Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/774499.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Bartemius_Crouch_Jr./Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Bartemius_Crouch_Jr., Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort, Canon
      Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Violence, Dark_Harry, Daddy_voldemort, Sadism, Mental_Instability,
      unlikely_situations, Character_Death, Underage_Sex, Smut, Explicit
      Language, Doctorish_Barty_(David_Tennant_portrayal;_10th_Doctor
      influenced), Challenge_(of_a_sort), Trope_Subversion/Inversion
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-26 Updated: 2013-10-10 Chapters: 6/? Words: 31937
****** Conciliabule ******
by EmpyrealFantasy
Summary
     "You're a puzzle, Harry. I'd just love to pluck out all your pieces,
     gather them to me like jewels. I want to seek your ins and outs, the
     dark corners that you tuck away. Can I solve you?"
     Dark!Harry, AUish, lies & deceit, secret plots, mental imbalance,
     emotional reluctance, and just a little bit of falling in love
     despite it all.
***** The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story,
and writes another. ~James Matthew Barrie *****
Chapter Notes
     11/3/14 - in hopes of convincing myself to manage writing again, I'm
     going over this editing it. Wish me luck and inspiration!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The sounds of terror were thick in the air, screams rending through the
panicking masses.  Harry closed his eyes and relished in it.  This was
obviously not planned by the Dark Lord; he’d have been informed and warned if
his father had decided to make a move of this magnitude.  But Harry could not
help the delighted chill that ran down his spine at the permeating aura of
fear.
“Oh Merlin, we’re all going to die!”
Harry wanted to curse Ron himself; the idiot was wailing as they ran, nearly
trampling Hermione in his haste.  It was the most lively he’d seen the boy
since his sister’s death, and Harry found himself disappointed to see that
spark back.  At least in his depression he’d been silent for a change.
Harry was lagging behind the others, but neither of them noticed.  Harry let
himself be tugged off course by terrified wizards that were stampeding from the
Death Eaters, darting behind a wide oak tree at the first opportunity.  He kept
himself in the shadows as he peered around it, watching with steadily lessening
joy and growing frustration as the Death Eaters spun the campgrounds’ muggle
caretakers over their heads, dodging the Aurors and Light-sided wizards that
had come out to contest them.  One Death Eater was holding a screaming woman,
whether she was a muggle or witch Harry wasn’t sure, under the Cruciatus while
a child screamed from under her tormentor’s boot.
It was not that the acts themselves were abhorrent to Harry; no, with his
upbringing, finding anything morally repugnant was unlikely.  But the plans he
and his father had been concocting were dependent on surprise, on soul-
wrenching, gut-curdling terror being inflicted and with as little opposition as
possible.  If the press or the Ministry decided that this was more than just
some rogues…
“Fools,” Harry hissed. “Don’t they realize what they’re risking?”
“What are they risking?” asked a voice from behind, causing Harry to whirl
round with his wand in hand and a Dark curse on his lips. “And just who are
you?”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked, scrutinizing the man before him. He was tall
and thin with robes of the best quality that hung loosely on his frame, and it
was obvious he didn’t care much about his appearance. His shaggy brown hair
looked like it hadn’t been cut or styled in a great many years and it hung into
sharp, intelligent brown eyes.  He had an uneven scruff along his jawline and
bags beneath his eyes. But despite all that, Harry felt his breath catch in his
throat and he had to shove away the desire to count each and every freckle on
that strong nose with his tongue. “I’m Harry Potter.”
“Are you really?” A speculative glint entered those brown eyes as he examined
him.
“Who are you?” Harry asked, trying to gain a foothold in the conversation.
“Oh, I do apologize,” said the man, flashing a roguish grin that made Harry’s
heart stutter before resuming its beat at double the speed.  “Allow me to
introduce myself: I am Bartemius Crouch Junior.”
Harry's eyes narrowed. That wasn't possible.
"Barty Crouch Junior is dead," he said in a steely voice. "Now tell me, who are
you?"
That grin just widened and Harry's spine stiffened in response.
"Oh, I assure you, I am very much alive." The man's eyes had an almost manic
gleam that paired perfectly with his mad grin.
