and reverse the Ministry’s decision, even years later when Hagrid had been exonerated,”

“Exonerated for a crime that you committed,” Harry pointed out through his teeth.

Voldemort ignored him, “Is it right, I wonder, that a wizard should be permanently outlawed from performing magic due to being expelled from school? His wand was snapped, and he is barred from purchasing a new one and owning it legally in this country. For a crime committed when he was under-age, that he wasn’t even guilty of. It is something you yourself could have been the victim of,” he added, reclining in his seat with half a smile, “and you’d have been guilty, at least,”

“Yeah, but… but Dumbledore helped me,”

“And why didn’t he help Hagrid?” Voldemort said immediately; Harry had no answer, “Because you held value to him. But Hagrid?” He shook his head and clicked his tongue, “Now, Hagrid’s value is as an indentured servant. He sees Albus Dumbledore as his saviour, providing him with a home when no one else would, but never stopping to consider what Dumbledore could have done for him if he’d only cared that little bit more. I imagine that Lupin see’s Dumbledore in much the same way,” Voldemort continued mildly.

”It’s not like that,” Harry interrupted desperately, “Albus Dumbledore is a good man!”

Voldemort turned a pitying gaze in his direction, “Oh, Harry,” he said gently, “Do not be so naive,” he paused, simply considering Harry, before he continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken, “And no doubt there are more. More members of marginalised groups who see the headmaster as their salvation while never wondering about the good the man could have done for them if he had simply utilised his influence,”

“Why were you seeing the werewolves?” Harry snapped, hating that he could think of no defence for the headmaster. Voldemort was deliberately misconstruing the situation, he was sure. He was manipulating the story to make Dumbledore the villain. He had no doubt he was leaving out swathes of contextual information that would reveal what he was sure would be reasonable explanations for Dumbledore’s actions. There had to be explanations, he thought desperately.

“There have been credible rumours that the Ministry are introducing a werewolf register,” Harry felt as if a bucket of ice-water had been poured over him, “The rationale being that werewolves are automatically my supporters, which I’m sure you are well aware is not the truth. Werewolves that are found to be unregistered risk Azkaban. I have been assuring them that, should they wish, they would find safety amongst my ranks,”

“And reinforce the perception that all werewolves support you,” Harry pointed out weakly.

Voldemort only shrugged and smiled, “Can you blame them, when the Ministry are pushing them so firmly into my arms?” Harry swallowed, and there was silence between them for a long moment, before Voldemort said casually, “It does make one wonder what Albus Dumbledore, with his overwhelming wealth of influence, is doing to protect the werewolves of this country, including Remus Lupin, from this fresh wave of lawfully enforced bigotry.

“You’re not wrong Harry - werewolves would be second class citizens in the world I wish to build,” Voldemort admitted, “but surely that would be a step up from vermin,”

Harry felt sick. All he could do was look back at the Dark Lord, watching as his red eyes appraised him, flicking from his eye to his empty socket. He didn’t know what to say. Was there anything to say?

Finally, the Dark Lord sniffed deeply, and said, “Food for thought,” and pushed himself to his feet; he offered Harry a cold smile, “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast Harry,” and he left.

Harry felt as if a bomb had been dropped nearby, leaving him shell-shocked. He wanted to scream and cry in equal measure but wasn’t quite sure why.

Voldemort was wrong. Dumbledore wasn’t like that. He was a good man - he did his best for Remus and Hagrid. He must have done. Why would he let them suffer? People he counted as friends? Harry refused to believe it. No. He couldn’t say for certain that Voldemort wasn’t telling the truth in some capacity but- no. That wasn’t true, actually. He could.

“Lachesis?” He whispered, “Clotho? Atropos?”

Three heads popped up curiously from within his collar. It was Lachesis who answered, “Yes, my own?”

He swallowed, “Was he being truthful?”

She paused, considering him, then nodded, “The Adversary tells the truth,” And Harry felt like he really might vomit. The Adversary. How fitting.

There had to be more to it, he thought determinedly. There had to be. Otherwise… otherwise what was the point? What were they all fighting for?

He needed something to distract himself with. Something to stop him from crying before Narcissa came for lunch. If he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop, and he wasn’t prepared to explain to Malfoy’s mother why he was sobbing in the corner.

He cast about for something to do, and his eye caught on the parchment on the drawing table. Malfoy’s face flashed in his mind's eye.

Well. He had permission, and it would certainly distract him.

He took a deep steadying breath and pushed himself to his feet. He settled gingerly into the desk’s chair, eyeing the snakes wrapped around the legs, and unrolled a sheet of parchment. He dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to write.

Chapter 11: Harry: Letters

Chapter Text

Malfoy,

Hi.

To be honest, I don’t think I actually thought it through when I asked if we could write to one another. I’ve been sat staring at this roll of parchment for ages debating how to even start it - ‘Dear Malfoy’ or ‘to Malfoy’ or hell, should I be using your first name now? If I mention you to your mother, I call you ‘Draco’ because it seems bizarre to speak to her about you using your surname. But just saying ‘Draco’ out loud gives me hives.

This is stupid. Even just this short paragraph has taken me a ridiculous amount of time to write and more than once I thought about giving up (I might have crumpled this letter into a ball a few times - sorry). Half a year ago, I’d never have believed that I’d be writing to you, and that it wasn’t some kind of twisted punishment for putting itching powder in your pants.

Anyway. I should probably actually write something that makes sense rather than this rambling mess.

Your mum has started coming to see me again. I won’t lie, it’s still all kinds of strange, but I think it’s becoming less so… maybe. Either way, I wanted to tell you that you don’t need to worry about me stopping eating or - I don’t quite know how to phrase it? Going back inside again? If that makes sense. Anyway. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she doesn’t get hurt because of me.

So… I honestly don’t know what else I’m meant to write, so I’ll stop there, I guess.

Harry.

9^th of January 1997

Potter,

I’m going to ignore your near unintelligible rambling and presume you don’t actually require a response to the existential crisis you appear to be experiencing over writing to me. I would say though, that if you could avoid screwing up your letters in the future, I would be most grateful. Trying to read your chicken scratch when the ink has bled into the folds of the parchment is nigh impossible.

That being said: if we’re going to be ‘pen-pals’ or whatever it is that you had in mind when you asked if we could exchange letters, they are going to need something that resembles substance to them. I am an excellent conversationalist, but even I would struggle to find something to say in response to your first attempt. Surely you have exchanged letters with Weasley or Granger in the past?

You could start by telling me about your day. Or asking me questions about my day. That’s how conversations normally go: questions and responses. Or at least that was my understanding of the concept, but what do I know?

I’ll start, shall I?

Hello Potter, what’s new since we saw each other last?

Now you answer. Understand?

Regards,

Draco.

P.S Thank you for trying to look out for mother.

Harry closed his eye and prayed for patience. He didn’t know why he was surprised that Malfoy was using these letters as an opportunity to try his hands at being a prick in a new medium. It was completely on brand. Malfoy might not have wanted Harry to be a prisoner in his home, but he was still a dickhe*d at his core.

He shook his head. Whatever. Never mind. Maybe it was a good thing that Malfoy was being as abrasive as ever. That was what he needed right? Something to keep him grounded in who he was at his core. Who he was before all this.

He leant over the drawing table, his quill hovering just above the parchment, considering. He moved only after a drip of ink had blotted the edge of the page. He wrote Malfoy’s name carefully, then stopped, appraising the letters. His handwriting wasn’t that bad, was it?

He was distracted by the sound of furious hissing below him.

“Speak to me, scoundrel!” He rolled his eye at the familiar crackling, hissing voice. He peered over the side of the desk and found The Moirai wrapped around the leg of the table. Lachesis was frowning, as much as a snake could frown, Clotho looked bored, and Atropos was baring her fangs furiously at the small snake that had been carved into the wood. Small, yes, but still only slightly smaller than the Moirai, “Speak! Or I shall strike!!” Atropos demanded.

Harry sighed to himself, carefully reached out a hand, and pulled her free of the table leg, “It’s not a real snake, Atropos,” he said impatiently, draping the protesting snake around his shoulders, “It’s made of wood,”

Atropos continued to grumble, “Should have left me. It is a matter of honour!”

Harry ignored her, re-reading Malfoy’s letter as he considered how to respond.

Stupid snake, he found himself thinking fondly.

Mafloy,

You are such a prick. I don’t understand how you manage to be more irritating through letters, than in person. I swear, it's like you’re in the room with me just wittering away in my ear. And my handwriting isn’t that bad! Not all of us were privileged enough to have calligraphy lessons, you know.

To answer your question: nothing is new with me since we last saw one another, because I’m a prisoner locked in your home. Remember? It’s a wonder you did so well in school if you can’t even figure that out.

Though I did see the DL again. He came for breakfast. It was weird and a bit terrifying. I hate when he comes to visit. He always has some lecture or story in the bag to use to try and mess with my head. Just when I think I’ve adjusted, he throws me some curve ball to make me question everything.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain though - he did give permission for us to write to one another after all. He pretty much said we can write about whatever we want unless we think it will ‘displease’ him. He didn’t actually specify what topics were off limits though (no doubt to keep me on edge) but he did heavily imply the consequences of upsetting him (to me, not you or your mother, don’t worry).

How about you then? What’s new with you? Or is your life as dull and repetitive as mine is?

Harry

P.S I need you to know that I’m laughing at you signing ‘regards’ like you’re sending some formal address to a business associate or something. Sixteen going on sixty much.

14^th of January 1997

Potter,

f*ck you, just because you don’t know how to properly write a letter, don’t take it out on me. For example, you’re meant to start them with the date at the top. If you look just slightly further north, you’ll find an excellent example of this. And I did not have calligraphy classes, I simply have exceptionally beautiful handwriting.

Also: are you seriously shortening ‘The Dark Lord’ down the ‘the DL’? It took me a ridiculously long time to try and figure out what that stood for - I was on the verge of asking Pansy’s opinion, which would have opened a can of worms I’d rather not touch.

And dare I ask what you mean by the Dark Lord ‘messing with your head’? Do I want to know or does this fall under the blanket of things that would displease him. I’d rather not invoke his ire, I’m sure you understand.

Rgds.

Draco

Malfoy,

It might surprise you, but it turns out that I can’t put the date at the top because I don’t know the f*cking date you insensitive prick. Do I need to keep reminding you that I’m a prisoner? I hope not or these letters are going to get old really very quickly.

And you are more than welcome to write ‘The Dark Lord’ anytime you want to reference him, but I won’t. I don’t know how often he’s going to come up in conversation but considering he’s my kidnapper I’d hazard a guess at ‘fairly often’. I’m not writing his name out in full every time. But I promise to provide a key at the bottom of the letter for any future abbreviations. Happy?

By messing with my head, I mean he keeps bringing up things that have happened or are happening and using them to try and persuade me to join him. Or at the very least see his point of view, I think? Like questioning me about my relatives, or about what’s happening to werewolves, and what happened to Hagrid. It makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Can I ask you questions? Will you tell me what’s going on at school? Hogwarts was the first place that ever felt like home to me. What have I missed? And who’s the new DADA teacher? Also, side note, what happened to Umbridge?

Harry

P.S DADA stands for Defence Against the Dark Arts incase you needed that one spelling out for you, you wanker.

22^nd of January 1997

Potter,

I had not considered that you might not know the date. I reluctantly apologise.

Also, if we’re going to be particular about it, what you should actually do is write out his name in full the first time you use it, and then add the abbreviation in brackets afterwards. To demonstrate: The Dark Lord (DL). Understand?

Re: your conversations with the Dark Lord. I’m sure you can appreciate why I too may feel less than comfortable in commenting on them. While I have never had any concerns that these letters could be read by anyone but myself (and you, obviously), I refuse to put anything in writing that might be misconstrued as me criticising the Dark Lord. You would be wise to exercise a similar restraint.

As for the DADA position (and no, I didn’t need that explaining, thank you) - Snape finally got it. I admit I would have dropped the subject had I known in advance who the lecturer would be. He is (for obvious reasons) well versed on the topic, but I find myself uncomfortable in his presence. My Aunt Bella says he’s a spy for the Dark Lord, but that Dumbledore believes he’s his man. I find either scenario unsettling. If he is the Dark Lord’s man, then I do not wish to cross him. If he is Dumbledore’s man, then I find myself even more concerned over making him my enemy, if he is sly enough to hoodwink the Dark Lord. Regardless: he is dangerous.

Umbridge was eventually retrieved from the forest and was kept in the hospital wing for days. She refused to disclose what had happened while she was unaccounted for, but the forbidden forest is now ‘extra forbidden’. I am not sure that Dumbledore quite understands the definition of the word ‘forbidden’. The ‘extra’ seem redundant.

You say you want to hear about Hogwarts, but does that mean you wish to hear about your friends? Would that not come under the list of things the Dark Lord would be ‘displeased’ with? As for my opinion in regard to opposing his will, please refer to the first paragraph of this letter.

Rgds.

Draco

Harry ignored the golden, swirling cloud above his head. It was more difficult to ignore the sinister black element that wound its way through it, but he persevered. He was more interested in staring at the man opposite him anyway.

Severus Snape had barely spoken to him that morning, but that was fine. Harry had no interest in speaking to him either. It only ended in sneers and cutting remarks.

What was it about this man that had Voldemort and Dumbledore alike placing such explicit trust in him? What was it that they knew that he didn’t? What it was that they each thought they knew, that the other didn’t?

He was brought back to earth by the flickering of the golden light above him, and its abrupt disappearance.

He spoke only when it was clear that Snape wouldn’t, “Well… nothing to say?”

“You’ve gained more weight, and your cortisol levels are declining, but the integrity of your magical core still leaves much to be desired. Sudden cardiac death is still a very real possibility,” the man said blandly, as if he could think of nothing that interested him less than Harry’s wellbeing.

“The integrity of my magical core?” Harry probed with interest, “It didn’t look much different to me,”

Snape scowled at him, “And what expertise around magical cores do you have?” He said coldly, pushing himself to his feet.

Harry snorted, “What expertise do you have? You’re a bloody teacher! And a sh*t one at that,”

Snape simply looked at him, his cold, tunnel like gaze practically boring its way into Harry’s eye, “The Dark Lord may want you alive, Potter, but never forget that there are many ways that I could make your life a living hell without killing you,”

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone and fear had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He pressed himself back into his seat. Malfoy wasn’t the only one who’s skin crawled in the presence of the other man it seemed.

Was this an act? If it was, it was a convincing one.

“Our own? You are afraid?” The soft hiss from beneath his robes caught his attention. Three heads pushed curiously up and out of his collar. Her middle was so thick now that she couldn’t force her way out without a particularly tight squeeze that nearly caught Harry’s breath in his throat. While Clotho and Lachesis considered him with concerned interest, Atropos turned her focus and her fangs in Snape’s direction.

“The Deceiver,” she growled.

Harry didn’t miss the nervous twitch at the corner of Snape’s mouth.

“Not a fan of snakes?” Harry muttered, “That’s a surprise. I thought you Slytherin’s all loved them,”

Snape bared his teeth for the briefest moment, before he snorted in derisive laughter, “Ah, Potter. Still such a child. We are not in Hogwarts anymore,” he took a pacing step forwards, and Harry flinched away without meaning to; a pleased, cruel smile spread across Snape’s lips.

“No, we’re not,” Harry agreed with a gasp, “I can’t help but wonder where your loyalties truly lie though - have you really been pulling the wool over Dumbledore’s eyes all these years?”

The smile on Snape’s lips twisted into a sneer, “One day, Potter, I shall tell you all, but don’t think for a moment that the answer will bring you any peace,” and he swept from the room without a backwards glance.

Harry didn’t ask the Runespoor sniffing at his face if Snape had been telling the truth. He knew he had been.

M,

Thank you for your reluctant apology. It is begrudgingly accepted. And I shall be sure to bear your essay writing tips in mind, Professor Malfoy.

I can understand not wanting to comment on my meetings with the DL, but I’m probably going to write about them if/when he comes back. I won’t expect a response but putting them down in writing helps me process them. It helps to ground me.

Re: Snape. I don’t know what to think of him. The DL is as convinced he’s loyal to him, as Dumbledore is convinced of the opposite. He was… not nice, but concerned, in the beginning, but now he’s a right bastard all of the time. More awful than he’s ever been. It makes me question why? He was enemies with my dad at school, you know. Or rather, my dad was a prick who bullied him. He’s always taken it out on me, but this feels many steps further than a childish grudge.

He only comes by at the weekends now though - he’s at least useful for keeping track of the weeks as they go by. He’s keeping an eye on my well-being apparently. He says I’m gaining weight and that my cortisol levels are going down (it's a stress hormone, apparently, and he will not stop going on about it, like I can in anyway control how stressed I am when I’m being held prisoner). He still says I’m at an ‘elevated risk’ for sudden cardiac death, but this sounds like something that’s more his problem than mine.

If he’s teaching DADA though, then who’s got potions?

I sometimes wonder about my OWL results. Snape let slip that I’d failed divination (no surprises there), but I’d have liked to know how I did in the others considering all the hours I wasted on preparing for them.

As for hearing about my friends: I think I do want to hear about them, but I’m almost afraid too. I want to know they’re okay, but thinking about them already hurts. I miss them. I don’t imagine the DL will care - what difference could it possibly make to him? His ideology divided families during the first war, I doubt he’s worried it will be a problem this time.

Speak soon,

H.

28^th of January 1997

Potter,

I apologise if I misunderstood, but did you just try to metaphorically hand wave ‘sudden cardiac death’? Am I meant to just gloss over that part of your last letter? Because it certainly sounds like something you should be concerned about. In case your tiny brain is struggling to understand: death is generally considered bad, Potter. You should consider ‘sudden cardiac death’ a bad thing.

Some old professor called Slughorn is teaching potions now - he was the potion’s master years and years ago (he taught my mother and father I believe). He’s an odd one. He’s gone around cherry-picking students for one reason or another (fame or talent or connections) and formed them into something called ‘The Slug Club’.

With a suspected (and as good as confirmed) Death Eater for a father, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I am not included on the guest list for this illustrious organisation. I imagine that you’d have been his crowning jewel, though.

Granger has met the entry requirements, obviously, being top of the year and darling of the school. And Weasley has as well (both of them, Ronald and Ginevra) - I think the she-Weasley has been chosen for her quidditch skills, and the he-Weasley because he and Granger are co-chairs of the Defence Association. They reformed it in September, and so many students joined up that they’ve had to form multiple classes and even have professors as guest lecturers. Most people refer to it as ‘Potter’s Army’ now though.

I try to avoid your old crowd, if I’m honest. Winding them up just doesn’t give me quite the same satisfaction as annoying you ever did. I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you, but as far as the wider wizarding world is concerned, you’re presumed dead. They still think about you - your friends. It’s obvious. They all wear pins in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Thomas has painted a mural dedicated to you outside the great hall. It’s irritatingly good.

I forgot to tell you that we’ve started learning to apparate. For those of us who are of age in time for the test, we’ll be allowed to attempt to get our licence. It all seems a bit pointless though. Are the Aurors really going to be prosecuting people for apparating without one? Surely, they have better things to do, and surely, at this unsettled time, people should be allowed to apparate for their own safety.

Anyway. How are you and mother getting on?

Rgds

Draco

M,

Sudden cardiac death sounds just that: pretty f*cking sudden. I doubt I’d notice it happening and I think it would piss the DL off royally.

The Slug Club? Are you joking? That’s hilarious - what do they do? Sit, knit, and gossip over tea and biscuits? How weird. I can certainly see Hermione knitting, but not the rest of it (FYI that’s what your mother and I mostly do when we’re not reading - she even cracked out your baby photos the other day. Adorable. I loved the snake teddy bear.)

I don’t know how I feel about my friends thinking I’m dead. It makes me feel kind of hopeless, and like I want to cry. Maybe I shouldn’t hear about them, I don’t know. I’m in two minds. Hearing about them doesn’t make me feel better, but I still want to know more.

I’ve been meaning to say: thank you for taking the time to send me such long letters so regularly. I know you’re probably busy, and I doubt writing to me is high on your list of things you want to be doing with your time, but they really matter to me. They keep me sane.

Thank you.

H.

P..S What I’m reading here, it’s that I’m super special and bullying other people is nothing like bullying me. I think I’m touched.

5^th of February 1997

Potter,

SHE DID NOT SHOW YOU BABY PHOTOS OF ME I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU YOU GUESSED ABOUT THE SNAKE TEDDY!

Joking about death is incredibly morbid, but I’m certain that the Dark Lord would take your death as a personal affront. Still, try to avoid it all the same, if you can.

I have no idea what goes on in these little club meetings, because as I said, I’m not invited.

However, I may or may not have attempted to sneak into a party they held recently so that I could tell you what it was like, and I can tell you this: it was extremely weird.

There were plenty of students in attendance, but seemingly even more mildly/moderately famous witches and wizards. I’m not quite sure how they were allowed into the castle - security has been particularly intense recently (for obvious reasons) but Slughorn can invite whoever he likes for a party it seems. What sense does that make? And there was definitely at least one vampire there. There was also an obscene amount of food.

Filch caught me unfortunately, and Snape marched me out and back to the dungeons (but not before I stole a slice of cake). I regret not borrowing Blaise’s camera so I could send you photo evidence. It was bizarre.

Granger came and found me the next day - she cornered me outside of Transfiguration and shouted at me until Weasley dragged her away. She always did have a mean right hook that girl. I couldn’t tell you what she was yelling I’m afraid. She caught me by complete surprise and her voice echoed horribly, but she certainly swore a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her swear before. I just let her have at it. I’m sure I deserve it on some level. It’s obvious she and Weasley think about you still - your name came up a lot in between the swearing.

As a side note: I tried to see if there was any way to access records of students’ grades (to find your OWL results), but apparently, they’re confidential or some such rubbish, and they are only made public record after one hundred years, so if we’re both still alive and kicking in a hundred years, I’ll let you know your OWL results then, okay?

And believe it or not, Potter (because I’m certainly struggling with it), but writing to you hasn’t been as much of a hardship as I might have expected.

Rgds.

Draco

P.S Don’t delude yourself Potter - you’re in no way special, it’s just incredibly entertaining how red you get when you’re angry.

Waking up that morning, something in Harry felt… different. Something felt settled. He felt centred, as if he were existing in every part of his body at once.

He’d been meditating (or trying to anyway) every night before bed, ever since he had found the book on divination, and while he always awoke feeling well rested, he never felt like this. He never felt so… full of potential. Could it be that the meditation was working?

A sudden thrill of inspiration took him. Flat on his back, practically smothered between his pillows, he lifted an arm into the air above him and pointed at the ceiling. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.

No. No, something about this felt wrong. It felt forced. This wasn’t how he felt when he cast magic.

He very deliberately relaxed his hand and uncurled his fingers, until his hand was held in a pose that felt natural and easy. He took a deep breath and tried to sink his way into himself, and the feeling of connection at his centre.

Slowly, carefully, the settled sensation returned to him. Now what spell to cast?

Well, there was one he had longed for for weeks now.

Closing his eyes, he opened his mouth, and said, “Tempus!”

He knew it had worked before he even opened his eyes.

M.

I KNEW you had a snake teddy! And no, she has yet to produce your baby photos for me to coo over, but I’ll convince her one day, just you wait.

Thanks for trying to look for my results for me - you didn’t have to do that. If we’re still around in a hundred years we can open them together, but I don’t think it will be worth the wait somehow. I almost certainly failed History of Magic as well as divination, and the rest I imagine I achieved a middle of the road pass. A’s and maybe one or two E’s (except DADA - I definitely got an O in that one).

Talking of divination: bizarrely it’s actually proving to be helpful to me at the moment. I’ve been following some meditative techniques in a book I found that are all designed to connect you with your ‘inner eye’ to better predict the future, but what these techniques actually do is help you connect with your magical core. I’ve been hoping (futilely so far) that it might help me with wandless magic so I can attempt making a prosthetic eye, and I’ve not really gotten anywhere so far. But this morning I was able to cast a wandless tempus!!! I know it’s small, but I was so excited.

I’m sorry, but did I read that right? Did you crash a party for me? For little old me? Why Draco, I didn’t know you cared. I’m blushing!

How long did you manage before you got kicked out? And how was the cake?

I’ve never heard Hermione swear before either. I miss her, and Ron. And you might be a pointy git, but for probably the first time ever, I don’t think you deserved to get shouted at.

You didn’t do this to me. We’re both just kids caught up in a war we have no control over, whose sides were picked out for us before we were even born. Though, I don’t know if there’s a side for me to be on anymore.

The DL said that the Order and Dumbledore wouldn’t even have me back now - that they’d consider me compromised. I don’t know how true that is, but it plays on my mind a lot. I just want things to go back to the way they were.

Anyway, I should stop writing about sad things. These letters are meant to cheer me up. Tell me something funny.

H

12^th of February 1997

P.

Is there anyone who manages to pass divination? Regardless of how you or I feel about the woman, it has to be said that Umbridge had a point when it came to Trelawney. The woman was a total fraud!

However, I’m very interested to hear how you’re using divination techniques to accomplish wandless magic. You shall have to show me when I return for Easter.

And do rein in your ego - I didn’t crash the party for you, I did it for me. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have been curious as well? And the cake was dry and bland. I’d give it 3/10 and would not recommend it.

We may not have chosen our sides Potter, that much is true, but in many ways, I do deserve Granger's blame. Purebloods believe in collective familial responsibility. My family has wronged you, and in order to maintain my family’s honour, I must try and set things right. I have no idea how I can truly achieve that, but I am obligated to try. And if writing to you goes a little way towards that goal, then I’ll write to you every day if I have to.

For reason we have already discussed, I can’t comment on what the Dark Lord has said to you about the Order, but I find it difficult to believe that Granger and Weasley wouldn’t have you back in a heartbeat.

f*ck Dumbledore.

f*ck the Order.

They aren’t the world. They aren’t the only people you matter to. Who cares what they think? And if they think for a second that you’re anything other than an annoying, goodie-two shoes, golden boy, then well - they never knew you at all.

D.

Normally, when she delivered him his letters from Draco, Narcissa didn’t even bother trying to gain his attention until he had lowered the parchment in his hands. He found them singularly absorbing, and often read, and re-read sections, sometimes because of their content, but other times to simply admire the elegant nature of his handwriting. No wonder he had called Harry’s penmanship chicken scratch.

He wished they were talking in person. There was so much he wanted to say that he couldn’t fit in a single letter. He wanted to know about the party. The party that Mafloy claimed to have attended without an invitation for his own benefit, but that Harry was sure he had crashed just for Harry. Just to tell him all about it.

He wanted to ask about the ‘familial responsibility’ as well. Just reading those words made Harry’s heart hurt.

He… he wasn’t naive. He knew that Malfoy was only writing to him out of a sense of obligation, but to see it written down made his gut clench, and he found himself contemplating what exactly Malfoy’s words could mean for far longer than usual.