"Show me your arm," Harry commanded. Barty Crouch Junior had been a Death Eater
and the Dark Mark couldn't be faked.
The man's brow furrowed and he looked genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"
"Your left forearm," Harry barked, unwilling to let his guard down until he
knew what was going on. "If you're Crouch Junior, show me your Dark Mark."
The man looked at Harry appraisingly; they were at an impasse, both unsure of
the other's loyalty and of how much was safe to reveal.  Harry Potter was meant
to be the very antithesis to everything that the Dark stood for, so Harry was
actually pleased with the man's caution. Slowly and with obvious reluctance, he
reached out with his right hand to push up his left sleeve exposing the faded
Dark Mark to the cool night air.
Harry cautiously moved closer and gripped the man's forearm, thumb brushing
over the skull. Before the man could pull away, Harry had his wand tip pressed
against the Mark and hissed, green eyes alight and never leaving the other
man's.
"Burn."
The resulting fiery pain forced the man to his knees; his lower lip was bitten
into hard to keep from screaming.
"Are you loyal?" Harry hissed out in English, sounding more like his father in
that moment than ever before.
"Yes. Always," the man gasped out. Harry gave the Mark another hissed
instruction and the burning stopped.
"Good," he said in an almost friendly voice. "Now then." Harry tugged on the
man's arm lightly, encouraging him to stand, which he did slowly and on
slightly shaking legs. Harry pulled a wand, Ron’s if he wasn't mistaken, out
from where it peeked from Barty's robes and held it out for the man to take in
his left hand. Harry tapped his own wand once more against the Mark. Barty
gasped and his eyes turned glassy as it pulsed.  It only took a moment for
Barty's face split into a wide grin as he felt the long-awaited and much-missed
call of his Lord.
"There we go," murmured Harry. "The mother ship is calling you home." He
chuckled at the confused look on the man's face. "Never mind. Just a few things
to cover, then you can go to him. We need to stop those fools from doing
further damage, but we need to make sure I'm not implicated in the process. I'm
going cast a spell with your wand, then you're going to stun me and Apparate
before anyone else gets here. Is that clear?"
Barty just nodded with his overwhelmed smile, his still-glassy eyes focusing
just enough for Harry to trust his competence.
"Good boy." Harry, still gripping Barty's left forearm turned until his back
was against the older man's chest. He slowly moved his hand down the forearm
and placed it over Barty's so that he was gripping the wand with him.
Harry pointed the wand in the air, whispered, “Morsmordre!” and, before the
Mark had even finished forming, spun out of Barty's arms and was facing him
again. Barty pointed the wand at the youth.
"Give him my love," Harry said with a cheeky grin, just milliseconds before the
red light of the Stunner hit him and darkness claimed him.
 
===============================================================================
 
It was nearly amusing that it had all started by complete accident.
In his father’s words, he’d only been looking for sturdy, effective transport
when he’d happened across the Dursleys.  They'd been in East Sussex just
outside of Brighton, hardly gone from Marge’s house in one of the last rural
locations Southern England had to offer.  It had been unseasonably warm and the
car had overheated, stranding all three of them in the late summer sun.
They’d been discussing their trek back to Surrey when Voldemort had come across
them, disembodied as he was, hitching rides on common animals in an attempt to
get closer to civilization again.  His last true host, a homely wizard who had
retired to the seashore, had killed himself rather than keep on possessed as he
was, and the Dark Lord had realized he would need to get into London to have
the best chance at finding a new magical host.
The initial possession of Vernon had only been as a pack mule, of sorts.  They
had been the first non-farming folk he’d come across in days, and they had been
going back to civilization posthaste.  But Vernon’s possession, by chance
though it was, had set off a series of events that boggled Harry even today. 
He couldn’t imagine what his life would have been like if the Dursleys had not
broken down that day, or if perhaps they had come home the previous day like
they had originally intended.  It was luck, pure and simple, and it had saved
Harry’s life.
In Vernon’s mind, Voldemort had seen the pathetic wastrel he’d been, locked in
the cupboard under the stairs.  It had been an uninteresting tidbit at first,
just another reason to be disgusted by needing to have any part of him
associated with a muggle, but then… then he’d found the memories.  A little
boy, gaunt and dirty, angry and making objects fly around the room.  Objects
disappearing around the house, only to be found in the cupboard when the boy
had been locked in for days.  Burns inflicted over the stove (his Aunt had
pushed his hands onto the burners when he did not perform adequately) healed
the next morning.