So long in fact, that Narcissa had apparently become bored with waiting for him to return to earth and had instead gotten to her feet and begun to pace about the rooms.

“This suite was the first guest room completed when the Manor was built, you know? It’s been renovated many times since then, obviously, most recently in the late eighteenth century by Lucius’s great-grandmother,” Narcissa trailed a finger across the engraving of a winged horse on a bookcase as she swept around the room, nervous energy apparently propelling her forward. Harry wasn’t sure what it was about today that had compelled her on this pacing monologue, “The Malfoy family used to be famous for breeding them - Aethonan winged-horses. They used to export them all over Europe and they charged through the nose for them, too. Aethonan racing was very popular once-upon-a-time,” she added, strolling carefully through the room, reaching out occasionally to touch a statue or a painting, “before brooms were reliable and fast enough that is, then it fell out of favour somewhat,”

She paused, staring out of the window into the grounds, her eyes fixed in place, though Harry couldn’t see on what. He felt compelled to prod her to keep talking, “What happened to them?”

She jumped a little, clearly not expecting the question, no doubt expecting Harry to still be absorbed in the letter in his hands, but she continued smoothly, “There was an outbreak equine alatus distemper when Lucius was a child - it killed off eighty percent of the herd in a week, including the vast majority of their breeding stock,” a hand on the window sill, she peered over her shoulder at him with a sad smile, “They were the worst effected breeder in all of Europe. Abraxas decided to cut their losses and sold or gave away the rest of the heard. The stable still stands, though,” she turned to the window and pointed out of it at an odd angle, her finger parallel with the pane, “it’s around the back of the property somewhere that way. Abraxas had some notion of using it for printing presses - he wanted to publish his own paper to compete with the Prophet, but in the end, he decided it was simpler to blackmail the Prophet’s Editor in Chief,”

Harry snorted, “Sounds familiar,” he regretted it almost immediately, looking nervously at her, but a knowing smile was tucked into the corner of her mouth.

“Quite,” she agreed. She glanced at the snake curled around his wrist, “If you don’t mind me asking, if you don’t know anything about Greek mythology, how did you name your snake?” She asked curiously.

Harry shrugged, “Looked through books,” he gestured at the shelves that surrounded them, “Picked out the ones that felt right,”

She turned from the window, “Names are important - they shouldn’t be rushed,” she lowered herself back onto the sofa and poured them a drink each, “I didn’t name Draco until he was nearly three months old,”

“What did you call him until you chose his name?” Clotho dipped her nose into his tea and enjoyed a few sips.

“‘Sweet boy’ - which was completely inaccurate. As much as I loved him, he wasn’t a sweet baby at all,” she said with a chuckle, delicately raising her cup and saucer to her chin, “He cried all day every day until he was nearly five months old, and he had the most horrendous piercing cry - the house-elves took to wearing cotton in their ears at all times,”

Harry tried to imagine a tiny wailing Draco Malfoy and a put-upon Dobby trying to work a bottle into his mouth. It was difficult to image Draco Malfoy as anything more than the sneering bully who called Hermione a mudblood. But then he remembered the look on his face the day Harry had had a breakdown in the bathroom, and the letter in his hand. Maybe there was something sweet inside the other boy.

M.

I bet you that Lavender and Parvati passed - they loved that class with a passion, and Professor Trelawney. And you’d be surprised but she wasn’t a total fraud. I know of at least one genuine prophesy that she made (she made it to me, after all), and I know that she made another one to Dumbledore because he told me that that was why he hired her. But yeah, in her day-to-day teaching life she’s pretty bloody terrible.

Still, she didn’t deserve what Umbridge did to her. I hate that woman so much. I still have the scars on the back of my hand from her making me do lines. I think I’ll probably have them forever. In a way they serve as a good reminder that just because someone is in a position of authority, that doesn’t mean that they’re a good person.

I don’t really remember why we picked divination - it all feels so long ago. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but she just kept on predicting my death. I suppose she has to be right about it eventually though.

It’s a shame about the cake after you made all that effort to break into the party to steal it. Tippy is always bringing excellent cake to have with tea - does she make it? The lemon is my favourite.

If you’re only writing to me because you feel obliged to, then please don’t tell me. I know that you and your mother wouldn’t interact with me if you had a choice in the matter, but I’d like to live in ignorance a while longer if it’s all the same to you. It makes things more bearable.

Tell me something about school. How’re the apparition lessons? How’s quidditch?

H.

Harry’s quill hovered over the parchment. He was being a coward. If he were braver, he’d have told Draco to stop writing to him if he was only doing so because of obligation, but he couldn’t face a reality where that meant the letters ended. He was so alone. Narcissa was pleasant and kind, but it wasn’t the same. The Moirai were possessive and protective, but it wasn’t the same.

“Your hair is getting very long,” he froze for the briefest moment at the voice behind him, but he relaxed quickly, “Do you want to cut it?” He made to glance over his shoulder at Narcissa but found himself frozen again when he felt gentle fingers running through his hair. He was torn between the instinct to pull away, and the urge to press closer, “Harry?”

He let out a shuddering breath and peered up at her, “I… no. I think I’ll leave it. For now, at least,”

Her lips twitched into half a smile; she pushed his fringe back carefully and released him with a nod, “As you like,”

Later that evening, after his bath, Harry stared into the mirror in the bathroom. He no longer felt a swooping sensation deep in his gut whenever he saw himself - as if he’d missed the bottom step of a set of stairs. The person who looked back at him wasn’t the same, but it was someone he recognised now. Someone he identified with. Even if that person had longer hair than he’d ever had before, crescent scars up his neck and down his shoulders, and one less eye than he was used to seeing.

It hurt just the smallest amount to realise that he’d let his old self-image slip away and he didn’t even miss it anymore. Harry could only compare it to the first day he hadn’t thought about Cedric after he’d died; it was the end of a mourning process.

With a sigh, Harry swept his long, wet fringe back out of his face.

Even his scar seemed faded, along with the rest of him.

18^th of February 1997

H.

At the time, I didn’t mind her (Umbridge) because she was helping to further my father’s goals - to suppress chatter about the Dark Lord and cause you trouble (though, in truth, this was my own personal goal). But as much as I didn’t care, because I ultimately benefitted from her regime, it would be obvious to a blind man that she was evil to the core.

As far as I’m aware, she’s not a supporter of the Dark Lord, but I imagine she’ll be first in line to join ranks if he achieves his ambition of gaining control of the Ministry.

Trelawney told you a prophesy? About what?

Tippy does indeed make the cakes. My favourite is her chocolate one. She makes it with this deliciously thick chocolate ganache in the middle. If you ask her to make it for you, she will.

Apparition classes are fine. It was difficult to begin with, but I found mastering it quite easy once I’d gotten the hang of it. The sensation is still unpleasant though, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get used of it.

You shall be no doubt pleased to learn that Slytherin are not doing well at all in this year’s Quidditch season. It’s mostly my fault, and I’m sure I’d be kicked off the team if it weren’t for who my father is (and who he serves). I’ve been somewhat distracted this year, and this term more than ever. I worry constantly about mother, and on occasion, I reluctantly worry about you too (I’d like to stress the word reluctantly, here).

While I may have only originally agreed to write to you to keep my mother safe, if I said I didn’t enjoy exchanging letters with you at least a little bit, it would be a lie. At no point in our original agreement did I commit to writing entire rolls of parchment to you. It’s getting ridiculous quite frankly. I’ve had to ask my mother to send me fresh parchment. And I’m more than a little annoyed with myself to find that I don’t quite hate you the way that I did before. Even writing it down makes me shudder. I feel compelled to insult you in some way to even things out.

Anyway. Tell me how you're getting on with the plans for a prosthetic eye, we haven’t discussed it at all, and I find myself curious.

Rgds.

(Scarhead.)

D.

Harry found himself compulsively organising the items on top of the drawing table. Squaring off the torch on its stand and straightening the rotary tool and the collection of sanding, buffing, and grinding disks that had come with it. Neither could be used without magic. Narcissa had tested them for him, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He’d need magic to pull and manipulate the glass into shape – to make it match his eye socket – and magic to insert the iris and runes too.

He rolled a rod of glass against tabletop. There were three. More than he needed, he was sure. Even if he messed up, he could just melt it back down after all. He shouldn’t complain though. It was more than he had ever expected.

There was a tiny bar of gold as well, no bigger than his thumb nail. Just enough, he thought, to make what he needed.

If he ever managed it.

He licked his lips and pressed his fingertips to the base of the torch and willed his magic to come to the surface of his fingers.

He took a deep breath and whispered, “Incendio!” Harry jolted – he could have sworn that for the briefest moment there had been a hint of flame at the torches mouth. But no, there was nothing.

He sighed to himself. One day.

D.

She prophesied that Wormtail would escape at the end of third year and be reunited with the DL and help him return to power. At the time it was more than a little unnerving, but knowing what I know now, I only wish there was a way to go back and change everything. To stop him escaping.

He escaped because of me; you know. Sirius and Remus wanted to kill him for what he’d done, but I persuaded them to spare him. I told them that my father wouldn’t have wanted them to become killers. That may have been true, but it would have been a sacrifice worth making if it had spared us this new world. I’d give anything to undo it all.

I’d say I’m sorry that you’re losing at Quidditch, but we both know it wouldn’t be true. Especially if its Gryffindor that are beating you. I will say that you shouldn’t worry about me (reluctantly or otherwise). I’m as fine as I can be, and that’s enough for right now.

Now onto more interesting news: I haven’t particularly written about the ‘prosthetic eye situation’ because there was honestly nothing to tell - until now that is, which makes me wonder if your mother has told you something?

Anyway, since my last letter, she has been able to acquire all of the materials required to create one! Though I am still lacking a wand, but my wandless magic skills are getting better. I can consistently summon sugar cubes now.

I’ve been reading all about making one for weeks so I’ve been itching to get started, but until I can reliably control a wandless incendio to get a torch burning, I can’t do to much.

The kind of eye that Mad-eye uses is actually quite outdated, you know - it's called the Polyphemus system, though if you ask me, it's a little insensitive to name a prosthetic eye after a cyclops. The new ones are called the Wednesday system (I have no idea why) and use Fire Crab Glass. Under the influence of magic, the glass is actually able to move while keeping its form, so that an iris constructed of gold threads and tethered in place by runes can move freely through its centre.

Certain minerals/gemstones can be incorporated into the iris to change it from a gold colour. For green you can use peridot, but I don’t have any, and if I did I think I’m a long way away from being able to use it.

It’s all very interesting. I’ve read that book cover to cover twice now. I should probably find something else to read, but it’s all so niche. There’s a book on snail husbandry of all things for some reason.

H.

23^rd of February 1997

H.

This may come as callous advice, but don’t waste your time daydreaming about what could have been. There is no changing the past, there is only changing the path ahead of us, and while the path we’re both on isn’t one either of us would have chosen, I refuse to believe it’s the path we are condemned to for the rest of our lives. There will be more for us one day.

And yes, you’re right, mother may have let slip that she had a surprise for you, but I didn’t want to spoil it for her.

It does sound very interesting - I’ll be extremely impressed if you even make an attempt at making yourself one. It’s the kind of thing that I’d find myself frozen with self-doubt over: why even try if I’m sure I’ll fail, after all?

And to answer the question you didn’t ask, I imagine that the Wednesday system is named after Odin, the Norse God (after whom the day of the week is named for). He plucked his own eye out as a sacrifice to obtain knowledge. I find myself agreeing with you though: both names are so on the nose as to make me faintly uncomfortable.

If you like, at our next Hogsmeade visit, I’ll visit the gem shop at the end of the street. They’re almost certain to have some peridot on hand. I should forewarn you, however, that peridot isn’t even remotely similar to the colour of your eyes. It’s more of an apple green. I find myself loathing how poetic this sounds, but an actual emerald would be a better match, if you would prefer?

Also, do let me know if you find yourself an unexpected passion for snail rearing. I’m perfectly happy to keep an eye out for any attractive ones in the school grounds, on the condition that you find somewhere appropriate to house them (a terrarium, perhaps?) and keep your Runespoor away from them. I’m not bringing some poor gastropod home only for you to sacrifice it to that thing.

Rgds.

D.

D.

Can I just ask: why are ancient myths all so incredibly morbid? Plucking out eyes, sacrificing babies, blood crimes, torture, mutilation, and an alarming amount of incest (accidental, or otherwise). Your mother has enjoyed sharing some of her favourites with me, and I’m nervous to ask if all of the stories are like that, or only the ones she enjoys?!

If you could get some peridot that would be amazing - thank you!! And the book listed emerald as one of the gems unsuitable for the task - something to do with it acting as a magic sink, so it would effectively absorb the magic that is required for the eye to function. (In case you were wondering, I shall never let you live down the fact that you just compared my eye colour to emeralds you closet romantic).

It may upset you to learn that I have no intention of starting my own snail farm, as you’re quite right, they’d be at risk of being eaten. While Clotho and Lachesis would probably leave them alone if I asked, I think Atropos would eat them just to piss you off.

H.

P.S I tried Tippy’s chocolate cake for the first time, but I stand by my original choice: the lemon is better.

28^th of February 1997

H.

Ah yes, Mother always has enjoyed her myths (Ancient Greek in particular). While most purebloods were hearing about Babbitt Rabbity, I was being told about the Labours of Heracles. Interesting? Most certainly! Appropriate for five-year-olds? Definitely not. If you were wondering, these labours were imposed upon Heracles to begin with because he was driven mad and murdered his wife and children.

Hardly appropriate.

Which head is Atropos? Is it the right one? Because if looks could kill, that snake would have killed me ten times over. I may or may not have checked out Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and the book says that the right head is the venomous one, so if you would kindly ask her to leave me alone, I would be most grateful.

Unfortunately, the Hogsmeade weekend has been cancelled at the last minute, but don’t worry, peridot is used in some rare and complicated potions. I am almost certain that Slughorn will have some in his personal stores. Wish me luck - breaking into teacher’s personal affects is more your thing than mine, after all.

D.

P.S The lemon does not even compare to the chocolate cake, and you know it, you filthy liar.

Harry struggled to sleep that night. He found himself dwelling on Draco’s last letter, his smart, looping handwriting flashing into his mind's eye every time he was just about to drop off. In the end, he was tossing and turning so frequently that the Moirai gave up sharing his body heat in favour of snuggling further down the bed by herself.

Draco was worried about him. Draco wanted to steal for him. Draco didn’t hate him, he liked him.

This was… ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. So what if Draco liked him? Plenty of people liked him, but the knowledge had never made his cheeks flush like this before.

It felt… nice. It felt… confusing. Merlin he was such a lonely, pathetic, mess.

Harry was still half asleep when he ventured out of his bedroom and into the sitting room the next morning, but it took him only a split second to realise that something was wrong.

He wasn’t alone.

Sat in the armchair that faced his bedroom, his hands folded in his lap and an enormous snake curling around his feet, was the Dark Lord. Red eyes watched him carefully, and something resembling a smile twitched at his lips.

“Ah, Harry,” he said quietly, his voice splitting the silence in the room like a knife, “Good morning,”

Harry felt the Moirai burrowing further under his night clothes, concealing herself further from sight, but something about the way that Nagini’s tongue flicked out and tasted the air told him that she knew they were there.

“G-good morning,” Harry found himself stuttering nervously. It was strange, every time the Dark Lord came to his rooms, it felt like the first time. Harry wondered if the long gaps between his visits were designed to lull Harry into a false sense of security before the Dark Lord arrived and ripped out the rug from beneath him, “I-I’m sorry. I’m not dressed. I didn’t realise you’d be visiting this morning,” he said haltingly.

The ‘smile’ on Voldemort’s face widened, “Oh no matter, Harry, no matter. Please, join me,” Harry’s feet were moving before the man had even gestured to the sofa, “Would you like some tea, Harry?” What Harry wanted was to be left alone, but he nodded anyway; the Dark Lord summoned a pot, and carefully poured Harry a cup, but Harry made no move to grab it. He could see by the way steam curled lazily into the air that it would be far too hot for him to drink, “I must apologise again, Harry. I had not intended to neglect you so, but matters arose that required my attention,”

Harry debated how to answer: was he being baited into asking what he’d been doing again? “That’s… that’s fine. Narcissa has been keeping me company,”

“Indeed,” red eyes trailed over to the set up on the drawing table, “How have you been spending your time, I wonder? Have you yet managed to construct a replacement eye?”

“No… but I have managed some wandless magic,”

Voldemort’s brow raised in dull surprise, “Oh? Show me,” he demanded.

Harry did as he was told, his hand trembling a little as he stretched it out towards the drawing table, “ Accio quill!” He couldn’t help but be relieved when the quill soared through the air towards him without difficulty.

Voldemort considered the quill, his expression blank, “Well, Harry, it is a start I suppose… I’m sure you understand why I don’t feel comfortable providing you with a wand. You do understand… don’t you?”

Harry swallowed, and whispered, “Yes,”

The Dark Lord continued almost as if Harry hadn’t spoken, “I can’t trust you, I’m afraid. Though I doubt you would be able to overpower any one of my Death Eaters, it would be irresponsible of me to risk their wellbeing by putting a weapon in your hand. There will come a day though, sooner than you think, where I shall have no such concerns. There will come a day when you make no effort to escape. There will come a day when you wish to stay here, with me and with my Death Eaters. What do you think about that, Harry?”

He opened his mouth but found no words would come out. He snapped his jaw shut, licked his lip, and tried again, but Voldemort interrupted him.

“The truth, Harry,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “I want the truth, not whatever words you think will placate my temper and keep you safe,”

He swallowed heavily, “I think… I think that I will never want to stay here. I think that I will always want to escape,”

The Dark Lord smiled, and said softly, “We shall see, Harry… we shall see,” leaning forwards slightly, he flicked his wand out of his robes so quickly that Harry almost didn’t see it, and he found his teacup soaring into his hands, “Now Harry, I am pleased to report that I shall be able to see you more frequently for the foreseeable future. At least once a week,” his red eyes flicked to the pyjamas Harry was wearing, “Do not worry though - I shall be sure to send the house-elf to rouse you in good time, so that we may enjoy breakfast while we are both fully dressed, hmm?”

Harry nodded, and muttered, “Yes, my Lord,”

“Good, very good… you know, I am always surprised by how few questions you ask of me. Are you not curious of what I’ve been doing since we saw one another last?”

“Yes, my lord,” Harry hated how the words fell so easily from his lips. It was automatic now and took no conscious effort.

“I have been finding appropriate lands for the Dementors to inhabit, now that they have abandoned Azkaban,” Harry suppressed a shudder at the mention of the creatures, “Do you know anything of Azkaban and its origins, Harry? It wasn’t even a prison originally. It was constructed by a dark wizard who used it to torture and murder muggle sailors who drifted to close. It was this misery that first attracted the Dementors.

“You know,” he continued, his voice amused, “I find it most interesting that the wizarding population seems so terrified by the thought of my governance, when the Ministry that is currently in office are quite happy to send them to a place of such misery and torment, no matter the minor nature of their crime. Theft, fraud, assaults both minor and grievous, and murder. It matters not. Off to Azkaban you go to be driven mad,” he chuckled, “I understand that your dear Hagrid was sent there a few years ago,” his smile turned cruel, “Ah, yet another example of Albus Dumbledore doing nothing to protect his friends,”

Harry tried not to listen. He tried to sip carefully at his tea and drown out the Dark Lord’s voice with his imagination. He imagined the eye he wanted to create. He imagined lighting the torch on the desk and using it to melt the centre of a rod into a glowing red ball of molten glass. He imagined using magic to pull the glass into shape - using spells and incantations to create a prosthetic that would fit perfectly in place.

The fantasy wasn’t enough though. He found himself listening despite himself, until all he could focus on was the high, cold, hollow quality of the Dark Lord’s voice as he described in detail the torture faced by those who were condemned to Azkaban. Torture that was condoned by the very Ministry that the Order was fighting to preserve.

When the Dark Lord left, Harry walked himself calmly to the bathroom, and vomited.

Chapter 12: Harry: The Cracks

Chapter Text

D.

The DL came to visit again. The more I see him, and the more I listen to him, the more I find myself questioning things. Dumbledore. Hogwarts. The Order. The Ministry. Everything I thought I’ve ever known about our world.

I feel like a traitor. Like I’m becoming exactly who he wants me to be.

But questioning things doesn’t make me a bad person, does it? Thinking he might be right about some things, isn’t the same as supporting him, right?

I can’t tell if I’m having my eyes opened, or the wool pulled over them, and it’s frightening me.

I wish I was at school learning to apparate and playing quidditch and watching you lose to Gryffindor or stealing from teachers. I wish everything was like before. I wish you were my nemesis rather than my confidant. I wish I didn’t feel so alone all of the time.

H.

P.S Sorry for how sad this letter ended up being. It’s all been kind of building up inside me. Why was Hogsmeade cancelled? And don’t go getting yourself into trouble because of me.

4^th of March 1997

H.

Asking questions doesn’t make you a bad person, Harry. Not at all. I… I find myself at a loss as to what to say. I imagine that there is nothing I can say, not in writing at least, except this: you’re allowed to have doubts. You’re allowed to think poorly of Dumbledore, without betraying yourself. You’re allowed Harry.

If anything, I think you’re entitled to a little frustration. I say this with no desire to rub salt in the wound, but you’ve been a prisoner in my home for coming up to nine months now. I can’t claim to know what the Order are, or aren’t planning, but I’d have expected more from them. If Snape truly is their man, then surely, it’s worth sacrificing his position as spy to rescue you?

The Daily Prophet released a ‘tell-all’ about what happened in the Department of Mysteries last June. They revealed that there existed a prophesy within the Department about the two of you - you and the Dark Lord, I mean. The Prophet have started calling you the Chosen One, but I think the Ministry realised how de-moralising it was to proclaim a ‘dead’ person the ‘Chosen One’, so have started putting pressure on the Prophet to seed doubt about you being dead.

According to them, you’ve been sighted three times in the last week.

They weren’t able to obtain a transcript of the prophesy, but if you truly are ‘the Chosen One’, then surely, you’re worth more than a spy?

Unless Snape really is on the DL’s side.

I miss playing Quidditch against you - the she-Weasley is playing seeker for Gryffindor now, but you can really tell that she’d be better off as a chaser. She doesn’t fly like you did. You made it look effortless - like you were dancing about the pitch on your broom, and you just happened be playing Quidditch at the same time. She’s effective - her catch rate is 100%, but she’s not captivating like you were.

D.

P.S I’ve included something in this letter for you. Take good care of it because it cost me two weeks of detention. Also: I get myself into as much trouble as I like, scar-head. You’re not my mother.

“I think we should continue our conversation about Azkaban, Harry,”

Harry pushed his occlumency shields forwards, tucking the smallest amount of himself away so he could talk without fear pressing in on him, “Yes, my Lord,”

Voldemort had lied. He hadn’t come to see Harry once a week. He’d come every day, for at least two hours every morning, sometimes with Nagini and sometimes without. The tolerance to fear that Harry had lost had very quickly been rebuilt. He barely had to use his shields at all.

“I thought we might talk about your godfather,”

Harry tried not to react, breathing carefully through his nose, “Yes, my Lord?”

“I do wonder how it is that he ended up in Azkaban for twelve years for a crime he didn’t commit,” it was hard - listening for hours at a time to the Dark Lord as he poured poison into Harry’s ears, “Though the Potter’s may have told people that Black was the secret keeper, surely all it would have taken was an interrogation under veritiserum for him to be proven innocent?” But was it poison? More and more it felt like truths that had been hidden from him, or that he had simply been too naive to consider, “And surely, at the very least, the person who cast the Fidelius charm in the first place would have known who the true secret keeper was,” it was beginning to take its toll. Initially he had tried to double down - insisting to himself that every single thing the Dark Lord murmured to him was a lie. A manipulation designed to twist him. But… but so much of it made sense, “Do you know who cast the Fidelius charm that concealed your parents, Harry?”

“No, my lord,” Harry answered flatly.

“Why, none other than Albus Dumbledore himself,” Harry had been staring into the middle distance, but found his attention abruptly focussed on the Dark Lord’s light grin, “Oh yes,” he said softly, “Albus Dumbledore set the Fidelius charm into place. If anyone would have known the true secret keeper, it would have been him,”

“You’re lying,” Harry snapped, all sense of self-preservation buried with his fear, “You’re lying!”

Voldemort only laughed, “Oh Harry, if only I was,” he shook his head, “No. No, Albus Dumbledore knew who the true secret keeper was, and still he did not speak up when Sirius Black was condemned to Azkaban without a trial. And then, yet again, when Sirius Black’s innocence was revealed to others, he refused to exert his influence on the Minister for Magic to force a trial. To exonerate him. The Minister for Magic, a man who up until this point (I am led to believe) had relied heavily on the headmaster’s guidance and advice. Surely, such a man might have been persuaded to listen. And if not he, then one of the many people in the Winzengamont who were loyal to Dumbledore. It makes one wonder why the great and good Albus Dumbledore would allow an innocent man to remain on the run… can you think of a reason why, Harry?”

Harry could feel his throat trembling, and though he found himself numbed to his emotions in that moment, their physical manifestation managed to push through his occlumency shields, and tears trailed down his cheeks. He didn’t try and play dumb. He knew why Albus Dumbledore might want Sirius out of the picture, “Me?” He whispered.

Voldemort nodded, “Yes, Harry. You,” he tilted his head, considering, “It would have been significantly more difficult for Dumbledore to manipulate and control you had you had a magical guardian - someone who loved and cared for you fighting in your corner. No… no, better to leave you to abusive muggles who kept you ignorant and weak. Do you think that Sirius Black, had he been in his full power as the patriarch of the Black line, would have simply left you at Hogwarts to compete in the Triwizard tournament? I imagine he’d have taken you out of the school, and maybe the country all together. He’d certainly have sued a person or two,” the Dark Lord chuckled coldly, “No, dear Harry. Our dear headmaster couldn’t have that,”

“I don’t believe you,” Harry whispered, tears dripping from his lips and onto his tongue, “I don’t believe you!” He tried to insist, his voice firmer.

“Ah, Harry… but you do.”

D.

Is this peridot?? Did you steal peridot from Slughorn for me? Thank you!! Also: I told you not to get into trouble! Idiot.

I know about the prophesy. The DL showed it to me the first time he spoke with me in this room. It was all about how I had ‘a power he knew not’ and was ‘his equal’. He told me that he’d decided it was self-fulfilling. He said that if I’m meant to be his equal, than he wants me as his ally. I don’t know what to believe. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who considers anyone his equal. I don’t know what to believe about Snape either.

‘The Chosen One’ is ridiculous - almost as bad as ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ - but if that’s really what they think, then surely you’re right? Surely I’m worth more than a spy? And if Snape isn’t a spy for Dumbledore, what justification could he possibly have given for not rescuing me? Which makes me think that he is a spy for Dumbledore, which means that Dumbledore could rescue me, but won’t. It all leaves me going round and round in circles trying to make sense of everything until I’m so dizzy I feel sick. I hate it.