It was only these things which had made Voldemort rip through Vernon’s mind,
sending him to his knees on the side of the road, gleaning every detail he
could.  That the child had been the one who had brought he, the Dark Lord
Voldemort, to his knees had horrified and disgusted him.  His father had
hesitated at this part in the telling, but years later he had filled in the
blanks.  Initially, he had planned to kill Harry with Vernon’s meaty fists,
take the man home and wring the scrawny boy’s neck.  He’d been chagrined and
apologetic when he told Harry this, and Harry had forgiven him easily.
In the end, obviously, he had not killed him.  Voldemort had kept attached to
Vernon, ruined mentally though he was now, directing him down the road only by
the remnants of memory.  His father said it had been his eyes that had changed
his mind, Avada Kedavra green and terrified, but resilient nonetheless.  Bright
with life and glinting with fury, even at the young age of six.
Voldemort had seen himself in young Harry, and that had ultimately changed both
their lives.
There had been many obstacles in those early years.  Petunia had needed to live
no matter what, since the blood wards were tied to her.  If they had fallen,
Dumbledore would have been there in an instant.  Vernon needed to be seen
leaving the house for “work” every day at least for a little while, so as to
allay suspicion.  Harry could not be removed from the house, nor could
Voldemort take a new body and still be staying in the house.
But a muggle body was a muggle body.  It had no magical core, and Voldemort had
been highly unhappy having to live without his magic, wandless though he was. 
And so he had begun to build one.  Harry remembered hours of meditation for the
two of them, himself for the building blocks of Occlumency, his father to weave
magic into the obese muggle. 
By the time Harry was eight, he had a firm grasp on reading, writing, and math
as well as a closed mind.  It was only then that his father had conceded that
he needed to begin his magical education, and he finally believed he knew how
they could go about it without raising suspicion.
They had traveled much in the next years, both as a "family”, dragging Petunia
and Dudley along, and just the two of them with the use of a Time-Turner.  With
the Time-Turner, they could still be seen in the neighborhood, but then portkey
to the continent for a day, perusing Magical Paris, Berlin, or Moscow.  Harry
had been lavished with books and supplies there, his father spoiling him
absolutely rotten.  It was in those times, the Dark Lord’s arm tentatively
around his shoulders in an awkward attempt at closeness, when he first felt
like he had a real family, a father, someone to belong with.
Petunia had been miserable in those years.  Harry had watched her fade into the
shadows, eyes dimming, skin becoming slack.  Where she had always been a skinny
woman with an unpleasant face, the loss of the husband she had known had done
her in. Dudley became more dependent on her, since “Vernon” wanted nothing more
to do with them.  Both fell into shades of their previous selves.  Harry
couldn’t help but think they deserved whatever came to them.
Marjorie Dursley had been the first person he’d killed.  It had been only a
week before his Hogwarts letter arrived and his eleventh birthday, though due
to the time-turner use he had no idea the age he’d truly been, just as he still
was really unsure of his real age.  But he remembered vividly how his father
had watched with deep, deep pride in his crimson eyes as Harry had made her
writhe before him.  He’d used flaying curses and skin-stripping hexes
interspersed with Blood Replenishing potions to keep her living as long as
possible, Summoning her toenails and teeth to him then banishing them back
under her skin.
Harry missed those days sometimes.  No Golden Boy persona to play, no watching
his back every moment.  Just he and Voldemort, exploring magic together,
learning and growing closer together.  His father had called him his weakness
once when he was young, and Harry remembered the gratification he had felt
later when his father had called him an asset instead, strong enough to stand
beside him and not be a liability.  He still felt that pride in every waking
moment.
Consciousness was a sudden thing, the Rennervate jolting him like an electric
shock.
“Harry!”
He blinked rapidly, trying to come back to himself, vision obscured by a sea of
brown.  As hair went up his nose he sneezed, and Hermione and her bushy head
finally backed off.
“We were so worried, where were you?  Oh Merlin, it’s terrible!”