I wish I could fly again. Flying a broom for the first time is one of my fondest memories. Beating you at Quidditch for the first time comes in close second.

I wish I had a calendar - I wish I had a way of easily keeping track of how many days until you come back. I never thought in a million years that I’d actually miss you, you pointy prick, but I’m lonely. Your mother if good company, don’t get me wrong, but its not the same as having a friend.

And I think we might be friends now. Kind of. Right?

H.

P.S Don’t think I haven’t noticed you using ‘the DL’. I have.

P.P.S You never did say why the Hogsmeade trip was cancelled?’

“What do you two talk about?” Harry glanced up from the drawing table, pausing midway through folding his letter neatly in two; Narcissa was watching him with a bemused smile on her face from the sofa while she twirled her necklace around her fingers, “I can barely tease more than half a roll of parchment out of him, yet you two are sending reels and reels back and forth to one another,”

Harry flushed, “Oh, uh, lots of things,” he said, noncommittal, “The past. What he’s doing. What I’m doing,” he shrugged, “The letters are a bit of a mess, to be honest - a tangled web of crossed topics,” he smiled, then paused when the light caught on the necklace between her fingers and he caught a flash of green, “What’s that?”

Narcissa paused her fiddling and looked fondly down at the chain around her fingers, “It was my mother's engagement ring. Her greatest wish was that she would be able to leave it to a son so that he might use it to propose to his own future wife, but after three difficult pregnancies, three difficult labours, and three girls, she gave up. When Draco was born, she was ecstatic,” Harry slid from his chair and approached curiously, eyeing the enormous emerald green, cushion cut stone with interest, “She lived for only two weeks after Draco was born - she’d always been sickly - but I brought him to see her as soon as I was able. She wept and worked this ring off her finger and pushed it into my hands. She said she wanted me to look after it until Draco was ready to give it to some lucky girl. Here…,” she leant closer, stretching the ring to the extent of its chain to show him, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded and ignored the uneasy feeling in his gut “Very.”

9^th of March 1997

H.

That is indeed peridot, and it was all he had, so you had better not lose it.

I wish I had an answer for you about Snape and the Order, but I don’t. I worry that speculating will only upset you, but I will say this: there are people in this world that believe you are worth more than a spy, and I see them at school every day.

I had another run in with your friends yesterday, and I’ve got a black eye to prove it (this time courtesy of the she-Weasley, but I guess I should be grateful she didn’t cast her bat-boggie hex on me).

It was my fault really. I stumbled across them in the courtyard, and rather than keep walking I stopped. I found myself suddenly compelled to talk to them. To tell them about you. But my mouth wouldn’t move, and by the time it would, I had pissed them all off royally for staring and being generally suspicious.

I want to tell them. They should know about you.

And yes, Potter. I think we’re kind of friends. Distant, reluctant, and the victims of circ*mstance, but friends.

D.

P.S I hope you like your gift.

The Moirai were draped around his shoulders, her heads peering down suspiciously at Nagini as she lazily tasted the air from her position at her master's feet, and not for the first time Harry wondered if Voldemort had known he had gifted Harry his greatest defender. She didn’t like them. She didn’t like either of them, but she had the good sense to keep quiet until long after they were alone again.

“Are you listening Harry?” Voldemort asked coldly, dangerously.

“Yes, my lord,” Harry answered immediately, reengaging his brain, “You were talking about… about how it used to be illegal to marry muggles,”

Voldemort watched him for a long, silent moment, before he opened his mouth and began to speak, “One of many steps taken by a foolish Ministry of years gone by to break down the walls that divide us from muggles. The law banning mixed marriages was primarily for the protection of the muggles, you know? As much as the statue of secrecy was to protect us. I would argue that you cannot have one without the other…”

Slowly… slowly… Harry’s ears began to close again. Though he heard every word, he didn’t listen to it. He found he had a sixth sense for when the Dark Lord was approaching a topic that he had decided was especially important for unsettling Harry, but he could tell that this wasn’t one of them.

Perhaps his shields were too effective, he found himself thinking dully. He was very rarely afraid of the Dark Lord anymore, and that wasn’t because he wasn’t frightening, but rather because Harry closed himself off from all feeling when the Dark Lord was around.

It made life more tolerable, but equally more dangerous. It was like losing the ability to feel pain in the middle of a room of naked flames: there was nothing to stop him from getting burnt.

D.

Thank you very much for the calendar, really, but did it have to be a naked Quidditch one?! I opened it in front of your mother for f*cks sake! She was less than impressed, let me tell you. Also, did you just have this to hand?!

The DL keeps visiting me. I don’t know what he’s trying to achieve - no, scratch that. I know what he’s trying to achieve, but I’m confused by his approach. He’s bouncing between undermining the Order, Dumbledore, and the Ministry, and sharing his manifesto with me. It’s… I don’t know what it is. I prefer it when he talks about his vision of the future - it’s so much easier to listen to than when he accuses Dumbledore of deliberately letting Sirius go to Azkaban so he’d have more control over me.

I can’t tell you what it means to me, that you want to tell my friends about me, but Draco: you need to be careful. I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble. What if Ron told his mum, and his mum fed back to the Order, and Snape found out? If he really is on the DL’s side, then you could be in so much danger.

Why won’t you tell me why that Hogsmeade weekend was cancelled?

H.

14^th of March 1997

H.

I admit I did not foresee the eventuality where you opened that calendar in front of my mother (though, on reflection, of course she was going to be there when you opened it). Perhaps it would be safer for me to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays? It would certainly save me some uncomfortable questions about what magazine I had to subscribe to in order to receive that calendar.

I hope that Dumbledore didn’t actually deliberately allow your godfather to go to Azkaban. I can’t comment on the truth of such a statement, but I can say with absolute certainty that it’s abhorrent if he did. And I hadn’t considered that Snape might find out if I told your friends about you, but I find myself having to bite my tongue regardless.

I haven’t wanted to tell you why the Hogsmeade weekend was cancelled, because the reason is a grim one. Rosmerta was found hanging from the rafters of her pub, and no one believes its suicide. There’s talk of them reinforcing the wards around the village, but until that happens, there won’t be anymore trips outside of the castle.

I won’t pretend to be sorry for hiding this from you, because I’m not. Your life is grim enough. I didn’t want to make it even darker.

D.

“I do love this room,” Narcissa said with a sigh, pacing around with her hands behind her back as had become her habit, “it’s simply full of history and secrets you know. Some big, some small. Much like the rest of the manor, I suppose,”

Harry glanced about the room, not really listening, his focus on the letter in his hands, his heart pounding. He swallowed,and forced his voice to come out level “Like what?”

“Well, like this,”

Harry distractedly followed her path over to the bathroom door; she pointed to the wooden panel next to the door where a winged horse was rearing up on its back feet. She turned to check he was watching and stroked a careful finger down its mane. The horse shuddered then pitched forwards, landing on its front hooves. It peered up at Narcissa and gave a silent whiny. Harry froze at a quiet click, and watched as Narcissa pressed the panel in. With a cranking noise, the panel disappeared sideways into the wall, and revealed a hiding place as long as Harry’s forearm and deep enough for Harry to put a hand in.

Narcissa turned to him, looking faintly pleased, “There are little hiding places everywhere - excellent for hiding valuables - in the bedroom and bathroom too,”

Harry’s eye flicked from the hiding place to her face, “I can probably guess what your husband might use such hiding places for,” he said dryly, “Ministry raids, perhaps? Though I imagine Lucius bribed them not to look too hard anyway,”

She chuckled quietly, “No bribery necessary,” she denied, “None of those men are capable of the imagination required to find hiding places like these,” she looked back to the hiding place, and closed it again, “Though there are other secrets here too - like the harpsichord,” she gestured to the piano.

Harry frowned, and said slowly, “What’s a harpsichord? Isn’t that a piano?”

She shook her head and beckoned him closer. Harry stood and carefully approached her. She offered him an encouraging smile.

“Harpsichords are like pianos, only the sound comes from plucking the string rather than striking it with a hammer. Listen,” he watched as her delicate finger pressed down on a black key, creating a sound harsher and louder than he had expected. She pressed another, and then another, until she was creating a light, dancing melody.

“I think I prefer pianos,” he said flatly.

“As do I,” Narcissa agreed, “I always think harpsichords are too harsh. But that’s not what I wanted to show you - look,” she leant closer to the propped-up lid of the harpsichord, and the portrait of winged-horses underneath. Harry watched as a flash of lightning spread out across the dark sky, and the horses flinched and reared back, their wings flapping furiously as they fought to keep themselves in the air. Narcissa took a deep breath in, and blew steadily across the portrait, catching the black clouds and pushing them out of the frame. They were replaced by soft, fluffy white clouds, and a vibrant blue sky. The winged-horses visibly relaxed, flicking their manes, contented.

She smiled at him, and Harry tried to smile back. He gave up quickly through and turned back towards the sofa, “Are there other secrets here?”

“Yes, there’s the - ah…,” her voice trailed off into nothing. Harry glanced quickly over his shoulder and found her eyes fixed on the fireplace; her expression morphed suddenly into a fixed smile, and she looked away from the fireplace to Harry’s face, “No,” she said simply, “nothing of interest,” she moved as if to shepherd him back towards his seat, but Harry had already sat himself down.

What was so special about the fireplace, he wondered, deliberately ignoring the fire that crackled behind him. What was so special about the fireplace, that even with the absence of floo powder, Narcissa Malfoy wouldn’t tell him its secret? Whatever it was, he imagined it was a secret that couldn’t help him now.

“She lies,” Atropos grunted reluctantly from around his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured back, sinking back into the sofa.

D.

I find myself back in January again, staring down at the parchment, not knowing what to say.

It shouldn’t surprise me, I know, that people are dying, but it still has.

I hope it never stops shocking me though, because if it does, then that means I’ve become used to all of this, and I never want to get used to murder and mayhem and torture and destruction. I want to feel this sick about every single death I hear about, because if I do, that means I’m still me, right? That I haven’t changed.

Right?

H.

Harry could feel sweat beading at his brow - half from exertion, the other half from the fine, blue flame he had managed to produce and control from the mouth of the silver torch affixed to the drawing table. He was approaching five minutes now, the longest he had ever managed.

Narcissa acted as a motivational force, “Fifty seconds - don’t give up now,” she said sharply, a slight wobble of excitement in her voice, “Hold it strong, keep your focus. Forty seconds,”

Harry’s jaw was beginning to ache from clenching his teeth together. They’d been at this for hours. Or rather, Harry had been at it, and Narcissa had cheered him on. When she’d first delivered the torch and rotary tool, Harry hadn’t missed the strained edge of her encouraging smile. She hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to use either. Now that he’d proven that he could, she seemed almost as invested as he was in his success.

“There we go, keep it up. Thirty seconds!”

She’d normally have left his rooms an hour or so ago, but shortly after dinner, he had surprised both of them by finally succeeding in not only lighting the torch but in maintaining a steady flame for more than two or three seconds. With Narcissa’s encouragement, he had gradually extended his control further and further. No where near long enough to make something, but long enough to finally believe for the first time, that he just might be able to.

“Twenty seconds - you’re so close!”

Harry suppressed the urge to shudder when a bead of sweat dribbled into his ear. He was nearly there.

“Ten seconds… yes, yes, keep going, keep going! Five… four… three! Two! One! Yes!!” She practically crowed the word, clapping her hands in delight while Harry finally released the spell and allowed himself to slump back into his seat. He peered over his shoulder to her and returned the pleased smile that she aimed at him.

Around her shoulders, the Moirai fidgeted excitedly. As much as they enjoyed the heat, they’d quickly become uncomfortable with the constant exposure to the torch’s naked flame.

“I think I could do with a nap now,” Harry admitted, tiredly pushing himself out of the chair and sitting at her side, “That was exhausting!”

“That was excellent,” Narcissa corrected him, stretching out a hand to allow the Moirai to slither back to Harry, “Most excellent. There’s a long way to go, I’m sure you know, but you’ve made leaps and bounds in just one day!”

Harry worked at a sleepy grin, slumping back against the sofa, his body feeling like jelly.

All it took was a familiar voice from behind him, however, for his posture to turn from relaxed, to tense.

“Dear sister, here you are,” Harry was on his feet in an instant, spinning abruptly to face the door, “Lucius and I were beginning to think you’d gotten lost on your way back downstairs,” Bellatrix stood with her arm stretched up against the edge of the door, her lips twisted into something that resembled a smile, her yellowing teeth on show, “It’s much later than usual - what kept you?” Though Bellatrix spoke to her sister, her eyes were fixed on Harry.

Cold dread pooled in Harry’s gut, and memories of cold stone and echoing screams threatened to overwhelm him. He held them in place though, his occlumency shields keeping his breath calm and even, and his heart beating steady and true in his chest.

“Bella!” Narcissa was suddenly stepping past him towards her sister, “What are you doing here?” She said through her teeth, wrapping her fingers tightly around Bellatrix’s wrist and pulling her sharply from the door.

Bellatrix offered her an insincere pout, “Why! I was looking for my baby sister! Am I not allowed to worry after my baby sister?” She made to pinch Narcissa’s cheek, but her hand was slapped away.

“Stop it,” Narcissa said sharply, glancing nervously over her shoulder towards Harry, “You know you shouldn’t be here,”

“Why ever not! I’m not here to hurt the boy,” she grinned over her sister’s shoulder, “The Dark Lord has made his feelings clear about that,”

“All the same,” Narcissa stepped past her, her grip on Bellatrix’s wrist turning her from Harry and pulling her towards the door, “I doubt he’d approve of this. Now come on, let’s go,”

Bellatrix let out a dramatic sigh, “Oh, fine, Cissy - fine! I was only curious,” she shuffled backwards after Narcissa, but her eyes never left Harry.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry,” Narcissa said curtly, sending a worried look in Harry’s direction.

“Bye bye baby Potter,” Bellatrix said mockingly. Her wide, frightening smile was the last thing Harry saw of them before the door was pulled shut.

The silence was deafening. Harry released the breath he had been unintentionally holding, and waited for the fear to rush in. But it never did. In its place, he found cold, hard fury lodged in his gut, pressing up against his throat and fighting to get out, and he realised something abruptly: he wanted to hurt Bellatrix. No. He didn’t just want to hurt her. He wanted to ruin her. She had taken his eye? Well, he wanted to take both of hers. She had cut him again and again? He wanted to slit her throat and watch her bleed.

The viciousness of the thoughts should have alarmed him, but they didn’t. It was difficult to be alarmed by an idea that he was so utterly comfortable with.

He… wouldn’t have been so comfortable with the idea before though, he realised, a sinking sensation in his stomach. Before June. Before June, he had let the man responsible for his parent's death walk free. More than that - he had stopped his would-be murderers. Now though… well… now though.

The cracks had begun to show, he realised, and that? That was something that did alarm him.

“That woman,” Atropos hissed in his ear, “She smells of evil,”

“Damaged,” Clotho murmured, “Broken. Insane. Cruel,”

“Mad as a box of cats,” Harry muttered his agreement.

“Cats are mad?” Clotho asked sounding thoroughly confused. It had never occurred to him that snakes might not understand idioms, but he supposed it was obvious on reflection.

“I don’t like her,” Atropos growled, baring her fangs, “She wishes you ill. She was insincere. Who is she?”

“She supports the Adversary,” Harry told her, “She took my eye for him,”

All three heads hissed furiously, but it was Lachesis who spoke, “She is the Zealot,”

“The door is open,”

“What?” Harry said at once to Clotho’s dreamy comment: his eye snapped to the door, “What?” He repeated, taking a nervous step forward. The door didn’t look open from his position.

“The door is open,” Clotho insisted, “There is a breeze coming through the gap,”

Slowly, cautiously, Harry approached the door, his footfalls silent against the thick carpet. He half expected something to jump out him, or some barrier to appear to stop his advance.

Nothing ever did.

Before he knew it, he had crossed the room, and his gaze was fixed on the crack of the door, and the slither of corridor he could see beyond. Clotho was right, he realised as adrenaline thrilled up his spine: the door was open.

Harry found himself frozen by indecision. What… what should he do?

The Gryffindor part of him demanded that he rush forwards. That he wrench the door open and try his level best to escape. But another part of him… the part of him that had been nearly sorted into Slytherin, demanded that he stay put. This could be a trap, he reasoned. Or a test. To see if he was trustworthy. Either way, it didn’t take a genius to realise that this wasn’t simply a mistake. The door had been left open deliberately.

Why had Bellatrix really come to his rooms that evening?

Despite knowing this, ultimately, there was a reason beyond Harry’s choice that had had the hat placing him in Gryffindor.

Harry swallowed his nerves and pulled the door open.

He stared out into the corridor beyond. It was long and dark, illuminated by dimly lit chandeliers - three of them, spaced at regular intervals and ending above a thick mahogany bannister.

“What are you doing?” Clotho whispered curiously.

Harry licked his lips nervously, “I have no idea,” he admitted taking a shuffling step forward, his toes edging across the threshold, “but I have to try,” he felt her coils shudder against him, and she wasted no time in slithering under his robes and pressing her body against his. He felt her tongues tickle against the nape of his neck.

It took an agonisingly long time for him to gather the courage to step out of the room, but once he had, he felt as if he had pulled himself free of the metaphorical shackles that had bound him to the room. He crept onwards, his eye darting about the walls, his heart hammering in his chest and his stomach roiling nervously as he watched life sized portraits of blonde, aristocratic witches and wizards as they watched him back.

None of them seemed particularly interested in him, he realised with relief. There was no one rushing their way out of their frames and sprinting off to tell someone he was trying to escape.

At the top of the U-shaped staircase, his hand on the mahogany bannister, Harry was rooted to the spot by second thoughts.

This was a trap. This was definitely a trap. He knew it was a trap, so why keep going? He should go back. He wasn’t about to escape; he was just about to walk himself into more pain and suffering. He should go back.

He didn’t though. He took one step forwards to the step below, and he didn’t stop walking until they ran out. He didn’t count the flights. He had no idea how many floors he had walked down, he was too distracted straining to hear for the slightest noise and darting his eye about looking for even a hint that someone might be approaching or hiding in the shadows.

At the bottom of the stairs, the sound of his feet against the carpet became even more muffled. There was stone beneath his feet now - carpet on stone rather than carpet on wood. This was good, he tried to sooth himself. His steps would be even quieter now. But it drew his attention to something he hadn’t considered before now: he wasn’t even wearing shoes. What was he going to do if he got outside? Was he going to go sprinting barefoot through the night? The sun had nearly set. By the time he managed to get outside of the grounds it would be dark, and he’d be trying to escape with nothing but the stars to see by.

f*ck, he should just go back. It wasn’t too late. All he had to do was carefully walk back up the stairs, back through the corridor into his rooms and close the door behind hi-

No! No. No, he wasn’t turning back now, he thought determinedly. He had to keep going.

He had… no idea where he was going though, he realised as he tiptoed ever forward. There was nothing in the impossibly tall ceilings and panelled walls that even hinted at the way out. There were no shadows of people congregating behind doors to suggest where he should avoid, and no cold breezes to suggested where he should proceed.

In the end, he wandered endlessly onwards, hoping and praying that he would find his way.

When he turned a corner and saw yet another long corridor, and at its end a wide archway that opened out into an enormous stone room, Harry thought that, against all the odds, he might have made it to an exit. As he crept closer, and the air turned colder, he knew with certainty that he had.

Hope threatened in his chest as he padded cautiously out into what he realised by the enormous, bolted doors to his left, was an entrance hall. He took a single step in its direction, a smile threatening on his lips, when a movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye had him freezing.

He snapped his gaze to the side, watching in horror as an unfamiliar figure emerged from the gloom of the dark corridor ahead of him. It was a man - a Death Eater - with lank dirty blonde hair hanging in curtains around his face, and an enormous scar that stretched from his hairline, through his brow and lip and to the tip of his chin. The man smiled at him revealing broken and missing teeth.

He spoke, and when he did, it was with a familiar oily voice that chilled Harry to the bone, “Hello, pretty little bird,”

Mulciber.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and then the moment ended.

Harry leapt into action, lunging back the way he had come and sprinting desperately for the long corridor behind him and the rooms above that he hoped and prayed promised safety. If he couldn’t hurt himself in there, then surely no one else could either?

In the end, it didn’t matter. He only made it two steps before a fist in his hair was wrenching him backwards. He cried out in alarm, reaching back and scratching at the hand that had grabbed him and was twisting his head down. He was forced sideways, then forwards. His glasses bit painfully into the bridge of his nose as his face was smashed against the cold stone wall.

Mulciber plastered his front to Harry’s back, trapping him against the wall. He chuckled into Harry’s ear, and Harry found himself immobilised by fear, “Now now, little bird… where are you going?”

Mulciber’s body was suddenly gone, but it wasn’t for long. The man used the leverage he had over Harry’s scalp to drag him back, and spin him round, shoving his back up against the wall. Harry whimpered at the sight of his broken teeth, the pattern of them familiar and something he had seen every night embossed into his own skin.

Harry pressed his hands against the man's chest, trying desperately to force him away, “Get off me! GET OFF!”

Mulciber only laughed, squeezing his free hand around Harry’s throat and leering closer.

He was so heavy, barely moving an inch no matter how hard Harry tried to push him back, and pressing closer and closer until their chests were flush and their noses were nearly touching.

Mulciber was talking - Harry could tell by the movement of his jaw and the brush of his rank breath against his cheek - but Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying. His ears were full of the sound of his own panting, desperate breathes and his terrified cries.

He pawed frantically at the man's chest, when his fingers closed around something cold and hard strapped to his ribs. It was a handle of some kind - a weapon? A wand handle? His fingers had just managed to close around it, when Mulciber was suddenly rearing back and screaming furiously.

Even though he had been released, Harry couldn’t move. He watched, transfixed as Mulciber howled and howled, cradling his hand (the one that had been wound around Harry’s hair) to his chest, “What the f*ck?! WHAT THE f*ck!!?” He looked up, practically foaming at the mouth, revealing that his hand was very quickly turning a furious red colour, starting from two small, white puncture marks in the webbing between his finger and thumb, “You bitch - YOU LITTLE f*ckING BITCH!!!”

Harry flinched as Mulciber lunged forwards, but the man was suddenly blasted back with an enormous bang. He landed flat on his back, his pained groans echoing against the stone walls.

Harry didn’t have long to take in the sight of the man writhing in agony on the floor, before a hand around his wrist was wrenching him away from the wall and pulling him determinedly away from the entrance hall and back the way Harry had come before.

Harry didn’t even think to fight. He was shaking so badly that he was amazed he could even stand without assistance.

His eye trailed from the hand that was dragging him onwards, up the arm that it belonged to, and landed on familiar platinum blonde hair that spilt over a broad back. Lucius Malfoy didn’t speak to him or even acknowledge him; he simply marched him onwards. Harry didn’t resist.

When Harry tripped on a step and nearly fell, Malfoy Senior’s grip around his wrist doubled in strength and yanked upwards so that his knees didn’t even hit the ground. Harry caught sight of a disdainful sneer through blonde hair, before Malfoy looked forwards and continued their march.

He left Harry in his rooms, slamming the door behind him, all without saying a single word.

Harry stood in front of the door, numb and shaking, and taking in the room in front of him. He couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes, but he felt as if there should have been some tangible sign around him that time had passed between him exiting and returning. Of course, there wasn’t.

“My Own? My Own?! Are you alright?” Lachesis hissed urgently, burrowing out of his shirt to peer nervously in his face. Harry’s eye looked between the three heads.

Lachesis looked anxious, Clotho looked terrified, and Atropos looked furious. Red blood trailed down her chin and Harry realised abruptly what had happened. Atropos had bitten him.

He nodded silently, looking slowly down to his hand as he registered that he had been holding something the entire walk back to his rooms. There was a knife in his hand, long and ornate and terrifyingly sharp.

For a long time, he simply looked it, and waited for his brain to engage. He came back to himself with a shuddering gasp.

Oh f*ck.

f*ckf*ck f*ck!

No. No, he needed to control himself. He needed to get ahold of himself right now!

He tried his best to force his occlumency shields into place, and while he did a good enough job to afford himself clarity, nothing he did would stop the trembling of his hands.

For the first time, he had a weapon, and he needed to do something with it. He didn’t think Lucius had even registered that Harry had it, but Mulciber would certainly notice its absence. He needed to hide it. He needed to hide it somewhere it would never be found.

His eye darted around the room furiously, hunting and searching for something to do with it, when he landed on the wooden panel beside the bathroom door. The one with a winged-horse rearing onto its hind hooves, and Harry knew immediately what to do.

He barely remembered moving. One moment he was by the door, and the next he was stroking a shaking finger down the horse's mane. His heart hammered in his chest, and his panting breath sounded almost deafening as he waited for the panel to disappear into the wall.

He pressed the blade clumsily into the hiding space, barely registering as the blade nicked his wrist. He swore, frustrated as he struggled to figure out how Narcissa had closed the space again, working his fingers around the edges and searching desperately. Finally, his fingertip found the smallest button. He pressed it and the panel slid back into place.

The sound of the door handle turning had Harry rushing back into the middle of the room, so that when the Dark Lord Voldemort stepped over the threshold, he was nowhere near his new hiding place.

The Dark Lord’s eyes found his immediately, and fixed him in place as he approached slowly, carefully, until Voldemort was peering down at him, his expression considering. Harry’s heart was beating so wildly he thought he might be sick, but he refused to look away, staring up defiantly at the taller man and hoping that he didn’t look as frightened as he felt.

Voldemort’s slit like nostrils flared as he exhales heavily through what remained of his nose, “Oh, Harry,” he said softly, his voice toeing the fine line between gentle and dangerous; he raised a slender finger to Harry’s face and carefully stroked his cheek, “What a mess he’s made of your face, hmm?” Harry said nothing, resisting the urge to slap the hand away, “I understand why you did it, Harry. It is only natural, to want to escape. In some countries, it is not even against the law to attempt to escape prison, the instinct considered so natural that it isn’t punished,” he allowed his hand to fall, and Harry suppressed his sigh of relief, “I am a benevolent Lord, Harry. I know you may not believe it, but today I shall prove it to you. I forgive you Harry,” he nodded slowly at the shuddering breath that escaped Harry, “Yes, Harry. I forgive you.

“But understand,” he continued, “I will only forgive you this one time. Should you attempt to escape again, then there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

Harry swallowed, and his voice came out hoarse, “Yes, my Lord,”

“Of course - it is not really your fault. But do not worry: Bellatrix will be punished for her actions, and as for Mulciber, well,” he chuckled, “I dare say he has already learnt his lesson from this experience,” he raised a hand to Harry’s cheek again, but Harry flinched back.

“I don’t understand,” he bit out, “I. Do. Not. Understand. Why the f*ck am I here?!” His voice came out as a sudden shout, “Why am I even still alive?! Why won’t you just f*cking kill me and get it over with?! Death would be better than this!! Please! Please…,” he tried to swallow back his shuddering sobs, “Please just kill me. Please. I just want out of this f*cking room, and if death is the only way, then I’ll take death. Please. Please,”

Voldemort sighed, shaking his head sadly: an act that Harry didn’t believe for a moment. He reached out and carefully folded his hands around Harry’s wrists, encouraging him to the sofa, “Oh Harry. You must understand, this room is for your own safety, not only from my less obedient Death Eaters, but from the Order as well,”

Harry scoffed wetly, pulling his wrists free and shuffling back down the sofa and away from the man, “From the Order?” He said incredulously, “Why the f*ck would you need to protect me from my own friends? From my people?!”

“There is something I have been hiding from you, Harry,” Voldemort said gently, “Something that Dumbledore has hidden from you too. I hid it to try and protect you from it, but I can see now that denying the truth is causing you more harm than good, and so I shall tell you.

“When I came to your house on Halloween Harry, all those years ago, and your mother died to save you, and a mere baby defeated the greatest wizard the world had ever seen, something else extraordinary happened. When my killing curse rebounded upon me, my physical body was destroyed and my spirit fled… but not all of it,” Harry’s mouth turned suddenly dry, “You see Harry, it is well known that the act of murder causes the soul to become torn, and so when my curse rebounded, the part of my soul that had been ripped upon killing your mother broke free. This fragment, with me fled and gone, then sought refuge in the nearest living being - you.

“So, you see, Harry,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, but still Harry could hear every word, “while a portion of my soul remains attached to yours, I can never truly die. Should someone wish to kill me for good, they would also need to banish the part of my soul attached to you. And it is for this reason, dear Harry, that if Dumbledore truly wishes to realise his vision of destroying me, he will have to kill you first.”

The crack inside Harry widened.

If Voldemort continued to speak, Harry didn’t hear him. A high-pitched wining noise rendered him nearly deaf. He barely noticed when the Dark Lord left either, his eye fixed on the horsehead bust that peered over the mantel piece and into the flames in the hearth. He felt numb. Empty and bare, a vacuous emptiness in his chest where he had once existed.

He came to himself just long enough to whisper to the snake around his neck, “Was he telling the truth?”

“The Adversary was being honest,” Lachesis answered nervously.

When Narcissa came to his rooms several hours later, Harry had not moved from his spot on the sofa.

“Harry?” She said carefully, “Harry, are you alright?”

He turned his head to look at her. He swallowed dryly, and said, “Will you cut my hair?”

Chapter 13: Severus: Glue Traps

Chapter Text

“Severus? Are you listening to me?”

Severus automatically straightened in his seat, “Of course - please, continue,” he glanced between the plate in front of him and Minerva to his side. She watched him with a dubious frown. He tried to focus on her face rather than the flash of red hair he could see just over her shoulder, “I am listening,” she’s not real, she’s not there, this is all in your head, “I… I am listening, I am simply weary,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Weary… I wonder if Harry is weary,” he focussed on his plate, cutting his roast potato in two and adding peas to his fork. If he just ignored her, she’d go away eventually. She always did in public. It was when he was alone that she became particularly tenacious.

Minerva’s expression became immediately understanding, “I see… we can talk about other matters, Severus? Or simply eat in silence?” She offered.

It was a strange and sometimes reluctant friendship that he had with Minerva McGonagall, but one he was growing increasingly grateful for. She was the only person he saw on a regular basis who both knew the precarious role he was playing, and also recognised its great personal cost.

Albus may have recognised it too, but he had always been too Slytherin in nature to allow himself to truly care the way that Minerva did. Severus couldn’t blame him. He imagined it would grow difficult to continuously ask someone to risk their life if you allowed yourself to care about the consequences they might face for following your orders.

“No,” he rebuked at once, cutting into his beef with renewed vigour, ignoring the face he could feel pressing in on his periphery vision, “No. This is important - not only for the Order but for the people of Hogsmeade as well,” he reminded her quietly.

“Poor Rosmerta,” she sighed, her voice a whisper in his ear, “What did she ever do to deserve that?” Rosmerta had been found, a noose around her neck and swinging from her pub’s creaking rafters, “I’ll never understand why you chose to join them, Sev. You’re not even pureblood,”

Severus cleared his voice, “Please: continue,”

“Alright… as you wish,” Minerva said reluctantly, clearing her throat a little and checking the small privacy ward that surrounded them at the end of the faculty table, “Scrimgeour has suggested we provide the residents with alarms that are linked both to the castle and to the Aurors themselves, however Albus feels it is unreasonable to expect the staff to go running into unknown danger, playing Auror with none of the experience or training (which I don’t disagree with). But also, that would be leaving the castle and her students unprotected. As callous as it might sound, the residents of Hogsmeade are grown witches and wizards: I would not choose to protect them over the children living here,”

“Who’s protecting my child now, Sev? No one,”

Severus nodded, dropping his fork to rub at his eyes, “Indeed,” he agreed, swallowing back the wave of guilt that threatened to eclipse him.

“Are you sure you wish to continue, Severus?” Minerva asked immediately, “I… I know the toll that Saturdays take on you,” she added nervously.

Severus suppressed the urge to snort. Saturdays were not what plagued him now, but she wasn’t wrong. Just the word had dread pooling in his gut.

He hated them.

Saturdays meant Mafloy Manor. They meant sitting across from Harry Potter and casting every diagnostic charm known to man, as if they had some kind of therapeutic value. Looking at him every week had guilt burrowing into Severus’s chest like a disease. The boy was looking somewhat healthier now - less gaunt - but the improvement was only skin deep. Severus didn’t miss the haunted look in his eye.

Potter needed a healer, really. A mind healer, and one that specialised in magical cores. Perhaps it was naive of him to presume that the damage that had been done by six months of magically assisted dissociation might have healed by now. It hadn’t, of course. Not fully. While there was some improvement, Potter’s core remained fractured and straining at the seams.

If there were no further improvements, in the short term and in the absence of any extraneous circ*mstances, the boy might not experience any negative effects. In the long term though? Well, without magical intervention, cardiac arrest before he turned thirty seemed inevitable. They still had time though - a few years perhaps - before the damage was irreversible.

It didn’t offer Severus any comfort. It didn’t offer her any comfort either, and she made sure he knew it.

The Dark Lord had seemed unconcerned, however. He was convinced that, before that time came, he’d have succeeded in his campaign, and Potter would receive the highest quality of care that St Mungo’s could offer.

The man was… obsessed with Potter. He wanted to know everything about the boy, and Saturday afternoons were spent answering his every question about his life. His experiences. His friends. His family or lack thereof. For the questions that Severus had no answer for, he found himself assigned the task of discovering those answers. Severus didn’t need to be a genius to understand why he was so interested in Potter: how better to turn him, than to understand his every motivation.

“Please, Minerva,” Severus said through a sigh, “Just… continue. We only have an hour until the Order meeting,”

Her lips twisted into a dubious expression, “If you’re sure,”

The Order meeting. The final reason Severus despised Saturdays. With him already being near the end of his tether, he found them exhausting. If he were a lesser man, he’d skip them and rely on someone like Minerva to provide him with the cliff notes. But he wasn’t a lesser man, and his role in this war was too important for him not to understand every single move being made. He doubted she would ever leave him alone if he tried to skip them either.

And then there was the second meetings that sometimes followed - the one about Potter. He was relieved that no such meeting was planned for that evening. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain a civil tongue.

He was beginning to regret accepting the Defence post: Albus had been right. The Dark Lord had heavily implied he expected Severus to leave the school at the end of the academic year and have him assume the role of Potter’s teacher. Even more worryingly, he was thinking about giving Potter his wand back.

He couldn’t see Potter trying to curse Narcissa, but he doubted the boy would have any such concerns about Severus. And while Severus was confident in his own ability to defend himself, there was the Runespoor to consider as well. Though generally non-aggressive in nature, Runespoor venom was nothing to sniff at. He might not die, but he’d be in for a world of pain.

He was already struggling with Saturdays. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage when every day became a Saturday. When he spent every day blocking out a phantom voice he hadn’t heard in nearly sixteen years. A voice that he loved, but who hated him.

“I’m sure,” he insisted.

Minerva sighed, but continued, “The idea of extending the castle’s wards has also been bandied about - I’m not sure by who, but it's almost certainly some idiot who’s not going to have to figure out how to extend millennia old wards that are anchored nearly a mile deep into the earth,” she said dryly.

“It’s not impossible, but yes, you’re right, it would be quite an undertaking. And the effects to the villages economy should be considered - unless we’re planning on allowing shoppers to have unlimited access to the village and therefore the school, it will need to be virtually inaccessible to anyone but residents,” on his other side, he saw the chair being pulled out and a figure taking a seat. He knew that if he turned to look, he’d see nothing at all. She always remained just out of sight, with her voice emanating from a point that didn’t quite correspond with where he thought he could see her.

He should see a healer. He should definitely see a healer.

Minerva hmm’ed in agreement, “Yes, yes,”

“And then we must consider the floo system - villagers would have to consent to their personal fireplaces being warded as well. And then we’d have to think about the possibility of villagers who are sympathisers to the Dark Lord and may allow Death Eaters access to the village and school,” he shook his head, “No. This is far more complicated than simply extending the war- ah!” Severus dropped his knife with a clatter and gripped his burning forearm with a hiss.

“Severus?” Minerva said sharply, “Severus - is it…?”

He gritted his teeth, carefully releasing his forearm, his eyes darting cautiously about the hall to see if anyone had noticed his reaction. He relaxed back into his seat, “Yes,” he reached for a napkin to carefully dab at his mouth, still surveying the hall for any watchers. His gaze finally found the one person who was staring up at the table: Mafloy. A figure with long red hair stood just at his shoulder, but Severus ignored her in favouring of returning Malfoy’s gaze just long enough to make it seem as if he were unconcerned by his observation, “I must leave,” he said shortly, straightening his sleeves and breaking eye contact with Malfoy to look over his shoulder, but as he expected, she was gone, “You will tell Albus?”

“Yes,” Minerva said at once as he pushed his seat back, “Yes of course. Be safe, Severus,”

He offered her a single nod before he turned to sweep his way out of the hall. He didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t rushing. He glanced over his shoulder before he left and was unsurprised to find Malfoy’s eyes still fixed firmly on him, the figure who had been behind him nowhere to be seen.

The moment both of his feet were across the castle boundaries, he disapparated.

He paused for a moment at the edge of the wards, half expecting the flick of red hair amongst the trees just beyond his vision, but there was nothing to see.

Against his better judgement, once he had passed the manor’s wrought iron gates, he strode directly down the gravel drive towards the main entrance. As a rule, he tended to avoid the manor’s entrance hall. More often than not, Mulciber could be found standing just outside of the doors smoking. Severus did not feel threatened by the man; on the contrary, Mulciber would greet him with a wide grin and a slap on the back as if they were old friends.

He hated it, not only because he didn’t particular want the man anywhere near him, but because he wasn’t wrong. They were old friends, once upon a time, and knowledge of the evil he’d so willingly welcomed into his life made him feel sick. It made it increasingly difficult to look at Potter as well, and he already needed every one of his faculties in place in order to continue maintaining his cover in front of the boy.

Standing in the entrance hall, he didn’t find Mulciber, however. Instead, he found someone he despised nearly as much: Wormtail.

The rat offered him a weak smile as he twisted his hands anxiously in front of him, “Severus - so good to see you,” he simpered.

The sneer Severus offered him wasn’t an act. Over the summer holidays, he had been encumbered with the pathetic little man as a house guest. For reasons Severus couldn’t even begin to fathom, the fool had been under the impression that he’d be staying at Spinners End and having the run of the place when Severus returned to Hogwarts. Severus had swiftly availed him of this notion.

“Wormtail - where is the Dark Lord? I was summoned,”

Pettigrew nodded eagerly, “Oh-oh yes! The Dark Lord has already left for the evening - he asked that I direct you towards Narcissa,” he pointed towards the east wing, “He said that she would be able to- oh!” He let out a squeak of surprise when Severus turned and marched away from him, not waiting to hear him finish his sentence.

If he’d told his teenaged self that of the Marauders, Peter Pettigrew was the one he ended up hating most, he’d never have believed it.

He strode through the dark halls with purpose, the confidence in his steps never betraying the uncertainty that threatened in his gut.

He’d never been called by the Dark Lord before, only to find that the Dark Lord hadn’t even stayed to speak with him. What could have possibly been so urgent as to unexpectedly call Severus from Hogwarts, but for the Dark Lord to not feel it necessary to give him instructions directly? He knew in his gut it had something to do with Potter, but what?

He quickly found the room he was looking for. The door to the sitting room was closed as he approached it, with light creeping out from around its edges into the dark hall beyond. He could hear voices - raised and furious.

He entered without knocking, and the room fell suddenly silent as the occupants turned to look at him.

Lucius and Bellatrix were stood opposite one another, Bellatrix with her back to the fireplace, and Lucius several feet away with the coffee table and sofas separating them. Between them, perched on one of the sofas was an extremely pale Narcissa. In one hand she held a tumbler of amber liquid, while the other played nervously with the chain around her neck. The expressions they greeted him with were at complete odds with one another. While Narcissa wilted in relief, Bellatrix sneered and scowled. Lucius, meanwhile, simply stared at him with hard eyes.

“Oh, Severus,” Narcissa gasped, “Thank Merlin you’re here,”

“I was summoned by the Dark Lord,” Severus answered cooly, “But I am surprised to find he has not even remained to speak with me,”

Bellatrix scoffed, “You speak as if the Dark Lord owes you something, Snape. He owes you nothing! You are nothing but his dog - he calls, and you come, and that is the end of it!”

“Like you’re any better,” Lucius snapped, though Severus was under no misconception that Lucius was in anyway defending him: rather, the man would have said anything if it meant furthering the argument Severus had clearly interrupted, “If Severus is a dog, then you’re a rabid one. Biting indiscriminately and foaming at the mouth!”

“f*ck you, Lucius! At least I have bite!” She sneered, “You’re pathetic. My sister should never have married you!”

“Enough!!” Narcissa cried, slamming her glass down and sloshing its contents onto the carpet, “Enough - this fighting will achieve nothing!”

“Perhaps, Narcissa, you might do me the curtesy of telling me why I have been pulled away from my dinner,” Severus interrupted coldly, “I presume that the Dark Lord did not summon me to simply listen to your family bicker, as entertaining as that may be,” all three of them were abruptly very quiet, exchanging quick looks but determinedly avoiding Severus’s eyes. He sighed in frustration, “If I wished to watch three children avoid a confession of guilt, I’d simply return to Hogwarts and wait near the Gryffindor common rooms. One of you - tell me what has happened, right now,”

“Harry-,” Narcissa began haltingly, “Harry escaped his rooms,”

Severus raised a single eyebrow; well, he hadn’t been expecting that.

Lucius scoffed, “The boy didn’t simply escape,” he denied, jabbing a furious finger in his sister-in-laws direction, “This stupid bitch left the f*cking door open!!” He said viciously, “ Deliberately!” He added.

“Why Lucius, brother-in-law,” Bellatrix simpered, her entire attitude changing suddenly to one of a chastised schoolgirl, “It was a simple error - a mistake. Why on earth would I allow the Dark Lord’s prisoner to escape? I am a humble and loyal servant of the Dark Lord, and I have proven it many times over,”

“Oh, you’re not fooling anyone with this innocent, repentant act, Bella,” Lucius snapped, “You knew the boy would never get out of this house - and even if he did, the wards are iron clad! Unless the Dark Lord has seen fit to brand him with the dark mark, he was never setting foot off the grounds! Don’t think we haven’t all heard you muttering to yourself about the boy,” he said viciously, his hands clenched in fists at his side as he practically tipped forwards towards her, “We all know how jealous you are of the attention the boy receives from the Dark Lord. You were baiting him!” He accused, jabbing a finger in her direction, “Tempting him to try and escape knowing that Mulciber would be waiting for him,”

“Mulciber?” Severus said sharply, his heart sinking. Merlin. He thought the boy was finally safe from that man.

“He grabbed Harry in the entrance hall,” Narcissa answered him quickly before her sister and husband could begin arguing anew, “Lucius got there before anything could happen though,”

Lucius scoffed, “Unless you count the boy’s blasted snake biting Mulciber, which it doesn’t appear that the Dark Lord does if his reaction was anything to go by,”

“So… I am here to treat Mulciber?” Severus hedged cautiously.

Bellatrix let out a bark of laughter, “Mulciber has already been dealt with,” she assured him with a mad grin, “Not that he was particularly grateful about my swift intervention,” she added with a disdainful sniff.

“This mad woman chopped off his arm!” Lucius exclaimed.

“The venom was spreading,” Bellatrix defended herself, “You should have seen it! It looked like the skin on his arm was boiling off. What if it had gotten to his heart? It would have killed him surely!” Severus chose not to mention that the poison of Runespoor’s was very rarely fatal to humans, as horrendous as it might be, “Anyway, the Dark Lord has already promised Mulciber he’ll replace the arm… eventually,”

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “If I am not here for Mulciber, then I can assume that I am here for Potter?”

“Yes,” Narcissa answered, “He seemed fine when I went to check on him, but the Dark Lord did not wish to wait an entire week to be assured of his wellbeing,” there was something in her voice that suggested to Severus that Potter did not seem ‘fine’ at all, but he doubted that she would express any of her true concerns in front of her sister. He recognised that his earlier prediction was beginning to be proved correct. The attachment that the Dark Lord wished to foster between Potter and Narcissa was beginning to form, but in both directions.

“I see,” he said slowly, glancing between the rooms three occupants. If Lucius and Bellatrix managed to avoid coming to blows before the end of the evening, he’d be amazed. Ultimately, though, they were none of his concern, “If you have nothing more for me Narcissa, I shall show myself to the Aethonan suite,”

“Yes, yes… please do,” Narcissa attempted a half smile, but gave up in favour of reaching for her drink and finishing the glass. Bellatrix and Lucius said nothing as he left, but he could hear their muffled shouts again before he had even made it to the end of the hallway.

He didn’t rush up to the top floor. Instead, he paced himself, walking calmly ever onwards up the stairs, trailing his hand along the bannister, focussing his attention always on the grain of the wood and using it to ground himself. With every step, he felt himself become emptier and emptier as he carefully constructed fresh occlumency shields to prepare himself for meeting with Potter.

This process of centring himself, clearing his mind, and rebuilding his shields, was a ritual he performed every Saturday morning as he made his way towards the Aethonan suite. He’d already completed it once that very morning. Repeating it left him feeling unbalanced, but he daren’t speak to the boy without it.

Potter challenged the integrity of his shields in a way that the Dark Lord never had. With the Dark Lord, the only threats to his shields were external. A penetrating attack from the Dark Lord himself. With Potter, all the threats were internal. His own guilt and horror threatening to eat him from the inside out. The longer he spent with Potter, the less he saw his father, and the more he saw a furious Lily staring back at him.

“I hope he’s not hurt,”

Severus faltered in his path and nearly stumbled up the stairs before he caught himself. He gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut.

She was the other reason he always reconstructed his shields before he saw Potter. Lily may have been a figment of his own imagination, for she was not as cruel in life as his subconscious had made her, but he was still only able to hold her at bay with especially strong shields. The kind he found impractical to maintain for more than an hour at a time.

It was maintaining these shields that made Saturdays so draining, but he couldn’t have her popping up to whisper in his ear while he tried to convince her son that he was the enemy.

He really should see a healer, but he wasn’t sure what they could even do for him. He was already certain he knew what would resolve these hallucinations, and it was currently a task beyond his reach. He could only hope he was able to stop them from manifesting in an even more vivid form. The last thing he needed was for Lily Evans to appear behind the Dark Lord during his weekly interrogation.

With his shields firmly in place, he took a deep breath in and out, and slowly opened his eyes. Finding only the wall ahead of him, he pushed onwards up the final flight of stairs until he was stood before the door of the Aethonan suite.

He paused one last time. If Lily was going to appear to him again before he entered the room, it would be now. He strained to listen for any sign that his mind might still be tormenting him; sometimes the only sign was the sound of smart shoes clicking against stone floors. It was a memory from years ago of their school days.

When he heard nothing, he finally turned the door handle and stepped inside.

His eyes found Potter immediately, though for a moment the sight of him made something cold swoop through his gut. Though it was obviously Potter, for a split-second Severus had thought that someone else entirely was sat in the armchair furthest from the door, his hands pressed palm to palm and wedged in between his knees. The three headed snake around his neck hissed in Severus’s direction. He didn’t miss the trail of blood down the right head's lips.

Potter’s hair had been shorn short at some point that day - shorter than Severus had ever seen it. Shaved nearly to his skin at the nape of his neck and then gradually fading into longer sections on the top of his head, but even this hair would have only stood perhaps a centimetre above the height of Severus’s knuckles if he were to run his fingers through it. Even the boy's fringe, which usually sat just above the top of his glasses, was cut short, so that his normally half-covered scar stood out in stark relief against his pale forehead.

It wasn’t his hair though, that had Severus frozen to the spot. It was the look in his eye. Hot fury and cold calculation all at once that held a promise of violence within it, though against who, Severus wasn’t sure. It was a look he’d never seen from Potter. The boy had been angry before, but it had always been mingled with terror and despair. Never this.

It wasn’t the kind of look Severus had expected to see on the face of a boy who had just had a run in with Mulciber.

Severus suppressed the urge to swallow, and he paced closer, “Potter,” he greeted cooly as he further catalogued the boy's appearance. He’d hit his head at some point - there was a graze and a bruise building at his temple - and judging by the slight cut on his nose, his glasses had been smashed against his face. The only other injury Severus could see as he carefully seated himself in the armchair opposite the boy, was a small cut to his forearm. It was deep enough to still be slowly oozing blood, but not deep enough to be concerned about.

“Professor,” the boys answer was frosty, his use of Severus’s title positively cutting, “Why are you here?”

Severus relaxed carefully back into his seat, “I understand you tried to escape this evening, and were injured in the attempt,”

The corner of Potter’s lips twitched into a mockery of a smile, “Calling it an escape attempt seems generous,” he said darkly, “It was a trap. It was always going to be a trap, I knew that, and I still tried,”

Severus nodded slowly, “If you knew it was a trap, why did you try?”

Potter’s false smile turned grim, he opened his mouth and paused, then snatched a breath before he spoke, “My Aunt Petunia… years and years ago we had a mouse infestation. Petunia wanted them gone, but didn’t want to find their little corpses in mousetraps; dead, with their spines snapped or their heads crushed. So she tried glue traps. Instead of dead mice, she found the limbs that they had chewed off in their desperation to escape,” Severus said nothing, “The instinct to escape is a strong one,”

Severus considered him for a moment longer, searching for something to say, but finding nothing. Instead, he raised his wand and began a familiar series of spells to assess the boy's health. Other than unseen bruising to the boy’s ribs, the spells told him nothing he couldn’t already see with his own eyes. He lingered over the charms that allowed him to inspect the boys magical core. He always found himself taken aback for a split second at the sight of the enormous golden cloud - it should have been a round ball, compact and contained. Not this sprawling mist. The familiar black shade swept through the gold above their heads and appeared unchanged, and the cloud of gold didn’t appear any more expansive than normal. If anything, it seemed more vivid.

“The Dark Lord came to see me,” he froze at the boys unexpected words; Severus couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Potter call the Dark Lord by his name, “He told me something… something…,” he chuckled and shook his head, “Something… I don’t know what,”

Severus knew better than to believe the light quality of his voice, “Are we talking in riddles now, Potter?” He answered disinterested, cancelling his spell and causing the cloud above them to disappear. He expected Potter to lash out in anger, but he didn’t.

The smile on his face disappeared into nothing until he was staring at Severus through a cold eye while his snake nosed at his jaw, “He told me a story. He told me that when he came to kill me, and failed…,” Potter’s voice stuttered suddenly, betraying his true inner turmoil; he swallowed and tried again, “He told me that when his killing curse rebounded and destroyed him, that it caused a part of his soul to breakaway,” dread began to build in Severus’s gut, “He told me… he told me that that fractured part of his soul latched onto the nearest living thing. And with my mum and dad being dead… that was me,” surely… surely not, “He said that as long as I’m alive, he can never truly die. He said… he said that one day, Dumbledore would have to kill me if he truly wanted to destroy him,”

“Why are you telling me this Potter?” Severus interrupted sharply, “If a part of the Dark Lord’s soul exists within you, I’m sure he would prefer it not to become common knowledge. Unless you wish to face his wrath, I would advise you to keep your mouth shut,”

Potter ignored him though, and Severus felt the dread in his gut begin to build and build, “I’m telling you because… because I want to know if Dumbledore knows. I want to know if he knows about the piece of Voldemort’s soul inside of me. I want to know if- if he’s known all along,” something like anguished fury twisted the boy’s features, “I want to know,” he continued, his voice biting, “if Dumbledore has known this entire time, that to destroy the Dark Lord… that I would need to die as well,”

The silence in the room was deafening.

Though his occlumency shields did their job and prevented even a slither of his inner feelings from appearing on his face, inside Severus was reeling.

The boy… the boy had to die? But… but Dumbledore had said that they were saving him. Saving him for Lily. He had to die?! Did he know? Did Dumbledore know?

“I’ve been considering how you might answer,” Severus found his attention caught by the boy again, “I thought… if you were truly on the Dark Lord’s side, you would confirm what he’s told me. All the better to turn me against Dumbledore, not only to try and save my own neck, but out of anger at being lied to. But if you were truly on Dumbledore’s side… well, you can hardly confirm what the Dark Lord has said. If Dumbledore needs me to die, he hardly wants me prepared I imagine. Knowing him, he’s got some image in his head of me sacrificing myself willingly or something. So, if you’re on Dumbledore’s side, you’d tell me that he doesn’t know about this. That it’s news to you. That it’s news to him. So. Which is it?”

He paused, considering his words carefully as he picked them specifically to both be the truth, but also to neither confirm nor deny the boy’s assumptions over his loyalty, “If… if what the Dark Lord says is true… I cannot comment on whether or not the headmaster knows this. If… if he does, he has not seen fit to share this knowledge with me,”

For a long time, the boy said nothing, his singular emerald, green eye darting between Severus’s pair. The snake at his chin hissed something, and finally he spoke softly, “Ah, Severus Snape… you really do have a way with words. Never lying, but never telling the truth either,”

Severus said nothing more while he healed the cut on Potter’s arm, and Potter asked no more questions.

He did his best to reduce the swelling at his forehead. He had nothing on hand to remove the bruising, but he didn’t waste time trying to figure out a work around. He needed to get out of that room. When he left, Potter was in deep conversation with the snake around his neck and didn’t even look up to acknowledge that Severus had left the room.

As solid as his shields felt, the flash of red hair that followed him constantly as he strode down the drive of Malfoy Manor told him that they were anything but. He needed to speak to Albus. He needed to speak to Albus right now.

He very nearly splinched himself as he disapperated, changing his direction of travel at the last moment when he remembered abruptly that Albus would be at Grimmauld Place, not Hogwarts. He would still be in the middle of the meeting.

He landed in the square outside of number twelve Grimmauld place with a lurch, nearly losing his dinner on the grass as his stomach roiled and his head span. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an arm in the journey.

He took a moment, bent at the waist and breathing through his mouth. He was waiting not only for his stomach to settle, but for his mind to stop racing.

Did Dumbledore know??

He… he needed to call a meeting. A meeting with Lupin, Black, Moody and Shacklebolt. But he needed to see Dumbledore alone as well - he wasn’t an idiot. He recognised immediately the volatility of the information he had learnt that night. No matter what Dumbledore did or didn’t know, that Potter might be harbouring a slice of the Dark Lord’s soul was a bombshell that could tear them all apart.

He knew instinctively that Moody would call for immediate execution. Shacklebolt would be more sympathetic, but he had no doubt he’d be on Moody’s side. He was a good man, but a man who had been an Auror for a long time. He remembered the old days well, and he’d fall on the side of practicality. What was Potter’s life compared to that of every witch and wizard in Britain?

It wasn’t even worth dwelling on Lupin and Black. He knew what they would say. But Dumbledore… now, there was a reaction he couldn’t predict.

“He knows,” Severus sighed, screwing his eyes up tight against the voice that reached him on the wind, “He knows, and you know it,”

“I don’t know anything!” He snapped, straightening and opening his eyes. He didn’t bother peering over his shoulder.

“He knows,” the voice repeated.

He ignored her though, striding across the square towards headquarters. It wouldn’t do to pay her words any mind - he wasn’t truly communing with the dead. She was simply a manifestation of his own guilt. She didn’t know anything that he didn’t.

He really should see a healer.

He closed the front door behind him quietly, conscious of the slumbering portraits in the hall. The door to the dining room was sealed shut, but with a tap of his wand and a whispered incantation, the seal gave way and permitted him past the threshold.

It was impossible to enter surreptitiously, and all eyes turned to him. They turned away quickly though and back towards whoever had been speaking before he’d arrived. The only person who continued looking in his direction was Black. Leaning with his back against the wall, the man nodded in greeting and shuffled further along to make space for Severus.

That they had formed a kind of fragile truce was something that Severus would never have believed if he wasn’t living it. That it was Potter’s kidnapping that had made all the difference was even more surprising. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Black was no doubt James Potter’s agent on Earth in the way that Severus tried (and often failed) to be Lily’s.

“What have I missed?” Severus murmured under his breath, his eyes finding the photo of Potter above the headmaster’s head. The photograph’s eyes flashed, something knowing in them. No. A trick of the light. The photograph didn’t know anything.

“The plan for protecting Hogsmeade,” Black muttered back, “They’re talking about extending the school’s wards,”

Severus sighed warily, “A terrible idea,”

Black hummed, but didn’t comment, “What did Voldemort want?” He asked quietly instead.

Severus shook his head, “After,”

Black’s neck cracked as he snapped his head to one side to look at Severus. He knew what ‘after’ meant. He opened his mouth, but whatever he started to say was drowned out by the sound of the room collectively getting to their feet and beginning to filter out of the room. His jaw closed with an audible click as he looked away, finding Lupin in the crowd and working his way against the tide to get to him.

Severus watched the moment that Lupin spotted him, his eyes immediately narrowing in concern. He reached out a hand, catching Black’s shoulder as he approached, dipping his head to listen carefully to whatever it was Black was muttering in his ear. His eyes searched through the crowd and found him instantly. They narrowed, and the line of his mouth turned grim. He pulled away from Black to peer across the room. He reached out a hand across the heads of the leaving Order, beckoning with his fingers to Shacklebolt across the room.

Severus gave up watching, sighing to himself and pushing away from the wall to work against the stragglers - those who had paused to press their fingers to Potter’s picture before they left. He ignored the suspicious looks thrown in his direction by the younger members almost as determinedly as he ignored the photograph of Lily cradling a baby Potter to her chest. She was always watching him when he looked, but he couldn’t be sure if it were a figment of his own imagination. He could hardly ask anyway else if she was always staring in his direction, and so he chose to simply avoid looking at her.

Albus noticed at once that five familiar faces had remained behind. He nodded to Severus, but waited for the doors to close again before he resumed his seat and spoke, “Severus - I was concerned when Minerva said you were unexpectedly called away,” he gestured to the seat opposite his at the end of the table, “Please, sit,”

Severus shook his head though, his gaze flicking to Black and Lupin on one side of the table, and Moody and Shacklebolt on the other, “I’d rather stand,” he said, his tone clipped, “Potter tried to escape this evening,”

“What?” Black said sharply at once, “Tried? He was caught?”

Severus nodded tersely, “Yes. Caught by Mulciber,” Black went suddenly pale, and Moody snarled, “He didn’t hurt him though - not much. He had a sizeable bruise on his forehead, and a shallow cut on his forearm, but otherwise he is unharmed,”

“Did you speak to Harry, Severus?” Dumbledore said gravely.

“Yes,” he hesitated, “He said he knew it was a trap, but tried anyway. He… he likened it to a mouse choosing to chew off its own limb rather than remain trapped,”

“Still a fighter then,” Moody growled, his approval obvious, “Still one of us then, yes?”

“It appears so,” though for how much longer, Severus wasn’t sure, “Bellatrix left his door open in an apparent attempt to bait him. It has become clear that she is exceptionally jealous of the attention that Potter receives from the Dark Lord. She either knew Mulciber would be in place to intercept him, or she informed him of what would happen this evening. Regardless, between Potter, Bellatrix, and Mulciber, Mulciber has certainly come off most poorly,” he couldn’t help his faintly pleased smile, “Potter’s snake bit him. I understand that Mulciber’s reaction to the venom was quite extreme, and Bellatrix made the executive decision to amputate his arm,”

“Pity she didn’t amputate something else,” Black muttered.

“But Harry’s okay?” Lupin pressed, ignoring Black.

Severus inclined his head slowly, “Potter is as well as he ever is,”

“Thank you for reporting back to us, Severus. Do you have anything else for us?” Albus asked calmly, his fingers steepled under his chin.

“No - but there is something you and I must discuss in private,” he answered firmly.

If Albus was in anyway surprised that there was something about the evening that only he could hear, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded. The others in the room didn’t wait to be asked to leave before they pushed themselves to their feet. Black caught his eye on his way out and inclined his head in silent thanks.

Severus tried not to shudder. To think. Black. Grateful to him? It was unnatural.

Albus’s blue eyes followed the others as they left, flicking between them and only returning to Severus when the door had closed once more. He took in a deep breath and sighed through his nose.

“Well then, Severus. What do you have for me?”

Severus hesitated, licking his lips to buy himself time as he contemplated how to start, “Potter… when he spoke to me. He told me that the Dark Lord had told him something,” he had a flash of realisation in his gut, and he continued with more confidence, “and I think I have finally realised what it is that had the Dark Lord so convinced that he would be able to turn Potter against you,” Albus raised his brow in surprise, but said nothing, “He told Potter that when he failed to kill him - when his killing curse rebounded - that it caused a fragment of his soul to break away. I’m guessing it was already extremely fragile as a result of making so many Horcruxes, so it didn’t take much,” he swallowed nervously, “He told Potter that this fragment of soul latched onto Potter himself and that should anyone wish to destroy the Dark Lord for good, they would first need to kill Potter,” he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, nearly deafening him as he asked the question he was terrified to hear the answer to, “Did… did you know?”

For a long moment Albus simply looked back at him. But then he let out a weary sigh and bowed his head, and Severus knew the truth, “You did, didn’t you?” He said harshly, “You’ve always known, haven’t you, that Potter would need to die for the Dark Lord to be truly destroyed,” he was suddenly glad he had chosen to remain standing; furious energy thrummed through his body making him feel as if he were vibrating, “You told me we were protecting him for her, for Lily. But all this time we’ve been raising him like a lamb for slaughter!”

Albus raised a placating hand, “Severus, please Severus you must calm down and listen to me,”

“What is there to listen to?” He snapped, “Do you intend to kill the boy yourself?!”

Albus reeled back, the expression on his face horrified, “Of course not Severus! As if I am capable of such a thing! I love Harry - I couldn’t possibly kill him!”

“Then what? How are you expecting him to die if you’re not going to kill him?!”

“You… you must understand Severus,” Albus started anxiously, “that my expectations as to how events might play out has been severely altered following Harry’s abduction. It never occurred to me that Voldemort might discover the truth of the connection he shares with Harry. I had… assumed, that Harry would die at Voldemort’s hand,”

“But he would still be dead!” Severus cried, outraged, “What does it matter if it's at your hand, when you would still steer him towards it?!”

“No - no, Severus you do not understand,” he said firmly, slicing his hand through the air as if to take control of the conversation, “By using Harry’s blood in his ritual to regain his body, he has redoubled the bond that ties them together. Where the Dark Lord cannot truly die while Harry lives, equally, Harry his tethered to life until the Dark Lord is dead and buried. Though this tether is not unbreakable, I firmly believe that Voldemort will find it nearly impossible to kill Harry permanently. If he were to attempt the killing curse on Harry again, I believe he would only destroy the parasitic part of his soul that is attached to Harry,”

“But he won’t try to kill the boy,” Severus sneered furiously, “He knows that the boy harbours a fragment of his soul. There is a reason he has Potter locked in the most secure room, of the most secure home in all of England like some fairytale princess! If it came to a fight to the death, the Dark Lord is fully capable of incapacitating a teenager without killing him. And even if he wasn’t, it would still be better for him to allow Potter to kill him, knowing that a faithful servant would restore him to his body once more,”

“Please Severus,” Albus raised both hands as if to contain his rage, “Please calm down and listen to me,” he reluctantly fell silent other than his heaving breaths, “I cannot pretend to know how events will transpire, but I remain confident that there remains a path ahead of us where the Dark Lord and Harry will come into conflict with one another, and if we are very lucky, the Dark Lord will be destroyed for good, and Harry will walk away alive,”

Severus shook his head in disbelief, taking an involuntary stumbling step away, “You believe in the prophesy that much?” He sneered, “What is your plan? To simply take your hands off of the reins and see where the horses take themselves?”

Albus sighed, “No, Severus,” he said witheringly, “My plan is to guide the horses as much as we feasibly can, but to trust that ultimately, they know the way home,”

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and instead turned on his heel and strode from the room without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind him.

In the hallway, he found himself glued to the floorboards by indecision.

More and more the headmaster had proven himself to be a man who played his cards close to his chest. Not only his cards, but Potter’s cards as well. Cards that could mean the death of Lily Evan’s son - an eventuality that Severus found he couldn’t accept.

He didn’t care what Albus said - he refused to believe that there was any eventuality where the Dark Lord tried to kill Potter while he harboured his soul. When Albus finally realised that too, what steps would he be willing to take to ensure that the Dark Lord was destroyed once and for all? He claimed to love Potter - that he couldn’t possibly kill him.

Would he feel that way after another decade of war and death? Severus found it difficult to believe so.

He had failed Potter once. He couldn’t do so again.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor in the room behind him spurred him into action.

He marched to the end of the hallway, but instead of letting himself out of the front door, he swung himself around the bannister and raced up the stairs. He had no idea where they would be, but he knew for certain that they would still be in the house.

He threw open doors indiscriminately - the drawing room, a bedroom, another bedroom, a library, a siting room, another bedroom and then another.

Finally, at nearly the top of the house, he found a door sealed shut with light spilling out around its edges. He didn’t bother to knock.

On the other side of the door, he caught Black and Lupin locked in an embrace, their arms wound around one another, and their heads pressed together. For a split-second Severus reconsidered the nature of their friendship, but they sprang apart with alarmed expressions before he could consider it further.

“Severus!” Lupin spluttered, alarmed, “What on earth are you doing?”

“You could have knocked,” Black scowled, “Or just not gone around barging into rooms in someone else’s house,”

Severus ignored him, his voice hard as he spoke, “Listen to me,” he slammed the door shut behind him, securing it with thick ward so that they would not be overheard even if Albus were to press his ear to the door, “I need you to listen to me, and not ask questions,” they exchanged a nervous look.

“Severus,” Lupin started, “What’s going on?”

“Just listen to me,” he swallowed dryly, “I need to know… I need…,” he tried again, “If there were ever a scenario where… where Potter’s best interests were contrary to that of the Order… I…,” he stumbled over his words uncharacteristically.

“Snape… maybe you should sit down…,” Black made to guide him towards a chair by the door, but Severus shut him down at once.

“No! No dammit, just listen to me!” He barked, “If there were ever a scenario where helping Potter - where saving Potter - went against Dumbledore’s command… where there was choice between Potter or Dumbledore’s word. Tell me now - which would you choose?”

“Severus… I don’t understand,” Lupin started, but he was almost immediately interrupted by Black.

“Harry,” he said firmly, “No matter what, I would choose Harry,” when Lupin said nothing, Sirius threw him an accusatory furious look, “Would you not?!”

Lupin sent him a withering look, “Of course I would,” he said harshly, “Of course I would choose Harry. He’s James’s son. He’s ours to care for and love. Just… just Severus. I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What do you know?”

“Do you swear it?” Severus said harshly, ignoring his question, “Do. You. Swear. It?”

“Yes,” Black said at once, “I swear it. I’ll take the Unbreakable vow if you need me to. I swear it on my very soul,”

“And I do too,” Lupin said in a rush, “but Severus, you have to tell us, what’s going on?”

Severus felt the winding anxious knot in his gut finally begin to unravel. He released a nervous sigh, and shook his head, “I can’t. But if it becomes relevant, then I will,” Lupin scoffed in disbelief as he turned to leave, but it was Black who stopped him.

“Snape - you swear it too, right?” Severus paused, glancing over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle, “You swear it too - right?” He said more firmly.

Severus took a deep breath in.

He nodded, “I swear it,” and he opened the door.

Chapter 14: Draco: Emerald and Diamond

Chapter Text

19^th of March 1997

H.

I have started and restarted this letter a dozen times and filled it with platitudes and reassurances that never quite delivered their intended meaning. They all felt like false promises and empty dismissals. An attempt to sweep your feelings and doubts under the rug.

After thinking long and hard about it, all I can say is this: I think, above all else, that you’re afraid of the Dark Lord making you into someone that you’re not - someone evil and cruel, but I know that that’s impossible. At your core, no matter what, you’ll always be the same irritating, self-sacrificing, scar-headed idiot who’s too noble for his own good.

But at the same time Harry: I need you to know that it’s okay to be changed by your experiences. It’s okay to grow and discover new parts of who you are. The idea that you could have gone through all of this and come out the other side as exactly the same person as before you went in, is naive.

I don’t write this to upset you, but rather to encourage you to be kind to yourself, whoever you grow into.

No one criticises carbon for becoming diamond under pressure.

At your core, you will always be Harry Potter.

There’s a reason your friends are all still carrying your memory with them like a torch; it’s because you touched all of their lives and changed them forever.

I’m sorry that you can’t talk to them. I know I’m a poor substitute - us Malfoy’s aren’t exactly known for our emotional intelligence - but I shall try my best to fill their shoes.

I’ll be home in a few days. The Express won’t arrive until late in the evening, and I shall have to greet my mother first, but I will visit you before I go to bed.

I look forward to discovering whether or not the new, amicable nature of our relationship translates from the pages of our letters to real life - I’m optimistic that, at the very least, we shall not come to blows. I can’t afford another black eye.

Yours,

Draco.

The mural outside of the great hall was vast, spreading almost the entire width and length of the stone wall. Draco wasn’t sure how Thomas had managed it - not only reaching all the way to the ceiling above but painting the entire thing in one night. It had appeared without warning in the morning on the second of September. The only indication that Thomas had even lifted a paintbrush had been the smear of colour across his forehead and the tired bags under his eyes.

Draco had overheard many versions of the story in the common room: Thomas had been caught by McGonagall, defiant and positively daring her to take it down. She hadn’t, of course. A fifth year claimed she had broken down into tears before adding charms to the artwork to preserve and protect it. A third year claimed she had awarded him an Order of Merlin right there and then. A second year claimed she had collapsed to the floor in reverence. Draco felt it was more likely that the professor had nodded in silent approval before giving Thomas a week of detention.

Draco pretended that he couldn’t feel the suspicious stares of the students that passed him on their way out of the great hall: what could Draco Malfoy possibly be doing, staring intently at the memorial for Harry Potter? Draco couldn’t look away though. He hated to admit it, but Thomas had talent.

The mural was a portrait of Harry from the waist up. A raven swept above him, the ‘wind’ making the tips of its flight feathers flutter. A badger to his right posed with one paw held aloft, its nose snuffling curiously at the air. The viper to his left was coiled up tightly, its back to Harry and baring its fangs furiously to the empty wall as if preparing to protect Harry from some unseen threat. The lion beneath him tossed its head this way and that, shaking its mane and roaring silently, saliva dripping from its gums. In the negative space between, vibrant colours were smeared across the stone walls: pinks and blues and greens and oranges and all colours in between.

His arms were crossed over his chest, a warm smile on his face as he stared down at the school’s population. He sometimes moved to readjust his grip, or to turn his head to watch as students left the hall, but he never lost the pleased upwards tilt of his lips. Even when he looked at Draco. He wondered if Harry would smile at him like that in real life.

The likeness was striking. Thomas had done an especially good job at capturing the vibrancy of his eyes - of replicating his specific shade of emerald green and their almond shape.

The portrait only looked faintly like the Harry that Draco had seen before he’d returned to school in January, and the comparison made Draco feel faintly sick. He wondered what Harry would look like when he went home at the weekend for the Easter holidays.

Painted in white (and messy in comparison to the rest of Thomas’s work) were written the words:

In Unity We Shall Find Victory

Unity.

Draco found himself suppressing a scoff, fiddling with the signet ring on his little finger, working his nails into its face. It hadn’t felt like unity when Granger had punched him in the nose. Bizarrely though, he could have sworn he’d seen a guilty look on her face when she’d watched Ginny Weasley smack him around the mouth only a few weeks later - as if she hadn’t just done the exact same thing.

He hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t even reported the assault. He’d simply asked Pansy if he could use some concealer and had dealt with the slight orange colour under his eye for a few days - he and Pansy didn’t have even remotely the same undertone, but Mother would ask questions if he asked for some of hers.

“Are you ready?” Draco forced his gaze from the upwards tilt of Harry’s lips to Pansy who had appeared at his elbow, “You should probably stop staring at that painting, you know,” she murmured, glaring at a passing Gryffindor fifth year who sneered at both of them as he left the hall, “People are beginning to notice and ask questions,”

Draco made a noncommittal noise and turned from the mural and towards the castle’s front doors, “Let them talk,” he said with a shrug, “What’s does it matter?”

Pansy sighed, following him out into the mild March air, “You’re going to end up earning a smack from one of his friends - another one,” she said pointedly, “Two shiners in one term is enough, surely?”

Draco shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets, his eyes fixed on their destination: the Owlery, “It wasn’t that bad… went down after a few days,” for a long moment, Pansy said nothing, and there was only the sound of the crunching gravel path beneath their feet.

Finally, she spoke, “You’re different, you know,” Draco swallowed, “You’ve been different since September, but you’ve changed again since Christmas. You’re… I don’t know how to describe it,”

“Quieter?” Draco hedged.

“Less of a dick,” Pansy corrected frankly, “You don’t pick fights. You don’t call people names. You’re positively polite, for heaven's sake!” She cried, throwing her hands into the air, “You apologised to Longbottom of all people - Longbottom!”

“I bumped into him,” Draco said defensively, “and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Longbottom’s not exactly a weedy little push over anymore. Getting slapped by Hermione Granger is one thing, but I’d rather not have him back handing me,”

Draco could practically hear Pansy rolling her eyes, “Oh please - he’s no taller than you are. And my point is that I’ve known you since we were in nappies, and I don’t think I’ve heard you apologise to anyone, except perhaps your mother under duress. You managed to cut all of my hair off just before we started Hogwarts, and you didn’t even apologise to me then!”

“You asked me to cut your hair!”

“I asked you to trim my hair,” Pansy corrected with a threateningly wagged finger, “Trim!” she stressed, “I went from having hair that reached the middle of my back, to hair that barely touched my shoulders! Anyway, stop distracting me. My point is, you’ve changed. Something has changed - something massive. And you won’t talk to me about it,”

Draco sighed, closing his eyes against the hurt in her voice, “Don’t pretend to be stupid, Pansy,” he said quietly as they turned onto the steps that climbed up to the Owlery, “You know who my family are. You know the rumours. You know what’s changed, and you know why I can’t talk about it. It’s safer for both of us,”

Pansy panted a little at his side, “Draco… you’re my oldest friend… if… if we hadn’t… oh - will you stop!” She grabbed his elbow, stopping him in his tracks; her cheeks were flushed red, “You and your stupid long legs - I can’t talk and keep up with you,” she scowled, then glanced around to be sure they were well and truly alone before she continued, “You’re my oldest friend, Draco, and if you weren’t like a brother to me, we’d probably have ended up getting married,” Draco shuddered at the idea; they’d tried kissing once, and the experience had nearly convinced Draco he was fully gay until he’d snogged Daphne Greengrass under the Quidditch stands, “Your secrets are my secrets, and vice versa,” she slapped his chest, “Got it?” He sighed and gazed down at her; she rolled her eyes and slapped him again, “Oh stop being so bloody morose,”

Draco offered her a dry smile, “I don’t know what you want me to say Pans,”

“I want you to tell me what’s changed - who do you keep writing to? Because I know it’s not your mother,” Draco lost his smile immediately; he turned to carry on up the steps, but Pansy caught him by the arm and pulled him back, “Hey! Don’t you walk away from me Draco Mafloy!”

Faced with her determined, furious expression, Draco felt his resolve begin to break. He pursed his lips, “I can’t tell you,”

“But you are confirming that it’s not your mother?” Pansy needled.

“It’s not,” he admitted, “But I… Pansy. I can’t tell you. He’d kill you,”

For a moment, Pansy simply stared at him, her expression hard. Finally, she relaxed with a tired sigh, “I’m not going to make you tell me. I’m not. But Draco - you can tell me. You’re my best friend. You can talk to me,”

Draco readjusted her grip on his arm so that her hand rested in the crook of his elbow and he continued their journey up to the Owlery at a more sedate pace, “I know Pans. You’re my best friend too,”

In the Owlery, Draco selected a nondescript barn owl to tie his letter to. They rarely used the family owls now - it was too risky. Castor and Pollux stood out like sore thumbs against the barn and brown owls the rest of the school seemed to favour, with their vibrant orange eyes and their severe expressions.

They didn’t stand out as much as Harry’s snowy white owl though. Where was she now, he thought to himself as he carried his chosen barn owl to the tower’s window. He hadn’t seen her since June. Was she with Harry’s friends? With his godfather perhaps? She certainly wasn’t at the school - he’d have noticed her. No one else had a snowy owl that he knew of.

He watched as the barn owl soared away, becoming smaller and smaller until she was nothing more than a spec in the sky. He leant against the window’s edge, ignoring the errant owl feathers that attached themselves to his robes. He wished he could fly away, he found himself thinking wistfully. He wished he could help Harry fly away, too.

Behind him, Pansy was fusing over her own tawny owl, running a finger down his nose and pressing kisses to his head.

Had Harry been like that with his owl? What had her name been? He’d ask Harry when he saw him next.

Leaning out of the window, he found himself caught in a fanciful daydream that centred around him finding Harry’s owl and returning her to him. Would Harry smile? Would he cry? With joy and appreciation? He knew he’d never find out, but the very thought of it held his attention so thoroughly that he almost didn’t notice the new dot that had appeared on the horizon.

The dot came closer and closer, changing from a dot to a figure that could be identified as an owl. He watched as the owl soared through the air, its wings beating at a sedate pace… at a familiar pace… he knew that owl.

“Is that one of yours, Draco?” Pansy said curiously, pressing the side of her head against his arm so that she could peer through the window as well.

“I… I think so… but we don’t use Castor or Pollux anymore, not to write to school with at least,” Draco muttered nervously, stepping back carefully to make room for the owl approaching through the air, “That’s definitely one of them though,”

Pansy shifted nervously next to him, “It must be important then, right?”

“Right,” Draco agreed, trying his best to fight down the anxious clench of his gut.

The owl landed silently, ruffling his feathers and turning glowing orange eyes on Draco. Castor hooted in a solemn greeting and waited patiently for Draco to remove the letter attached to his leg. Pansy fished owl treats out of her pocket, her eyes flicking curiously over to Draco as he opened the letter, which was short and had obviously been written in a hurry.

‘17th of March 1997

Dearest Draco,

I am writing to you with news most urgent: there has been an incident at the Manor involving Harry. Though he is unharmed, he is very obviously shaken and has not quite been himself since. I will provide you with more details when we see one another next, but I wished to avoid you being blindsided upon your return home and give you the opportunity to prepare yourself.

I know that yours and Harry’s relationship has often been one based on antagonism, but I feel that this approach at this time will only hurt you both.

I shall see you soon, my son.

Love,

Mother.’

Draco read the letter twice more, his heartbeat pulsing at his temples.

An incident.

The breadth of what that might or might not mean was infinite. He’d describe tripping up the stairs as an incident. He’d also describe making a cauldron explode as an incident as well. He wished she’d taken an extra five minutes to be more specific but what was done was done.

He lingered on the letters end: ‘I know that your’s and Harry’s relationship has often been one based on antagonism’. It seemed that he wasn’t the only who kept quiet about the contents of their letters. Draco wouldn’t describe his and Harry’s relationship as antagonistic - not anymore. Teasing, perhaps. Provocative occasionally. But not antagonistic.

“Everything okay, Draco?” Pansy asked cautiously.

He tore his gaze from the letter in his hand to find that Castor had left them alone at some point. He hesitated, “There’s been an… incident, apparently,”

Pansy frowned, “An incident? That could mean nearly anything,”

“Indeed,” Draco agreed, clenching his teeth, “Come on - I need to grab my books before I go to potions. I’ll be late if I don’t leave now,”

Draco had used to love potions, and it wasn’t that he hated it now, but rather that he struggled to settle into the single-minded focus that was necessary to brew both safely and successfully. More than once he’d seen Slughorn eyeing him with incredulous wariness, no doubt wondering how this absent-minded fool had managed an Outstanding at OWL level. Draco couldn’t blame him.

Now, the only way he found success in the class was by constructing occlumency shields strong enough to keep even the Dark Lord out for the duration of the lesson. While this did mean he was once again working at the level he was accustomed to, it also meant that any of the joy he had ever gained from successful brewing was buried behind his shields. It made for an experience that left him feeling numb and drained.

And so, while he didn’t exactly hate potions, he no longer found pleasure in it either.

It’s only real benefit, was that it was the only class he took that wasn’t filled to the brim with students who loved Harry, and therefore hated him. The Ravenclaws were far too focussed on their studies to pay him much mind - only Padma Patil’s eye had lingered on him during the first class. The only other students in the class were Ernie McMillan, who was gratingly pompous and opinionated, and Granger.

For the most part, Granger ignored him outright, acting as if he didn’t even exist. On the odd occasion that they had had to interact, she had pinned him in place with a particularly stony glare that had Draco half-convinced she could actually petrify him with it.

That had all changed after she’d punched him in the face after Slughorn’s party.

For the first few days she had insisted on maintaining a kind of defiant eye contact with him whenever the opportunity presented itself. Draco gained the impression that she was trying to communicate some lack of remorse, or perhaps that she expected him to report her, and she wanted him to know that she didn’t care. But when Draco did no such thing, and only returned the eye contact with a reluctant wariness, her attitude began to change.

She watched him. She watched him a lot, to the point that he had stopped looking up when he felt eyes on the back of his neck. What was the point when he knew it would be her?

Her interest had only intensified after Weasley had punched him as well. Now, not only did she stare, but sometimes she looked like she wanted to speak to him. It was… unnerving. It left him feeling on edge - like she might ambush him at any moment.

If he’d known that that would be the day that she finally gathered the courage to do just that, he would have avoided the class all together.

He never rushed to leave the class. He preferred to trail out after everyone else to avoid walking back to the dorm with his housemates. He’d learnt his lesson after the first class, when Theodore Nott had tried to walk shoulder to shoulder with him, his shoulders back and chest puffed out. They’d never been particularly friendly before and had only really interacted when Harry had announced to the world that both of their fathers were Death Eaters. It appeared that Nott wanted to create some kind of united front - the sons of Slytherin making their Master’s presence in Hogwarts known. It was the sort of thing Crabbe and Goyle would go in for. It was the sort of thing he’d have gone in for, before Harry had been taken - before he’d found out he was being tortured in the cellars.

And so, to avoid the inevitable conflict that would undoubtedly make its way back to the Dark Lord, Draco chose to just avoid Nott, Crabbe and Goyle entirely. He should have felt lonely, but he didn’t. Pansy was enough. Pansy, and the letters he received at least once a week from Harry.

The thought had heat building at his cheeks - f*ck, he was so pathetic.

Turning out of the potion’s classroom, Draco had been completely absorbed in his own mind as he carefully deconstructed his shields and allowed himself to actually feel something. So absorbed, in fact, that he didn’t notice until his name was being half-shouted that someone was trying to get his attention.

He turned, and immediately regretted it when he saw that it was Granger who was calling his name. He glanced around quickly and found that the corridor they were in was completely deserted. He swallowed heavily.

“What do you want, Granger?” He said flatly.

She pursed her lips at him, her eyes flicking up and down him as she stepped cautiously closer. She stopped before she had to start peering up at him to see his face; she was only a little shorter than Harry, “You’re different,” she said, half accusingly.

He snorted, “Really? You started shouting my name in the middle of the corridor to tell me that?”

Her eyes narrowed on him, “You don’t deny it?”

“What’s there to deny,” he shrugged, “I don’t owe you anything, so why would I waste my time trying to deny something, like your opinion matters to me,” he sneered, “Now. If you don’t mind,” he turned to go.

“You want to tell me something,” she said very quickly, stopping Draco in his tracks, “I can see it on your face… I could see it on your face, when you stopped in the courtyard that day,” reluctantly, feeling almost compelled, Draco half turned to peer at her over his shoulder; her expression was one of nervous conviction, “Do you want to tell me something, Draco?”

He looked at her, and for a moment, he imagined it all. He imagined confessing everything. Telling her all about Harry, and the pain he’d suffered. He imagined the look of relief on her face at hearing that Harry was alive, and then watching it collapse into despair upon hearing how Harry had been treated, and at the knowledge that there was no escape for him. He imagined finally having a confident at school - someone who wouldn’t go and report back to the Dark Lord. Not that he thought Pansy would, but the Dark Lord already wanted to kill Granger. He wouldn’t be putting her at any more risk by confessing the truth.

And then the moment passed.

“I…,” the denial caught itself in his throat and he swallowed it down; he tried again, “I…,” and again, the words wouldn’t come out, “There is something I want to tell you,” he admitted, the words almost falling out of his mouth, “but I can’t,”

She swallowed, “Malfoy… Dra-,”

“I can’t,” he interrupted her harshly, “so don’t ask me again,” and he swept away without another word.

The Hogwarts Express was busier than Draco had expected. Returning home for Easter was always less popular than returning home for Christmas, especially for fifth years and above who had important exams to revise for. But this year, nearly as many students were on the train as had been on the train in December.

He imagined that the change had something to do with Madam Rosmerta. Suspected Death Eater activity so close to the school must have scared more than a few parents. He wondered how many of the students on the train would be returning after the holidays.

Still, despite the volume of students on the train, Draco still managed to get a compartment all to himself. None of the other Slytherins were going home for Easter, and no one else would dare sit with him.

The journey was a long and lonely one. He spent most of it with the compartment door locked, the blinds pulled down, and his cloak hood lowered over his head to block out the light so that he could close his eyes and snooze with the rocking of the carriage.

Nobody waited for him on the platform, and nobody waited for him on the muggle side of the station either.

Instead, the moment he had stepped through the barrier, he disapperated from the station. He didn’t have a licence yet, and wouldn’t until the holidays, but what did it matter? He wasn’t worried about being arrested for it.

Striding across the grounds towards the East Wing, Draco found himself staring up at the Manor’s top floor and the windows of the Aethonan Suite. The lights were on, but dimmed - he could only just see the edges of the yellow lamp light escaping into the night. What he could see though, was a strange flickering light - white and bright but isolated to the centre window. He found himself pausing to stare up at it. What was that?

He’d find out soon enough, he was sure.

He continued in his journey with a single mindedness, striding onwards through the grounds and then through the house until he came to the sitting room. He slowed as he approached and strained to listen for voices on the other side of the door, but he heard nothing.

He didn’t knock, pushing the door forwards cautiously and peering around its edge, “Mother?”

He found her alone, perched on the edge of the sofa, the wireless playing quietly and her needlework in her hands. She dropped it the moment she saw him though, jumping to her feet with a wide and faintly anxious smile, “Draco, darling,” she opened her arms and stepped forwards to great him, pulling him into her chest, “How are you? Did you have a good journey?”

“I’m fine - it was fine,” he muttered into her shoulder as he returned her embrace, “And you? What happened?”

Her smile faltered and disappeared; she sighed, “Always straight to the point Draco - you’re just like your father. I had hoped we might… no, well, I suppose you’re right. It is important. Come and sit,” she tugged on his hand and pulled him back towards the sofas, moving her long stitch so that he might perch on the seat next to her.

“What happened?” He repeated, “What was the incident?”

She pursed her lips, “Harry tried to escape,”

Draco blinked in surprise, “He what? How? What happened?!”

“Your… your aunt came to his rooms,” Draco found himself scowling immediately; of course, this had something to do with Bellatrix, “She said that she didn’t close the door properly - that it was an accident - but I don’t think anyone really believes her. She’s been very jealous of Harry… of the amount of attention that the Dark Lord gives him and the importance he has placed upon him,”

Draco found himself shaking his head, “She’s insane,” he muttered, “No one in their right mind would want to be the centre of that man's attention, least of all Harry,”

There was a flicker of surprise in his mother’s eyes, though he couldn’t tell if it was at his casual use of Harry’s given name, or his easy dismissal of the Dark Lord, “No, well, I don’t think anyone is claiming Bellatrix is in her right mind. Anyway, Harry made it to the entrance hall when he was caught by Mulciber,” she grimaced in displeasure, “He… he didn’t manage to hurt Harry much - your father got there in time to stop him and take Harry back to his rooms. His snake bit him though - Mulciber I mean. The Moirai bit him. If anything, he came off much worse for the encounter than Harry, but Harry has been… not… not subdued,” she hunted for the right words, “His mood has been very changeable. He is withdrawn and not himself. I don’t know what to do - I’m worried about him,” she admitted, “Something has changed. Something more than him failing to escape,”

Draco nodded slowly, absorbing all that his mother had said, “Has the Dark Lord punished Harry? Or Bella or Mulciber?”

“The Dark Lord spoke to Harry, but I don’t know what he said. And he told Bella that he expects her to make it up to him, or pay the price, but I don’t know what that means either. Your father is concerned that she has put our standing in even further jeopardy. As for Mulciber,” a tight and surprisingly vicious smile appeared at her lips, “the Dark Lord said that he’d been punished enough. Runespoor venom is very unpleasant. Your aunt had to amputate his arm to save him - or at least that’s her story,”

Draco found he suddenly had a new appreciation for the snake that very clearly hated him, “Right… right… well, I- I should probably go and see him. I promised in my last letter that I would,”

“Oh,” Narcissa said, clearly surprised; she hesitated, “You two have become… friends?” She said carefully.

“Something like that,” Draco answered vaguely, pushing himself to his feet, “I’ll see you in the morning mother,”

Were they friends? He found the question rolling around in his mind as he made his way up towards the Aethonan suite, mingling with the day dreams that frequently occupied his time, all of them centred on that very topic: being Harry’s friend. It felt needy and pathetic to admit himself preoccupied with ideas of what being friends with Harry Potter actually meant, but he refused to be embarrassed in the sanctity of his own mind.

He supposed that they were - friends that was - he had said as much in one of his letters. But… but ‘friend’ didn’t quite sit right with him. It felt like an under and overstatement all in one. They were friends in writing, but in person…?

To be Harry Potter’s friend had been all he’d wanted as a young child, but now that he potentially had that friendship, he found the word lacking. ‘Friend’ didn’t seem like enough.

Finding himself stood outside of the suite’s grand door, Draco knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

His eyes found Harry immediately.

He was sat hunched over the drawing table, his back to Draco. He shuffled closer, waiting for the moment that Harry would turn around, but he never did. Draco considered calling out, but he held his tongue, choosing instead to take the opportunity to simply observe him.

He could see immediately what the strange low flickering had been: a fluttering blue flame, honed to the edge of an artist’s finest paint brush burned at the mouth of a silver torch. Clasped between Harry’s fingers and held in the heart of the fire was a clear glass rod. The centre of the glass glowed a furious red under the flame’s heat and was quickly turning white.

Harry held it in place, his brow furrowed, watching and waiting, though Draco didn’t know what for. He seemed almost frozen in place.

Draco’s eyes trailed from the glass to Harry himself. His hair was shorter, Draco realised immediately. He didn’t think he’d ever seen it this short. Somehow though, it was still impossibly messy; criss crossing this way and that so that his hair stood on end and folded one strand over another. Draco realised immediately what was causing the chaotic arrangement; with the bulk of his hair cut away, Draco was able to see the double crown on Harry’s head that had his untameable hair spiralling in conflicting directions. No wonder he could never get it to lay flat.

He looked away from his hair to the rest of him.

He looked better. Much better. He’d obviously gained weight and while his face was still narrow, it now no longer looked painfully so. Had he grown too? Draco thought he might have, but he wouldn’t know until they stood next to one another. Draco found his eyes drawn to Harry’s wrists, lingering on a healing cut, and then to his fingers. There was something about the way his forefinger and thumb grasped the glass that Draco couldn’t look away from. The tension in his hands made them look simultaneously delicate and strong; a combination that Draco found unexpectedly captivating.

He blinked in surprise when Harry suddenly moved, freezing in place and half expecting him to whip around with a reprimand for staring on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t; instead, he lifted the glowing rod clear from the flame and began to mutter under his breath. Draco watched, fascinated, as the blazing glass began to change shape, twisting and warping and tapering and bulging as the glass turned from a scorching hot white to a luminous orange, to an angry red, then finally back to white again. This white was different though - soft and sterile in appearance and at odds with the clear ends that remained.

The torch’s flame flickered, then gradually spluttered out into nothing. Harry’s shoulders raised as he took a deep breath in. Draco found himself mimicking the action without meaning to. He should probably say something before his silence became difficult to explain.

“Good evening,”

Draco half expected Harry to flinch; for him to drop the glass in between his fingers or for the newly formed centre to shatter. It didn’t though. Instead, Harry let out a small hum, and said, “I was wondering how long it would take for you to say hello,”

Draco found himself scowling and shuffling closer, nervously fiddling with his signet ring and eyeing the edge of the empty socket he could see, “You knew I was there?”

Harry turned his head. He sighed in frustration, and swivelled his whole body so that he could see Draco through his remaining eye. Draco was nearly stopped in his tracks by the vibrant green. He was wrong. Thomas hadn’t even touched the surface of Harry’s eye colour.

Harry nodded towards the window, “She saw you,” stretched out across the sill, pressed against the glass pane, the Moirai flicked her tail lazily. Draco tried his best to name the heads: Lachesis ignored him, Atropos snarled at him, and Clotho’s head swayed this way and that in an almost dreamy fashion.

“Hello,” Draco greeted cautiously with less enthusiasm now, “She’s grown,” he muttered, mostly to himself - she had at least doubled in length and diameter. He imagined she could only just about hide under Harry’s clothes now, “She’s grown a lot,”

“She has,” Harry agreed with a flicker of a smile, “I’ll be sad when she’s too big to carry around on my shoulders,”

“How big will she be when she’s fully grown?”

“Up to seven feet apparently,”

“That’s… terrifying,” Draco admitted flatly.

Harry’s lips tilted again into a shadow of a smile, “Nah… she’s like a big, grumpy, puppy at heart. She terrifies Tippy though,”

“I wonder why,” reluctantly tearing his gaze from the snake, Draco leant his hip against the drawing table and trailed a fingertip across the top, “Is this your eye then?” He nodded towards the still cooling glass.

The expression on Harry’s face turned rueful, “Yeah. An attempt at least,” he held the glass rod end on and considered it’s flattened centre for a moment, “That spell is meant to reshape the glass into the shape of my eye socket - I’ve been getting better but it's still not there. Look - can you see? How warped it is, and the sharp edges and the bubbling,” he pressed his lips together, “Not good enough yet. Wouldn’t even fit, and if it did, it’d probably really f*cking hurt,”

“Did you do that wandlessly?” Harry nodded, still inspecting his attempt critically, “And the torch - you lit that wandlessly as well?”

“Yeah,” Harry said distractedly, running a finger along the edge of the glass and scratching at its sharp edge with his thumb nail.

“And you did both at the same time?” Harry hummed an affirmative, “Harry: that’s amazing,”

Harry blinked up at him in surprise. Slowly, a small, shy smile appeared on Harry’s face, and Draco felt his breath catch just the smallest amount, “You think so?”

“Do you not?” Draco asked indignantly, “What else would you call it? I don’t know any other sixteen-year-olds who can do wandless magic,”

Harry shrugged, setting the glass down carefully on what looked like a thick white cloth, “I guess… It’s weird hearing you say my first name,” he said suddenly.

“Would you prefer it if I didn’t?” Draco asked awkwardly - should he not use his first name? He suppose he never had asked permission.

Harry shrugged again, then hesitated, “Would you mind standing on my other side? Only, it’s uncomfortable to turn so much,”

Draco felt immediately embarrassed by his own thoughtlessness, “Ah, yes - sorry,” he swept behind Harry in three steps until he was stood at his right shoulder instead; he didn’t miss the way Atropos followed him suspiciously, “I didn’t think, my apologies,”

Harry’s eye flicked from his chest to his face and his lips flashed in a grin that was there and then gone again just as quickly, “So formal,” he teased, but there was something uncomfortable in his voice, as if he too were struggling to navigate this new ‘in person’ element of their relationship. Draco felt suddenly foolish for thinking they would some how fall into the easy rapport they had developed in writing, “You know, this is probably the longest we’ve ever gone without insulting one another,” he pointed out.

“There’s still time,” Draco countered dryly, and Harry hummed in agreement, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Draco took a bracing breath in and pushed the conversation forwards with a clap of his hands, “Where’s my peridot then? You better not have lost it - two weeks detention that cost me, remember,” it was a lie. It had been four. With the current climate, breaking into Slughorn’s private potions store hadn’t gone down well, even if it hadn’t been proven that he’d actually taken anything.

Harry rolled his eye, and yanked the drawer closest to Draco open, nearly catching him with its sharp edge, “Right here - safe and sound,” Harry pulled out a mahogany ring box and flicked it open to reveal the peridot stone Draco had stolen resting on a red velvet cushion. He snapped it closed again and shut the drawer with a snap, “And I told you not to get into trouble,”

Draco rolled his eyes, “You’re not my mother - come on, let's sit down more comfortably. I’m tired of looming over you,” for a moment, Harry just looked at him, before Draco realised that he was so stood so close that if Harry were to stand, they’d end up pressed together. He took a hasty step back to give the other room, wandering back towards the sofas. Draco found himself eyeing Harry critically as he stood; huh, he had grown, though the top of his head still only came up to just above Draco’s chin, “What about her?” He nodded to the Moirai.

“She’ll be fine,” Harry said waving away his concern, “If she’s lonely she’ll make her way over. She’s perfectly happy to spy from a distance though,”

Draco eyed the snake warily as they wandered their way towards the living area, “I still think an emerald would be better though,” he wasn’t able to keep the disapproval out of his voice as they seated themselves at either end of the sofa; he gestured to the drawer, “That won’t look anything like your eye colour,”

“I told you - can’t use emerald. It’s a magic sink - one of the most effective apparently,” Harry relaxed back into his seat with a yawn, “It’s why emeralds can’t be used as part of any clothing or jewellery you intend to enchant. It draws the magic of the enchantment back in anytime it tries to activate - like a black hole. Emerald to magic is like activated charcoal to mundane poisons,” Harry paused, thinking, “Beryl, aquamarine and morganite have similar, less potent properties, but so do all gemstones in the hexagonal crystal family to some degree,”

“Now you mention it,” Draco started slowly, reluctantly ignoring the fact that Harry had at some point become well versed in crystallography, “I think I remember my mother telling me something about not being able to use jewellery with emeralds in it to create protective talismans. It’s why it used to be the ‘go-to’ stone for engagement rings. It was a status symbol - not only can you afford this rare gemstone, but you can afford for it to serve no practical purpose. My grandmother’s engagement ring was emerald,”

“I know. I’ve seen it,” there was something pinched in Harry’s expression and something sharp in his voice, but he continued before Draco could analyse it too closely, “Muggles are all about diamonds,”

Draco snorted, “Diamonds,” he drawled derisively, “Common and boring. Hard, yes, but there’s a reason it plays such an important role in industrious pursuits - they’re hardly rare,”

A reluctantly amused smile played around Harry’s lips, “You’re such a dick - you compared me to diamond in your last letter. I’m pleased to hear that I’m common and boring” he said, the joke in his voice faintly forced, “There’s nothing wrong with diamonds,”

“Other than the few million people who have died in the pursuit of mining them all over the world,” he argued quickly to cover the flush in his cheeks, “I wonder how many blood diamonds sit on display in Hatton Garden,”

“What does it matter to you if a few million muggles die?”

Draco froze, the sudden harshness of the question catching his breath in his chest. He resisted the urge to shift in his seat uncomfortably, “It… it doesn’t,” he cleared his throat and said more firmly, “I have no stake in muggle conflicts. And neither do you,”

“So you say,” Harry answered sharply, his blank expression at odds with the harshness of his tone. Draco was abruptly reminded of the ‘incident’ his mother had spoken of. Though he knew he couldn’t leave that evening without them speaking of it, he wasn’t quite ready to.

He shifted nervously, and changed the topic, “So- so presumably this prosthetic will have twenty-twenty vision, right? Is there nothing you can do about the vision in your other eye? Or are you just going to end up wearing glasses with only one prescription lens,”

Harry remained stiff and visibly ill at ease as he answered, “Y-yeah… I’ll have to keep the glasses. The book says that the methods that exist to modify eyesight are pretty taboo. They’re considered dark magic,”

“Why?”

“Because it involves threading slithers of gold into the eye to imbed runes directly into the retina,” Draco’s stomach turned at Harry’s flat answer, “Or silver. Historically it's been used by dark wizards to control their slaves. The book said either way it's incredibly difficult and risks blinding the patient and you definitely can’t attempt it on yourself. So. Yeah. I’m okay with glasses,”

“Yeah…,” Draco said slowly, “Glasses sound great,” he attempted a weak smile, and waited to see if it would be returned; whatever turn Harry’s mood had taken had stuck, however. Draco flicked his eyes to Harry’s hair, “You cut your hair,”

Harry blinked and reached a self-conscious hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair and then curling them as if attempting to fist the strands into his hand. They were too short though, and slid right through, “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Did my mother do it?” Harry nodded, “Figures - she always leaves it looking choppy. I’ve been doing my own since I was twelve. Do you… do you want me to smarten it up a bit?” He reached gingerly for his wand in his pocket.

Harry hesitated, then nodded, “Y-yeah. Please,” he leant forwards slightly as if he were making space for Draco to work around him.

Draco pulled his wand free and flicked it in well-practiced motions, muttering the incantation and watching as the sharp edges of Harry’s hair rounded out into something softer. It would do nothing for his hair’s chaotic criss-crossing, but it looked less like someone had hacked at his head with garden sheers, “There - all better. Did you want to see?”

Harry shook his head as he ran his fingers through his hair, “No - I trust you. Thanks,”

“You’re welcome,” Draco put his wand away, “What made you want to cut it so short anyway?” He knew immediately that he had said something wrong.

Harry froze. He fisted anxiously at his hair but couldn’t gain purchase on the strands. He let out a huff of breath that sounded equal parts frustrated and relieved and dropped his hand to his side. He licked his top lip nervously, “Did… did your mother tell you what happened?”

Without meaning to, Draco had walked them straight to the conversation he had been trying to avoid. He nodded reluctantly, “Yeah - some of it. She said you tried to escape,”

Harry snorted abruptly, “Hardly. Walked my way, eyes open into a trap. Eye open,” he corrected with a miserable sneer, “Bellatrix… she left the door open. I got as far as the entrance hall but… but Mulciber was waiting for me,” Draco’s gut clenched at the memory of the man, “He… he grabbed me by my hair,” Harry said shortly, “I… I have no wand, no weapon, I don’t weigh much, and I have no experience in hand-to-hand combat. If I can make myself that little bit less vulnerable…,” he trailed off and it took Draco a moment to realise that he had nothing else to say.

Draco searched for an answer that wasn’t pitying or sympathetic; something in the challenging line of Harry’s shoulders told him it was the last thing he was looking for, “Well… I think it's safe to say that if you keep that up,” he nodded in the direction of the drawing table, “you won’t need to worry about the wand soon,” Harry flashed him false smile, “I ran into Mulciber once,” his expression soured immediately, and Draco regretted not stopping while he was ahead.

“Keep away from him,” Harry said, the viciousness of his tone taking Draco by surprise and obliterating any of the awkwardness that had been between them, “Whatever you do, keep away from him,”

“My parents said the same,” Draco said slowly, “but I stumbled across him on my own without meaning to. He made my skin crawl… I didn’t tell my parents. I don’t know why. I guess… I guess I kind of felt like I’d done something wrong,” Harry watched him, his gaze intense and heavy, but he said nothing, and Draco scrambled to find something to say, “I don’t know… it’s stupid,”

Harry shook his head and Draco watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, “I… I…,” he took a shuddering breath, glancing away to the snake that watched them intently from the edge of the dressing table now, practically tipping off of it in her eagerness to be near them, “Never mind,” he muttered, his eye fixed on Clotho who was out front and hissing melodically at him, “Afterwards,” he said suddenly, when Draco had begun to think he had nothing else to say, “when your father brought me back… the Dark Lord came to see me,”

“Oh? What did he say?” He asked cautiously.

“He said…,” Harry glanced at him, tearing his gaze from the snake, “He said… he said it was natural to try and escape,” he finished with a mutter.

Draco knew in his gut that there was something that Harry wasn’t saying, but he knew with just as much certainty that Harry wasn’t going to say anymore, “It is natural to escape,” he agreed slowly; Harry said nothing, “Look… get some sleep, okay? Have a bath or something and ask Tippy to give you a hand massage. I’ll come back in the morning, yeah?”

Harry nodded slowly, “Yeah… yeah, okay,”

He almost felt like he was eleven years old again, holding out his hand and asking for Harry’s friendship. He thought he had it, or something near it at least, but it didn’t quite feel right.

In letters it had all been so easy. Letters left space for tempers and egos to cool. In person there was too much… too much context. It was simple to forget that Harry was a prisoner when all he had in front of him was a roll of parchment.

In person, it was impossible to forget, and their burgeoning friendship became like a spinning top preparing to fall at any moment. He didn’t want that. Friendship with Harry could be key for maintaining his family’s position. He needed to keep that top spinning.

It felt like a weak excuse to even his own ears. As if concerns about his family’s position were what had him petulantly toeing off his shoes at his bedroom door and collapsing onto his mattress.

No. He was just the same pathetic eleven-year-old desperate for Harry Potter to be his friend, and feeling internally humiliated at the fanciful day dreams where he and Harry were firm friends that he had entertained himself with at school.

He turned his gaze to the calendar pinned above his desk. He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled closer, ignoring the winking photophraph that stared down at him.

He only had three weeks, before he was back on the Hogwarts express and back to school. Three weeks to see Harry in person and discover what friendship beyond ink and parchment and whimsical day dreams could be like if they tried. It seemed like hardly enough time.

He picked up a stray quill and dipped it into his ink well. He scratched through that day’s narrow box and dropped the quill with a clatter.

Saturday.

Chapter 15: Draco: Nobody’s son

Chapter Text

At school, Draco shaved the way he imagined the majority of the school’s male population did: with a quick spell as he rushed through his morning routine. It was efficient and effective (when he was paying attention, which he always was when it came to something as important as his appearance) and that was all he had time for unless he felt like hogging a sink for twenty to thirty minutes completing his full routine every other morning.

At home, there were no such time constraints. At home, he had his own sink and his own bathroom, and while it wasn’t as grand as Harry’s (he didn’t have an enormous claw footed bathtub in the middle for one) it was significantly finer than the shared bathrooms the dorms provided.

Currently, his towel was wrapped around his waist and secured at his hip. His wet hair was swept back and out of his face as he worked the lather from his shaving brush into his skin from the top of his cheeks to halfway down his neck. His straight razor, sharp and clean, sat ready and waiting, balanced precariously on an empty soap dish. Setting his shaving brush down, he grasped the razor delicately between his fingers and held it poised just in front of his ear where the hair on his head would begin to blend into his facial hair if he were to ever let it grow long enough to. He paused, readjusted his grip, and began to shave.

His father had taught him to shave when he’d returned from school after third year with the beginnings of a moustache dusting his top lip.

‘Malfoys are always well groomed,’ he’d said sternly as he’d carefully lain out his own shaving paraphernalia, ‘and that means being clean shaven. One day, if you are able to, you may wish to grow a beard of some kind. This is acceptable so long as it is full and well maintained. Malfoys do not have patchy facial hair,’

Draco could grow a full beard now, if he wanted to, but he never had. It was less the look of being clean shaven that he preferred, and more the ritual that came with it when he had the time to achieve the look properly. It reminded him of sitting with his father every other night for six weeks having his small cuts healed until he was finally able to use a straight razor without staining his flannel red.

His father refused to use safety razors. He called them classless muggle inventions. He had also refused to teach Draco any shaving spells until he was certain his son could achieve a satisfactory shave with a straight razor alone.

It had been a summer of stinging cuts and sharp biting remarks from his father, but he wouldn’t have changed it for the world. It would be the last time his father would spend any significant length of time with him.

The Dark Lord had returned and was living under their roof by the time the next summer holidays had swung around, and Lucius never had time for him anymore.

Shaving became the symbol of his last true moment of connection with his father.

He wondered how Harry shaved. Did he use the spells?Or perhaps Tippy shaved him, as his skills with wandless magic were a recent development.

Harry was partly the reason Draco was shaving that morning.

He’d returned to his room, drained and near exhausted both physically and emotionally. He’d stepped into his en suit, turned on the light, and found himself sighing in despair at his own reflection.

His hair had been a mess. There had been great dark shadows under his eyes, and a well-established twelve o’clock shadow on his cheeks. He found himself irritated with his mother for not telling him to go and freshen up before seeing Harry.

As he carefully patted his face dry with his soft towel, wiping away what remained of the soap on his face before he moisturised to finish, he tried not to dwell on why he cared about what Harry thought about his appearance.

After he had carefully parted his hair and swept his fringe to one side (he didn’t bother with gel like he would have at school), he stepped out of the bathroom, and he nearly screamed.

Narcissa was sat at his desk, idly flipping through the schoolwork he had brought back with him.

“Mother!” He squawked, half hiding himself behind his bathroom door, “What are you doing here?!”

Narcissa looked up from the desk, “Draco,” she greeted warmly, standing and approaching the bathroom, “Good morning,”

“Mother!” He hissed, “Do you mind? I’m half naked!”

She rolled her eyes and strode over to the bed where he had laid out his clothes for the morning; comfortable but smart had been his goal, “Oh darling, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she gathered the clothes up and half stepped into the bathroom after him, shoving them into his arms, “Do hurry up - I’m starving and I’m sure Harry is too. We normally have breakfast much earlier than this,”

Draco snapped the door closed, scowling to himself as he rushed to dress. He found himself fighting with his boxers; in his haste, he hadn’t quite dried properly causing the cotton fabric to roll up tightly as he pulled them up his legs.

“It’s a Sunday, mother,” he grumbled as he hurriedly buttoned up his shirt, “Why are you here? And so early?”

He let out an undignified yelp when his mother snapped the bathroom door open, “I’m going to have breakfast with you and Harry,” she said simply, a belt held in between her hands, “Is that a problem?”

He scowled, turning to undo his trousers and tuck his shirt in without flashing his boxers at her, “Of course it’s not, but why?” He took the offered belt with a nod, “Thank you,”

“Because, son of mine, I imagine that if I don’t have breakfast with you, I risk another school holiday where I barely see hide nor hair of you. And I enjoy having breakfast with Harry - is that a crime?”

Finally covered, he turned back towards her and followed her out of the humid bathroom and into the cooler bedroom, pausing only to collect his signet ring and slide it onto his little finger, “No, of course not, you just took me by surprise,” it wasn’t exactly the truth. For reasons he couldn’t explain, the idea of having to share any of the time he had with Harry with his mother had him suppressing a displeased scowl. Though, the idea of being alone with Harry again left his stomach squirming with nerves. Last night had been… awkward. An uncomfortable clash of fantasy and reality.

“Though I would also appreciate it if you would join your father and I in the sitting room before you retire,” she added pointedly, opening his wardrobe and selecting a light outer robe for him to throw about his shoulders; except for in the height of summer, the manor always had a chill in the air, “Is that acceptable?” She didn’t wait for his answer, sweeping out of his room and expecting him to follow.

“Y-yes, of course,” he found himself half running after her, pulling on shoes as he went, “Is father home?”

“Not right now - the Dark Lord has had much need of him of late. He is often abroad furthering his interests and elevating our position - but I’m hopeful he will be home later on,”

Draco said nothing, striding after her as he straightened out his robe, unfolding the layers of fabric that had become tangled in his haste to dress.

At the door to the Aethonan suite, his mother paused to look at him, “You look very… smart,” she said sounding a mixture of confused surprise. She frowned a little before turning back to the door, rapping her knuckles sharply against it, and pushing her way inside. She toed her shoes off at the door and Draco followed suit, feeling unreasonably harried by his mother's interruption of his previously calm morning.

They found Harry at the drawing table in the middle of reshaping more glass. He barely moved to acknowledge their entrance, and where the previous night Draco had been nervous about disturbing him, his mother clearly had no such concerns.

“Good morning, Harry,” she greeted warmly, crossing the room to the window sill where the Moirai were stretched out again; the snake rose her heads in greeting and slithered out across the sill so that half her body was hovering in the air, stretching out towards Narcissa, “Good morning Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos,” he watched curiously as Narcissa reached out a hand to the snake, allowing her to clamber up her arm and onto her shoulders. Narcissa carried her over to the sofa and summoned Tippy with a snap of her fingers, “A large breakfast - no, actually, let’s make it brunch. It’s late enough in the day,” she threw an annoyed look in Draco’s direction, “Thank you, Tippy,” the elf disappeared with a deep bow and a pop.

“Morning,” Harry greeted, his voice flat and disinterested, his gaze still fixed on the glass in his hands, watching as it flattened itself out and then flexed to a slight curve, then thickened in its middle again, “I wasn’t sure who to expect this morning,”

“Well - it’s either we all have breakfast together, or I don’t see either of you for three weeks,” Narcissa said primly, pouring each of them a cup of tea, “This house is lonely enough as it is without spending breakfast alone as well as the rest of the day,”

“You could always try the west wing,” Harry said, his affect lifeless to the point of rudeness as he dipped the glass back into the flame, “I’m sure you’d find company there,” he lifted the glass free and frowned in concentration as the shape shifted and warped again.

His mother responded as if Harry had made a joke, “Ha! No thank you, Harry. You’ll forgive me if I don’t count those people as ‘good company’,”

Draco finally unglued his feet and made his way behind Harry towards the armchair furthest from the door. Harry hummed, dipping the glass back into the fire. He glanced up from his work and offered Draco a nod in greeting, only to double take, his eye widening in surprise.

The glass in the fire suddenly shattered with a high-pitched whistling noise.

Draco flinched in surprise, and Harry let out a hiss of pain, dropping the broken ends of the glass rods and reaching up to his face to where a fleck of molten glass had struck his cheek.

“For f*cks sake,” he grumbled, jumping to his feet and rushing to the bathroom; Draco heard the sound of a tap being turned on.

“Language!” Narcissa called after him, apparently unsurprised by the display and more focussed on buttering her toast.

Draco glanced between her and the bathroom door, not quite sure what had just happened, or what to make of her uncharacteristic tolerance of Harry’s poor attitude, “Shouldn’t you be wearing safety equipment?” He called after him as he took his own seat, adding a lump of sugar to his tea and stirring. He paused to listen to Harry’s shouted response, but he couldn’t understand a word, muffled as his voice was by the door between them. He turned instead to his breakfast, buttering his own slice of toast and eyeing the sitting room with disapproval, “This room is just so ugly,” he muttered to himself, staring up at the enormous horse’s head above the fireplace and the wing tips that framed it.

“You’d be singing a different tune if it were covered in snakes, I’m sure,” Narcissa said in disapproval, “And this is nothing - one day I’ll take you to the farmhouse in Cornwall. The entire place is covered in horse portraits and statues. There’s even a matching fireplace there,”

Draco rolled his eyes, “I’m fine thanks. And it’s not just the horses - there could be a dirty great snake’s head sticking out of the wall and it would be just as tacky,”

“It’s a good job your grandmother isn’t around to hear you say that,” Narcissa pointed a teaspoon threateningly in his direction, “She’d have scourgified your mouth out for that - she loved this room,”

Harry reappeared before Draco could answer. He was scowling, a wet flannel pressed to his cheek, “Bloody glass,” he muttered, sitting heavily on Narcissa’s other side and reaching for an orange, “Never going to get it right. I’ve wasted nearly an entire rod now,”

“I’m sure that’s not true - you’re coming along in leaps and bounds. Only a few weeks ago you couldn’t even get the torch to work, remember,” Narcissa said lightly, sipping her tea, “You’ll get there. We can always get more glass if we need to, but you have spare,” Harry grunted around his toast, “Don’t speak with your mouth full, Harry,” she reprimanded with a long-suffering sigh; she turned to Draco with a tight smile, “How has your term been, Draco? How’s your work?”

Draco didn’t miss how Harry froze for the briefest moment before he continued eating his breakfast, his gaze fixed on his plate, “Okay, I guess,” Draco muttered, “Doin’ pretty well, all things considered. Could be worse,”

“Don’t mumble Draco,” Narcissa said reproachfully. Draco heard Harry shift in his seat and glanced over to find a solitary green eye staring at him; Harry looked away quickly, “How’s quidditch?”

“Oh Merlin,” Draco groaned, “Please don’t talk to me about quidditch. Don’t expect me to be on the team next year, that’s all I’ll say,”

“I know things are more difficult now, Draco, but that’s no excuse to do poorly in school or give up your hobbies,” Draco felt the weight of Harry’s gaze on him once more, but he had already looked away when Draco turned to him, “Now’s the time to buckle down and do better than ever,” Harry’s expression had settled into something grim and resigned. He glanced sadly at Narcissa, then turned his gaze to the bacon sandwich he had made himself, “How’s Pansy? Is she well? She’s been uncharacteristically lacking in presence in your letters,”

“She’s fine, Mother,” he said exasperated, “She sends her love, as always,”

“I do miss seeing Pansy,” Narcissa said sadly, “Such a lovely girl - proper and from an excellent family. When the time is right, perhaps we could broach the topic of a marriage contract with the Parkinson’s?” She needled lightly.

“Can we talk about something else, please?” It was a struggle not to snap, “I can’t see how marriage is a priority right now, all things considered,” his mother’s desire to see him and Pansy wed was no secret. In fact, it was something she brought up at least once during every school holiday, save for Christmas when she had had other worries. After his and Pansy’s disastrous attempt at a kiss, he had told her firmly that marriage was not in his or Pansy’s future, and as he was not in the habit of repeating himself, he refused to even address her continued attempts to press the issue.

Narcissa sighed and reluctantly changed the subject. Draco barely listened to her though, interjecting on autopilot where appropriate but otherwise paying more attention to Harry.

How would he have been doing at school this year? Would he have been made the quidditch captain for Gryffindor? Would he have been thinking about marriage? Draco imagined not marriage, but girlfriends perhaps. He’d have put money on the she-Weasley… or maybe Granger - though that would have undoubtedly split up the golden trio. Anyone with eyes could see that Weasley was gone for her.

Harry occasionally sent him a fleeting glance in between answering Narcissa’s increasingly strained questions with grunts and seemingly innocuous comments that came out pointed and rude. Still, despite growing increasingly offended on his mother’s behalf, Draco found his eyes caught on the small burn on Harry’s smooth cheek.

How did he shave?

Finally, with their plates empty, his mother reluctantly rose to her feet. She deposited the Moirai in Harry’s lap and left them alone.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another. Then Draco addressed the thing that had been niggling at him the entire meal.

“I’d ask you to be more polite to my mother,” he tried his best to make the question non-accusatory, his mother’s letter in the forefront of his mind:

‘I know that your’s and Harry’s relationship has often been one based on antagonism, but I feel that this approach at this time will only hurt you both.’

He could tell by the hardening of Harry’s expression that he hadn’t been able to keep the anger out of his voice.

“What?” Harry said darkly.

“You were being quite rude to her, don’t you think?” the muscles in Harry’s jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth together, “She hasn’t done anything to you,”

“Tell me - who’s manor is this?” Harry said harshly, “‘Cause it sure as sh*t isn’t ‘Potter Manor’ or ‘Voldemort Manor’ or- or- or ‘Weasley Manor’,” he paused, expectantly, “Go on. Tell me,”

Draco could feel his temper beginning to rise in the thrumming pulse at his temple, “She didn’t put you here-,” he began, but Harry spoke over him.

“It’s ‘Malfoy Manor’ - your name, and her name,” he pointed sharply from Draco to the door his mother had left by, jostling the snake in his lap as he did so, “You’re the one who wrote about ‘collective familial responsibility’, so don’t f*cking sit there and tell me that she hasn’t done anything to me,”

“You will show my mother some respect, Potter-,”

“‘Potter’?” Harry laughed incredulously, “Are you kidding me? Are we back to surnames again? Do friends call one another by their last name now or are we not actually friends?” he said harshly.

“Shut up!” Draco barked, “I’m sure you can understand why I might not appreciate you disrespecting my mother - even if you don’t have one of your own,” Draco found his words stumbling to an abrupt halt, regretting them even before the anger on Harry’s face had faded away.

Harry took a long moment to answer, “Maybe I don’t understand…,” he paused, his tongue trailing across his bottom lip, “You know… it’s amazing to me how, in your head, I’m somehow the villain in this scenario… for being rude to her. Just for being rude. When she’s my literal jailer, Draco. And yes, she’s nice - she’s lovely even - and I like her, I really do… but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s complicit in everything that’s happened to me, as much as she seems to regret it. Everything that is happening to me - the imprisonment, the brainwashing, the torment, all of it!” He spoke faster and faster as if he were racing towards the end of his sentence, “Just because I’ve adjusted - just because I’m coping - it doesn’t mean that I’m suddenly okay with all of this. I will never be okay with this, and I find it laughable that you’re angry with me for having what I think is a pretty reasonable f*cking reaction to being held prisoner!”

“She’s probably the only person in this house who actually gives a sh*t about you!” Draco half growled, his resolve to control his temper waning, “She hasn’t done anything to you!”

“Your aunt did though,” Harry said, his voice deceptively soft, “Your aunt ripped my eye out and spent six months torturing me until I was nearly insane. I… I…,” Harry’s voice became choked, and his gaze turned to the ceiling as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks, “I just want it all to be done,” he whispered, “I want to go home,” the word was pleading, “I want to run away to where no one knows my name - away from this house and the Order. From the Dark Lord and Dumbledore. But even if I escaped, there’s nowhere to go. There is no home for me” he said bitterly, brushing away the tear he couldn’t hold back, “If the Dark Lord didn’t drag me back, then Dumbledore would,”

There’s was something new in the way that Harry said the headmaster’s name; an undercurrent of resignation and fear. It was enough to catch Draco’s attention.

“What do you mean? That Dumbledore would drag you back?” He asked carefully.

Harry shook his head though, roughly wiping away the last of the wetness on his cheeks as he pushed himself to his feet, his snake cradled in his arms like a baby, “Nothing,” he muttered, “Doesn’t matter,” he stared down at the hissing snake in his arms, watching her heads sway up towards his face, “None of it matters,” he directed a sad smile in Draco’s direction, “It’s a shame we only seem to get on when there’s parchment and ink between us,”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Draco said sharply, stopping Harry in his tracks before he could turn away, “There’s something else. There’s something wrong, something you’re not telling me - that’s why you’re acting like this,”

Harry gave him a withering look, “To use your own words; you’re being naive. Of course, there’s something wrong,” he gestured to the room around them and turned towards the drawing table. He seated himself, deposited the Moirai on the windowsill where she seemed the most content, and lit the torch once more with a touch of his fingertips and a murmured incendio.

For a long time, Draco simply watched him work, anchored in place by a creeping shame. He found his eyes drawn to the room around them - the four walls of Harry’s gilded cage. The context he had acknowledged but still denied pressed in against him.

Harry kept his silence, except for the muttered spells that caused the glass in between his hands to warp and reform. With nothing else to do, Draco stood, and in an action that echoed of the Christmas Holidays that they had unwillingly spent together, he approached the bookshelves.

By the end of the day, Draco had managed to read half of ‘The Blood that Binds Us, Volume II: Familial Lines and Matrimony’ and Harry hadn’t said another word to him.

Absorbed as he was by Harry’s parting words from hours before, it wasn’t until Draco was at his bedroom door that he remembered he was meant to be seeing his mother and father before he retired for the evening. Cursing under his breath, he swept down the staircase, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it. He paused at the sitting room door, calming his breath, straightening his robes, and then knocking politely.

He opened the door to find his mother perched on the edge of the armchair closest to the fireplace where his father stood with an arm leaning against the mantel piece. Their murmured conversation ceased at once, and Lucius’s icy grey eyes snapped to his own pair.

He looked tired and drawn, an uncharacteristic stubble on his cheeks and his long hair tucked haphazardly behind his ear. The relaxing of his tense posture was the only indication that he was happy to see his son.

“Draco,” Lucius greeted, “Welcome home, son,”

Draco approached, glancing briefly towards his mother, searching for reassurance in her expression and finding only wariness, “Father,”

Draco did not outwardly express the surprise he felt when, rather than merely resting a hand on his shoulder in welcome, his father gripped the side of his neck, squeezing briefly and stroking his thumb against the outer edge of Draco’s jaw, “It is good to see you,”

Draco nodded, “And you,” something was wrong - he wanted something. Draco would have normally taken the armchair opposite his mother’s, but his father’s grip held him in place.

“How was school? How are your marks?”

“School was fine,” Draco answered carefully, “And my marks are fine - the professors don’t seem to be concerned at least,”

Lucius nodded distractedly, “Good, that’s good,” his eyes flicked nervously to his wife, “Your mother told you what happened earlier in the week, yes?”

Draco hesitated, then nodded slowly, “Harry tried to escape,”

Lucius’s responding huff of laughter was cold and angry, “He was set free, you mean,” his gaze flicked briefly towards Narcissa, “but yes. There is something that this event has revealed to us however - something that we may work to our advantage,”

“Oh,” Draco said carefully.

Lucius continued eagerly, not noticing his son’s less than eager tone, “Indeed - it has revealed the value that the Dark Lord places upon the Potter boy. I believe… I believe that this may be our way towards firmly reestablishing ourselves in the Dark Lord’s good graces,” his eyes flicked anxiously to his wife and then back to Draco, “I believe, that if you are able to make yourself a valued friend to the boy, put aside old animosity and rivalry, that the boy may pull us up with him as the Dark Lord establishes him within the ranks. Do you understand Draco? Your mother has suggested that you are already quite friendly; you have been writing to one another all term, yes?”

Draco shot Narcissa a look, betrayal hidden in its edges, “I… yes, we’ve been quite friendly,”

“It will be no hardship, then will it, little dragon?” Narcissa said anxiously, and he found himself hating the nickname, “To be a better friend to him. To get closer to him,” she swallowed, “Harry could use a friend his own age, after all. It won’t do him any harm, or you. It would benefit you both,”

For a moment, he closed his eyes, and he could practically see the letters they had exchanged in his mind’s eye. Full of insults and witty remarks and surprisingly earnest exchanges, and he knew he couldn’t agree to the plan.

“If Harry and I become friends, it will be because of a mutual enjoyment of one another's company, and not out of some desire to manipulate my way into the Dark Lord’s good graces,” he pushed his father’s hand from his shoulder.

Lucius snatched his sleeve to hold him in place, “Draco,” he said harshly, “You will do as you are told - this is for the good of the family! To keep us safe! You are being short-sighted. You are a Malfoy, not some half-witted Hufflepuff. Act. Like. It!”

Draco smacked his hand away, “I’ll do exactly as I wish,” he found his mother’s eyes on him, full of sadness and regret, “And if you’re so worried about our family's safety, you should have considered that before you let the Dark Lord put his mark on you,”

Lucius hissed through his teeth and made to grab Draco again, but Draco was already halfway across the sitting room. Lucius shouted something after him, but Draco was half deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and didn’t hear him.

For a week, he and Harry barely spoke.

While his mother was in the room, they communicated through her like a vessel.

“How are your efforts progressing with the eye, Harry?” She’d ask politely, petting the head of one of the Moirai and pretending not to see the way that Harry and Draco only ever looked at her and never at one another, “I see you’ve started melting down your oldest attempts to start anew,”

“They’re getting better,” Harry’s affect was still flat, but rather than rude or passive aggressive, he sounded resigned and deadened, “Less sharp - less bubbling. I think I’m close to making one that will actually fit now,”

“That’s excellent news Harry!” Narcissa said brightly, sounding genuinely pleased for him; she turned faintly anxious eyes in Draco’s direction, “Isn’t that good, Draco?” She hadn’t apologised for that night with his father. She hadn’t even addressed it, and while he had never thought the plan her idea, that she had even entertained it left him feeling on edge.

Complicit indeed.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, “Yes, that’s wonderful,” and so their conversation would go until she left. She’d speak to Harry, Harry would answer, she’d address Draco, and Draco would reply, on and on and on it went.

When she was gone though, and Harry was working at the drawing table, and Draco was meant to be reading, Draco found himself staring at the other instead. Cataloguing day by day as his hair grew longer, as his magic grew stronger and the focus in his gaze grew more intense, watching as the burn on his cheek gradually healed as a small scar.

Harry may not have been able to see him watching, but he didn’t need to. He had three sets of eyes that were more frequently than not fixed on Draco, and Draco guessed by the soft hissing that they exchanged, that they were reporting on him.

It wasn’t until Draco had been home a week, that things changed.

Draco lifted his chin, the blade at his throat gliding against his skin, starting at the bottom of his neck and ending at the edge of his jaw. He wiped the razor against a clean flannel - first one side, and then the other. He returned the blade to his skin and worked his way around his throat until not a hair remained.

His face now clean and smooth, he gripped the edges of the sink.

Perhaps he should take his shaving equipment to school with him - the ritual of it was grounding. Perhaps he wouldn’t have time to shave this way on weekdays, but there was no reason why he couldn’t on a weekend. He could do with something to sooth him. Something to bring him back to himself when it felt like things were getting away from him.

He turned to leave the bathroom, pausing to wipe away an errant patch of foam on his earlobe.

He walked to the Aethonan suite by himself this morning; it wasn’t unusual. His mother didn’t have the patience to wait for him every morning, and he frequently found her and Harry enjoying breakfast without him.

He didn’t knock on the door, instead simply pushing his way inside, rubbing away the sleep that remained in his eyes as he toed off his shoes. It was only as the door closed that he realised that something was wrong. The room was unnaturally quiet.

Looking up, he froze.

Rather than his mother sat opposite Harry, he found Severus Snape.

Snape was glaring balefully over his shoulder, his wand raised halfway in the air, clearly in the middle of casting. Draco scrambled to find something to say, his mouth hanging open and his lips rapidly drying out.

“Have you forgotten how to knock, Mister Malfoy?” Snape asked coldly. Draco’s breath caught in his chest. He flicked his gaze to Harry and found himself caught by the sight of him. He was looking back at Draco, his green eye practically burning with fury. His stare returned to Snape, and Draco realised abruptly that the rage was meant for Snape and not for him, “Are you trying to catch flies, Mister Malfoy? What are you doing?” Snape snapped.

“I… Uh, I apologise, sir,” Draco said awkwardly, shuffling forwards, his eyes darting between the potion’s professor and Harry. The look on Harry’s face was familiar - it reminded him of the day that Harry had broken down over Christmas, but only because of its feral nature. He lacked any of the vulnerability of that day. There were no wounded tears gathering in his eyes, and no anguished twist of his mouth.

“Are you going to stand there all day, boy?” Snape barked in frustration, “Sit down!” He commanded sharply.

Draco stepped forwards to do as he had been commanded, heading for the sofa between the armchairs that Harry and Snape occupied, but he froze upon finding the Moirai stretched out across it. He hovered uncertainly, and sighed in relief when she gathered her body into a coil on the seat closet to Harry. He sat down, looking nervously between Harry and Snape.

Snape ignored them both, lifting his wand and muttering under his breath as he cast spell after spell. They were diagnostic spells - Madam Pomfrey had used them on him after Harry and one of the Weasley twins had beaten the sh*t out of him the previous year. Even Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been able to cycle through them quite this quickly though.

Draco watched them for a moment, then felt his gaze magnetically pulled towards Harry. Harry was watching him, his eye trained on Draco with a single-minded focus. The fury had faded away, leaving a resigned tiredness in its place. Draco watched him back, and Snape and his spells faded into the background.

Until that is, an explosion of gold appeared in the air between them. Silver sparks fell as a rain of fireworks, dissipating before colliding with the ground. Draco squinted against the brightness but couldn’t stop himself from looking. He watched as a slither of black swept through the cloud, cutting a path of shadow through the gold that cleaved it in two until the cloud reformed.

“What’s that?” Draco half whispered.

Snape heard him but said nothing. It was Harry who spoke, “My magical core,” he said quietly.

“Should… should it look like that?”

“No,” Harry answered again.

“What should it look like then?”

Snape sighed in irritation. The gold phenomenon between them suddenly disappeared. It was replaced by a silver globe; it was half the size of Harry’s golden cloud with a thick outer shell that contained its own swirling universe filled with shooting stars and sparks that glittered as they fell to the globes bottom before climbing their way up to the top again.

“This,” Snape said impatiently, and Draco found the man's wand pointing in his direction, “Magical cores should be contained. Not an unrestrained, swollen, unspooling mess,” the globe between them flickered, then disappeared; Snape stood, “If your core remains in this condition in the long term, it will kill you, Potter,” Harry didn’t react.

“Why is it like that?” Draco asked carefully, wary of the heavy atmosphere that was growing between them.

“Because I spent six months using occlumency to forget that I was being tortured in the cellar,” Harry answered flatly, his eye fixed on Snape. Snape remained silent and didn’t return his gaze.

Draco licked his lips, “And… and what’s the black smoke?” Snape eyed him out of the corner of his eye, and again said nothing. He looked to Harry and found a painfully blank expression on his face.

Snape turned to Harry, “Until next week Potter,” he paused, and considered Draco, “Knock, next week, Mister Malfoy,” and he left without another word.

With the closing of the door, the silence that remained between them was deafening.

The snake on the sofa slithered her way down to the floor, but rather than crawling her way up into Harry’s lap, she disappeared behind the sofa and curled up in front of the low simmering fire. Harry watched her go, his expression listless. Draco found himself abruptly pinned in place by his emerald eye, and then he looked away.

Draco swallowed and struggled to find his voice, “You don’t seem very concerned about your magical core…,” Harry said nothing, “Did you not just listen to the same thing that I did, Harry?”

“Ah, and now I’m Harry again,” he said softly.

Draco spoke through clenched teeth, “Don’t be a dick,” he snapped, “Why are you not worried? He said it would kill you!”

Harry snorted, “What does it matter? Dead. Alive. It’s all the same,”

“All the same?!” Draco cried, aghast, “How is it all the same? What the f*ck, Harry? What are you talking about? No- hey! No!” He half shouted as Harry stood and made for his bedroom, “Where are you going? Stop!” Draco scrambled to follow him, “What are you not telling me? Hey! Don’t ignore me-,”

“Just STOP Draco!” Harry shouted, stopping abruptly and spinning to face Draco, revealing the tears in his eye and his ghostly pale face, “Leave me alone!”

Draco scoffed, rearing back furiously, “No - not until you tell me what the f*ck is up with you! Hey- no!” He caught Harry by the wrist and made to pull him back, “Tell me- why! For f*cks sake Harry!” Harry wrenched free, shoving both of his hands into Draco’s chest and forcing him back a step. He disappeared into his bedroom, but Draco threw out a hand to catch the door before it could slam shut and forced his way in after him.

Harry stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the room, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, showing Draco only the expanse of his back and the long stretch of his neck. A curved jagged scar, paler than the surrounding tissue stood in stark relief against the rest of Harry’s skin. Draco found himself rooted to the spot.

“Harry…,” he started quietly, as his eyes adjusted to the rooms dim light, “Tell me what’s wrong. There’s something you’re not saying…,” he paused, waiting to see if Harry would speak; when he didn’t, he took a careful step forwards, “Before - when I first got back from school - you tried to tell me something, but you stopped yourself,” Harry’s shoulders tensed, “Something that the Dark Lord told you after you tried to escape… what was it?”

Harry took a shuddering breath, “He… he said…,” a sob caught in his throat. Harry stumbled forwards towards the bed, catching himself against it and turning gingerly to sink down to the ground until he was sat with his back up against the bed frame. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them; he spoke in a whisper that Draco could barely hear, “He said that, when the killing curse rebounded the night he tried to kill me, that it caused a part of his soul to break free, and… and that that piece of his soul attached itself to me,” Harry peered up at him miserably.

Draco sank carefully to the ground, crossing his legs beneath him, “The… the black cloud in your magical core. Is that-?”

Harry sniffed wetly and nodded, “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, “I think so. Nothing else it could be. Nothing that makes sense. And Snape has never answered any of my questions about it so… so I don’t think he knows what it is either,” he finished with a whimper.

“But what does it actually mean?” Draco asked carefully, “That part of the Dark Lord’s soul is tied up with yours?”

“He- he said that it meant that if someone wanted to kill him… if someone wanted to kill the Dark Lord,” Harry wiped the tears on his cheeks away, “Someone like Dumbledore… he said that they would have to kill me as well,” he whimpered, hugging himself, “He said that Dumbledore knows about it and would kill me and I… I…!” His voice broke and cracked, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should want. Should I be okay with dying? Would Dumbledore expect me to die? I don’t,” he sobbed, “I don’t want to die! But if I live, then so does he!” He threaded his fingers through his hair, gripping uselessly at strands too short to gain a purchase on, “If I want to live, does that mean that my only option is to side with him? I don’t want to be a murderer!!

“And what about Sirius - my friends. He wants to kill them. If they… if they don’t kill me, then there’s no hope of destroying him for good. I just… I just…,” Draco shuffled carefully closer, “I just wish I believed that there was someone in the Order who would pick me over- over this,” he said bitterly as Draco turned to sit by his side, their shoulders pressed flush together, “Over this impossible choice. Either I stay with the Dark Lord, and I live. Or I turn to the Order, and I die. I don’t want to die. It’s not fair. It’s not fair!! Why did it have to be me? Why couldn’t he have killed someone else’s parents that night? After everything I’ve had to live through - this is it?!” He cried, throwing his hands out in front of him as if pleading with some unseen deity, “I don’t even get a happy ending?! I either die, or I live as a prisoner in this house. Or… or worse,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “I join him, and fight against the people I love,” Harry turned to face him, his eye practically luminous as it stared out at him, “I just wish there was someone who would choose me,” he whispered, “I wish there was someone who loved me enough to try and save me,”

Draco found himself pinned in place by Harry’s pained gaze. All he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. For a moment, he just breathed, gathering his thoughts in a desperate attempt to find words that would bring the boy in front of him even a slither of hope, “Maybe… maybe you don’t have to choose between living as a prisoner, or joining him. Maybe you can fake it,”

Harry scoffed, “Fake it? Fake hating my friends? Fake being the kind of person who tortures a teenager for six months?”

“I… I don’t know,” he said honestly, “I don’t know what it would take. But the Dark Lord isn’t going to stop trying to get you to join him. If anything, surely, he’ll be triumphant if he thinks you’ve finally given in? You’ve got solid occlumency shields right? So, he won’t know if you’re lying to him. He won’t know what’s in your heart… right?” He said, his voice faintly desperate.

Harry shook his head, his eyes wet, his smile mocking, “And then what, Draco? Let’s say I convince him that I’m his… then what?”

“Escape,” Draco said at once, “Get away from him,”

Harry let out a bark of laughter, “And then what Draco?! Where would I go? To the Order?” He scoffed, “And what if the Dark Lord is right? I’d just be walking to my death - I don’t want to die, Draco!”

“Surely there’s someone who would help you,” Draco tried to insist, “Someone who would choose you? If… if our situations were reversed, there’s no way my mother or father wouldn’t sacrifice everything to try and save me. To keep me safe. I’m their son, for f*cks sake!”

Harry’s smile trembled, broke, and turned sad, “I’m nobody's son, Draco,”

“What about Black?” Draco said at once, “He’s your godfather, right?”

Harry shook his head, “Yeah, and the Dark Lord killed his best friend. Sirius left his family because they supported him. He… he lived through the first war. He knows as well as the rest of the Order how many people will die if the Dark Lord is left alive. What’s my life, in comparison to theirs?” He sighed, turning his face from Draco’s but allowing himself to rest his weight against Draco’s shoulder, “He won’t choose me. He shouldn’t choose me. I just wish there was someone who I thought would,” he licked his lips, and whispered, “I… I don’t really blame your mother. For all of this. I don’t blame you either. I just feel so alone, all of the time. And so powerless. At least… at least when I tried to escape, even though I knew there was no chance of success, at least I was in control of something,” he turned a sad smile in Draco’s direction, “At the end of the day, I guess I am just a mouse gnawing off my own arm for a taste of freedom,”

Draco didn’t know what he was talking about, but he found words leaving his mouth before he had consciously decided to say them, “I could choose you,”

Harry laughed, but Draco thought it was more out instinct than anything else, “What?” He said incredulously.

“I could choose you,” Draco said more certainly.

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion, “I… Draco - you can’t choose me. What are you talking about? Your father is a Death Eater. He’s chosen for you,”

“But I’m not,” Draco interrupted, “And I don’t want to be one,”

“Don’t say that out loud,” Harry near whispered, “It’s dangerous,”

“And I don’t care about the Order either. So. I… I could choose you,”

“Draco… I…,” Harry shook his head, a single tear escaping out of the corner of his eye, “Why?”

“Do you know what I was doing last week, while I was watching an owl fly away with my last letter to you?”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head, “No,”

“I was daydreaming about finding your owl… about bringing her to you,” a smile twitched at the corner of Draco’s lips, “about making you smile again. I think… I think I could choose you,”

Harry’s face was open, and for the briefest moment it was filled with hope and warmth. And then that moment passed. His lips twitched into a sad smile, and the vibrancy in his eye dimmed, “Oh Draco… you shouldn’t choose me. I-… I don’t even think I should choose me,” he shook his head, and looked away, “You shouldn’t choose me,”

Draco said nothing out loud, but his inner thoughts betrayed more than he was ready to admit to:

I think I already have.

Chapter 16: Draco: Unapologetically You

Chapter Text

The shaving foam on Draco’s face was beginning to irritate him. It had been sat in place for so long that it was threatening to drip down towards his collar, but no matter how many times he thought about reaching for his blade, his fingers wouldn’t move. They were locked in place, gripping the edge of the sink basin as if he were dangling from the edge of a cliff, hanging on for dear life.

When he’d returned from Harry’s rooms the night before he had collapsed in bed almost immediately, the emotional toll of the day finally catching up to him. It was only now that he was actually able to process the conversation that they’d shared.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the secret that Harry had confessed to him that was holding him fixed in place. It was another far more personal revelation.

He could admit, silently, and within the safety of his own carefully guarded mind, that the destruction of the Dark Lord was something he longed for. He hated the man. Hated what he had done to his home and his family. Hated what he had done to the wizarding world at large - the fear and darkness that his return had heralded. Hated that he would one day be expected to be as subservient to the man as his father was.

And yet he found himself more than willing to tolerate the fear and darkness and servitude if the alternative was loosing Harry.

It was this realisation that had him frozen in place: that he was totally willing to forgo any notion of freedom for himself and his family, if it meant that Harry would be safe.

For Draco, there was no choice to be made between the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, or Albus Dumbledore and his Order. He’d already made his choice, and he’d chosen Harry. Now he just needed to convince Harry to make the same choice.

That the Dark Lord had warded the Aethonan suite so that Harry couldn’t cause himself harm suddenly made a frightening amount of sense. Harry had said he wasn’t sure he should choose himself. Whether or not Harry would commit suicide to further cement the Dark Lord’s demise was a question that Draco didn’t want answered.

In the end, Draco abandoned his attempt at the morning shave that he usually found so soothing, wiping the foam from his face and shaving with a quick spell instead. The result was nowhere near as satisfying, but he was late enough that morning as it was. He’d miss his mother if he tarried any longer.

As he expected, he found his mother and Harry in the middle of their breakfast. What he didn’t expect was the small, genuine smile on Harry’s face, or the way his mother was enthusiastically recounting some story.

“…and there he was, stood in the middle of the entrance hall, half drowned tracking mud all about the place with this furious gnome clasped in between his little hands,” Draco groaned - not this story, “Oh!” His mother let out a surprised sound, spotting him by the door and beckoning him closer, “Good morning, little dragon,” over her shoulder, Harry’s lips spread into a grin.

‘Little dragon?’ Harry mouthed, miming a hearty chuckle.

Draco barely avoided rolling his eyes, “Good morning mother, Harry,” he landed heavily on the sofa, and sent her a withering glare, “You’re not retelling that old story are you?”

She chuckled, “Oh, but it is a good one darling, you have to admit,” in her lap, two snake heads turned to watch him, while the third (Clotho) was too busy enjoying a chin scratch from his mother to pay him any mind, “You were determined that you were going to start a gnome sanctuary - oh how you raged at your father when he told you no!”

“I don’t imagine he was accustomed to hearing the word,” Harry said dryly.

Draco rolled his eyes, “I’ve been told ‘no’ plenty of times, thank you. You did it yourself, if you remember? On our first day of school?”

“You were being a prick-,”

“Language Harry,” Narcissa said with a sigh.

“- and you’d just insulted my first ever friend. Of course I didn’t want to shake your stupid hand you pompous git,”

“Weasley was your first ever friend?” Well. That was just sad.

Harry nodded, then paused, “Well - second if you count Hagrid, which I do,” his expression turned wistful, “I wonder how he and Fang are,”

Narcissa shifted awkwardly, no doubt made uncomfortable by the reminder that Harry was a prisoner, “It’s a shame you boys couldn’t be friends at school,” she said diplomatically.

Harry snorted, “Fat chance,” Draco wanted to be offended, but he sincerely doubted they’d have ever been anything but enemies if Harry hadn’t been taken. He didn’t want to say he was grateful that Harry was being held prisoner, but it didn’t hurt anyone to admit privately that he enjoyed their new dynamic, mercurial as it was, “Anyway - enough about that. You were telling me about Draco’s gnome sanctuary,”

“Oh yes,” Narcissa chortled, “It turned out that he’d already caught three more and had persuaded the house elves to trap them in the pantry. I had to smuggle them out of the house before Lucius could get his hands on them - I knew that if he wrung their necks that Draco would have been inconsolable. It was bad enough trying to stop him screaming himself hoarse about not being able to keep them,” Draco couldn’t help but grin, “He spent the next year fixated on everything gnome related and drew up childish plans for his future as a gnome specialist. Your father was legitimately concerned that you’d picked the idea back up again when you decided to take Care of Magical Creatures. I am surprised that you didn’t continue it to NEWT level though you know, considering how well you did in your OWLs,” she added.

“It would have been a waste of my time,” Draco said with a shrug, “I have no ambitions that require a Care of Magical Creatures OWL, let alone NEWT,”

“What grade did you get?” Harry asked curiously.

Draco answered reluctantly, noticing the tenseness in Harry’s shoulders, “I got an E,” he really, really wished he could have gotten Harry’s results for him.

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Narcissa agreed, “It wouldn’t have been the most efficient use of your time. Though the choices you have made will make for a well rounded education as it is - if you getgood grades, I don’t imagine there are many career paths that would be barred to you,”

Harry’s expression turned faintly pinched, and Draco made to move his mother on, “No, I suppose not. But mother-,”

“Your father would want you to become a Ministry man like himself, I’m sure,” she continued, sipping at what remained of her tea, “when things have settled down again, I mean. I always thought you’d be better suited as a curse breaker though - in Egypt or Cancun for Gringotts perhaps. Though I would hate to have you so far from me, but I suppose it’s a mother’s burden to accept that her children must one day fly the nest,” she said with a sigh, stroking her finger down Clotho’s nose.

Clotho wasn’t paying attention though, and like her sister heads had turned her attention in Draco’s direction. For a moment, Draco thought they had been about to slither towards him, but they were stopped in their tracks by Narcissa getting to her feet.

“Well then boys,” she said, draining the last of her tea, “I suppose I should leave you to your day and whatever it is that you get up to,” she dropped the Moirai in Harry’s lap, and stroked a gentle hand through his short hair, “I had a lovely chat this morning, Harry,” she said, her voice full of meaning and sounding as if she might cry; she turned to Draco, “Do come for dinner this evening, Draco. Your father is home,”

She left before Draco had the opportunity to answer, or to see if moisture gathered in her eyes. She left them alone and in sudden silence.

“I… I’m sorry,” Draco said finally.

Harry’s head tilted a little, “For what?”

“My mother… she… we,” he corrected, “aren’t always the most tactful. I can understand why hearing her talk about my future might not be very… well…,” he gestured to the room around them.

Harry hesitated, “It’s… well. It is a bit thoughtless I guess, but not malicious - it’s fine. It’s my problem, not hers. She’s just excited to have you home. She’s talks about you a lot,” he added with a small smile, “She loves you. She worries about you,”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. It felt like agreeing would only open up questions about who loved and worried after Harry, and that was something he tried very hard not to think about. Thoughts like that were what had had him standing in the courtyard and staring at Harry’s friends.

‘I’m nobody’s son.’

So instead, he said, “Will you show me how you’re getting on with your eye?”

Harry brightened for the first time since Draco had been home, dragging an armchair closer to the drawing table so that Draco could sit next to him while he showed him everything; all the while the Moirai were slung around his shoulders.

He slid open drawer after drawer to reveal all of the equipment he had hidden away, from tongs and clamps and heavy duty sheers, to buffing and grinding pads and a rotary tool that whirred and wizzed the moment Harry put his hands to it. It was the glass itself that Harry lingered over the most, though.

“It’s so interesting!” He enthused, twirling a rod of virgin glass between his fingers, “It’s made from the sand that fire crabs lay their eggs in, so it’s only found on Fiji. Fire crab eggs actually have a soft shell, so they roll their eggs in the sand and it melts and creates a super hard protective barrier. Except not all of the sand on Fiji has a high enough silica content to actually form glass, so they all go to this one cove where the sand is the right quality,”

“So wizards harvest the sand from there?” Draco asked curiously, peering at Harry’s previous attempts where they were lined up one after the other at the back of the drawing table. He flinched back minutely when Lachesis sniffed at his hair, but Harry didn’t notice.

Harry shook his head, “They don’t harvest the sand - instead they harvest the egg shells that remain after the fire crabs hatch. It’s the constant contact with the organic egg membrane that makes it so special. Normal egg-shells are porous to allow oxygen to pass through to the animal on the inside,” Draco found his eyes fixed on Harry’s hands, watching as he gestured enthusiastically, “Glass obviously isn’t porous, but the magic and heat from the egg membrane makes the inner aspects of the glass almost liquid - so the portion closest to the egg gets hot and rises to the outer surface, then picks up oxygen from the outer shell, then sinks back down to the egg as it cools,” he didn’t think he’d ever seen Harry this enthusiastic about something - something other than quidditch at least, “The fact that the middle of the glass moves under the influence of magic is what makes it so important for the prosthetic eye!

“Rather than having to have a solid eye that spins all around in the eye socket,” he twirled his finger through the air, mimicking the spinning of an eye, exposing the small healing cut at his wrist as his sleeve slid up, “which gets uncomfortable eventually, instead just the iris moves through the eye so it’s way less uncomfortable and allows for a better fit that can be bound in place,” Harry was practically panting he was speaking so quickly.

While Draco had always known that Harry was powerful, he had never considered him to be particularly clever. He’d always thought that Granger was the brains of their little outfit, but he was finding himself gradually proven wrong. Harry might not have been the best in school, but he was clearly extremely capable.

Draco found himself catching Harry’s windmilling wrist without thinking, “That’s all very interesting, but you really should start wearing protective gear or you’ll just end up with more injuries,” he tapped his finger against the cut on Harry’s wrist, “Is this from the glass exploding as well?”

The change in Harry was immediate. The Moirai coiled up threateningly, and Harry snatched his wrist back, slapping Draco’s hand away and shoving his sleeve back down. Draco felt his heart catch in his throat, surprised at being shoved away and immediately regretting grabbing Harry. He leant away carefully, his eyes fixed on the uncomfortable, angry expression on Harry’s face.

They both looked up at a sharp hiss. Atropos was glaring down at him from Harry’s shoulders, her fangs flashing in the light, venom building at their tip. It wasn’t this that prompted Draco to apologise, but the defeated slump in Harry’s posture.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I wasn’t thinking. I won’t grab you again,”

Harry looked at him suddenly, his expression indecipherable. He glanced over Draco’s shoulder towards the bathroom and stared for a long moment, before turning his gaze back to Draco. He swallowed heavily, “You don’t need to be sorry… I just…,” he considered his wrist, flexing his fingers before running them through his short hair and testing its length; he let out a heavy breath, “It’s not from glass. It’s from when I tried to escape. Mulciber… he had a knife on him, just here,” he pressed his hand to the side of his ribs, “It nicked me,” he glanced back to the bathroom briefly, before turning his whole body towards the drawing table so that Draco could only just see the corner of his eye.

“He keeps one in his boot,” Harry looked at him sharply, “If you ever come across him again, I mean,” Draco took a deep breath in, “He keeps a blade strapped to his ribs and one in his boot, and has two wands in holsters at his hip as well,”

Harry gave him a peculiar look, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Well… if you’re ever up against him again, I want you to have every advantage possible,”

Harry stared at him, long and hard, his eye flitting between Draco’s lips and his eyes, searching but Draco couldn’t have said what for. He gave a single nod, and looked away from Draco to the row of substandard prosthetic eyes. Draco found his gaze drawn to the small burn on Harry’s cheek again.

“How do you shave?” He asked curiously.

Harry let out a bark of surprised laughter, turning back to him with an incredulous expression, “What?”

“How do you shave?” He repeated, “Does Tippy do it for you?”

Harry nodded, sending Draco a look that clearly communicated that he thought he’d lost his mind, “Yeah - at Hogwarts I’d just do the spells, but now Tippy sorts it for me. Before now I hadn’t mastered wandless magic enough to trust myself using shaving spells, and I doubt anyone’s itching to give me a blade,” his gaze flicked to the bathroom, “Why do you ask?”

Draco shrugged, “Just curious,”

“About how I shave?” Harry asked, confused; Draco nodded, unwilling to explain to Harry (or himself) why he seemed to have developed a curiosity that knew no bounds when it came to Harry. Harry rolled his eye, “Why, how do you shave?”

“Straight razor, when I have the time,”

Harry let out a cackle, throwing his head back, “Of course you do, you pompous ass,”

“You get a better shave!” Draco said defensively, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

“And only the best for the Malfoy’s, is that right?” Harry needled with a grin.

“Naturally - why settle for second best? My father taught me to shave. I cut myself half a dozen times on the first attempt alone, but he wouldn’t entertain the idea of letting a safety razor into the house,”

Harry’s grin softened, “Ron taught me the spells, and enough about using a safety razor to shave in the holidays,” he said fondly, turning his gaze to the horizon outside the window and the light rain that drizzled over the grounds, “My uncle never would have to taught me to shave - actually, no,” he corrected himself, “He’d have taught me to shave, if only so that the neighbours didn’t say anything about their scruffy, delinquent nephew,”

“Delinquent?” Draco asked warily, conscious of how changeable Harry’s mood was and reluctant to lose its current lightness.

“Yeah, they told everyone that I went to ‘Saint Brutus’s Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys’,” he shook his head a little, “Stupid,”

“And people believed that?” Draco said incredulously, “Are muggles really that unintelligent?”

The look Harry sent him was wary, “Muggles aren’t stupid - they’re just different. My relatives though, well… yeah, they were pretty stupid,”

There was a question on the tip of Draco’s tongue; a question about cupboards and school letters. He held it back though. Not now.

“Will you teach me how to use wandless magic?”

And Harry was laughing again and shaking his head, “I mean, yeah sure, if you like - but seventy percent of it is sitting and meditating and ‘connecting with your inner eye’. So as soothing as it is, it’s a little bit boring. Maybe another day? In the evening before bed?” Draco nodded eagerly; Harry hesitated, “If I teach you wandless magic, will you teach me how to use a straight razor?”

“I’ll teach you to use a straight razor regardless, if that’s what you want,” Draco said with a shrug, and Harry’s expression turned immediately pleased, “Now tell me more about this eye - how do you incorporate the peridot into the iris?”

Harry opened his mouth and immediately launched into an explanation of which Draco understood very little, but he listened anyway, his gaze fixed on the shape of Harry’s mouth and how it changed around his words.

Draco didn’t stand to leave until late in the evening; he didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on Harry’s face, “I’m sorry - mother’s expecting me for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow though, okay?”

Draco regretted attending dinner the moment he stepped foot into the dining room.

What his mother had failed to mention, was that it wasn’t only his father who would be attending the meal. While his father sat at the tables head, opposite his mother and the place that had been set for Draco was Bellatrix and, of all people, Rodolphus.

Though he was technically his uncle, Draco barely knew him.

He was a tall and exceptionally serious man with a heavy set brow and facial features that Pansy would have described as chiselled. Draco imagined that his uncle would have once been an exceptionally handsome man. Now though, the evidence of his good breeding had been diminished by his years in Azkaban, leaving him somewhat haggard and drawn. He had improved since Draco had seen him last - he’d regained some of the fullness of his cheeks as well as the broadness of his chest. Though he was of a height with his father, Rodolphus was considerably more intimidating.

“Draco,” he was jerked back to the present by his mother’s faintly strained greeting, “Have you had a good day?”

“Ah, yes - very pleasant thank you,” he unglued his feet and took his assigned place opposite Bella at his mother’s side, “Good evening - Aunt, Uncle,” he inclined his head politely and didn’t even attempt maintaining Rodolphus’s eye contact, choosing instead to unfold his napkin over his lap.

“Good evening, nephew of mine,” Bellatrix said, practically leering across the table as she lazily swirled her tumbler of whisky and ice, “I’m glad to hear you had an enjoyable evening with the half-blood,”

Draco gritted his teeth, and kept his thoughts to himself. He said nothing through the soup course, listening only enough to recognise his own name. Otherwise, he occupied himself with carefully spooning his mushroom soup into his mouth while his eyes wandered about the family dining room.

It was not quite as grand as the drawing room where his parents would host formal dinners (and where Draco had been barred from since the end of fourth year) but it was still unnecessarily opulent with an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a long mahogany dining table.

Draco found his eyes drawn to the walls though, as he always did. Where one might have expected family portraits through the ages to be hanging, instead the walls were covered in an enormous and seemingly unending family tree that wrapped around the walls from floor to ceiling detailing the name of every witch or wizard that had ever married into, or been born into the Mafloy family.

Draco knew that other families had similar representations of their family tress, but where others had enchanted tapestries, the Malfoy’s (at great expense) had enchanted the walls themselves to reflect the ever changing membership of the Malfoy clan. While Draco and his parents were currently the only ones to bare the Malfoy name, the tree detailed the existence of no less than one hundred and fifty living, direct descendants of Armand Malfoy.

Draco found his eyes trailing across the tree, following the path from Armand all the way to himself, making note of the black lines that connected married couples and linked from parents to children and so on.

Not all of the lines were black, however. Some married couples were connected by vivid red lines, with one side of the couple circled in the colour. Invariably, of the couples connected by red, it was a daughter who had married outside of the Malfoy family, and it was her husband’s name (or wife’s name as in a few cases) which was circled in red. The further back in the family tree he went, the more common the colour was, with all six of Nestor Malfoy’s daughters being connect to their husbands by red.

It was these marriages that Draco had always found most interesting as a young boy.

‘They were blood bonded, Draco,’ his mother had explained, ‘It was very common a long time ago – it was a way for one family to ensure the loyalty of another through marriage. It’s partly how the Malfoy family grew in such strength - it was family policy for many generations that any wizards wishing to marry a Malfoy daughter must bind themselves to their wives,’

‘What does that mean though?’ Draco had asked, confused.

‘Well… it’s like a bond of fealty. It’s not technically illegal now, but its very much frowned upon,”

‘Why?’

Narcissa had sighed, and tried to find the words to explain such a thing to her eight year old son, ‘Because it binds the couple together permanently - through their blood, their magic, their souls - and as such it permanently influences the couples behaviour. There is no betrayal between blood bonded couples. Especially from the partner swearing loyalty, which was why it was so popular among Malfoy’s who married off their daughters to influential wizards. It’s effects linger in subsequent generations though, hence why it is frowned upon.’

Draco had not been old enough to quite understand the nuance of what his mother had told him, but he did now. He found his eyes lingering on the red circles around Nestor Malfoy’s daughter’s husbands. What had it felt like to be bound to someone like that? It had been curiosity about this very fact that had had him pouring over the second volume of ‘The Blood that Binds Us’ - he hadn’t quite gotten to the section on matrimony yet though, distracted as he had been with watching Harry.

“Well then nephew,” Draco was pulled rudely from his daydream and found four pairs of eyes looking at him, “are you going to tell us all about your enjoyable day with the half-blood?” Bellatrix’s honeyed words dripped like poison in his ear.

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin to give himself time to think of a response that would persuade his aunt to leave him alone, “I read a little, he worked at his desk, and we chatted in between those two things. There isn’t much else to say,” he shrugged a little, pushing his empty soup bowl away from himself.

Bellatrix chuckled, “‘Worked’. On that stupid eye, you mean? I should have taken both of his eyes – it would have been entertaining to see him try and overcome that,” she glanced towards her husband with a smirk, but Rodolphus seemed mostly disinterested in her, only offering her a placating hum, “Surely you could be doing something better with your time than watching that filthy half-blood work himself to the bone,”

Draco should have kept his mouth shut - there was no safe answer to give - but the way she said ‘half-blood’, as if it put a nasty taste in her mouth, had him full of righteous fury in a split second. All he could think of was Harry crying on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees in a futile attempt to give himself comfort.