He peered up at the canopy of trees above him, taking in the fading green of
the Dark Mark still sprawled across the sky.  He shivered and pasted on a
confused expression.  “What’s happened?”
The wizards around him began babbling near-incoherently, all rising to talk
above the others.  One man strode forward, and Harry was both displeased and
curious to see that it was Crouch Senior.  “You!” he snarled, leaning over
Harry with his wand out.  “Did you conjure the Dark Mark, boy?”
He hated being called ‘boy’.  His lip lifted in a snarl before Arthur Weasley
filled his vision, standing over Harry with more authority than Harry had ever
seen him muster.  “Remember who you’re talking to, Barty.  The boy was
unconscious when we found him; I doubt he could have had anything to do with
this.”
The Senior Crouch Summoned Harry’s wand then, casting Priori Incantatem with a
growl in his voice, but the last spell he’d cast with his much-loved Holly wand
had been a locking spell on his trunk.  The man’s face contorted in anger. 
Harry snatched it back from him and clutched it close protectively.
“Look here,” a woman Harry didn’t know called, kicking fallen leaves to the
side.  “There’s a wand here on the ground.”
Crouch was out of Harry’s line of vision immediately, and Harry took this time
to sit up properly and try to push himself into a standing position.  Mr.
Weasley was at his side immediately helping him up, shakily asking if he was
feeling all right.  Harry tried his damndest not to shake the blood traitor’s
hands off of him.
“Whose wand is this?!” Crouch bellowed, turning with the stick Harry knew the
man’s son had dropped only minutes ago.  “Who is the miscreant that called the
Dark Mark into the sky?”
“Oh blimey,” Harry heard Ron whimper behind him.
Crouch stormed towards him, gripping Ron by the collar of his robes with
shaking hands.  Harry’s eyes narrowed.  Why was he so enraged?  Was it only
coincidence so soon after Harry had stood pressed against the man’s supposedly
long-dead son?
Another shout from the other side of the clearing had people racing away, but
Harry took the moment to lean back against a tree, catching his breath and
calming his thoughts.  He Occluded as well as he could with all the madness
around him, the air filled with sobs rather than screams now.  Harry was glad
that Barty the younger had been able to get the idiots to pack up and get out
of there as he’d wished.
He peered across at the commotion the others were making, a shout from Amos
Diggory filling in his confused blanks.  A house elf?  What in the hell was
going on?
 
===============================================================================
 
Harry was becoming more and more agitated as the day wore on.  He had wanted to
owl his father to update him on the stupidity of his minions, but he couldn’t
risk sending out Hedwig and once he was in Hogwarts it was too risky to send
out post.  He wished he could have spent the last of his break at his father’s
estate in Little Hangleton, dreary and dilapidated though it still was.  They
had only very recently been able to start repairing it with the return of his
father’s body and magic.  However, as Harry-Potter-the-Orphan, he had no excuse
to turn down the kindness of spending several days in a massive swamp of
redheads.
He was free now, and though he wished he could see his father, he was glad to
be back in Hogwarts.  Magic sang here, vibrated across his senses, and rose in
a joyous symphony with his own magic.  It was a feeling he always forgot the
stunning magnitude of until he returned to Hogwarts once more.
But that didn’t make it easier sitting across from Ron and Hermione as they
bickered like children.
“Slave labor,” she was muttering, staring in horror as the meal changed from
the main course to dessert.  “I’ve been taking advantage for years now…”
“Cor, Hermione, relax!” Ron choked out around his spotted dick.  “Like you
said, you’ve been eating here for years.  The House Elves are happy as they
are, why else would they do it?  Ya think that the Headmaster would really keep
them if they were so impressed or whatever?”
“Oppressed,” she muttered, glaring darkly at him.  “I’ll have you know—“
He’d never been happier to see Albus Dumbledore stand, congenial smile
plastered in place, sky-blue robes bright and cheerful as he raised his arms. 
“Shh!” Harry hissed at them.
The announcements were much the same as they were every year right up until he
mentioned the lack of Quidditch in the school year to come.  He was joined by
Fred and George as well as more than a few students from other houses on his
feet, hands slamming into their house tables as they shouted denials.  The
Headmaster sent a quelling, gentle smile to them all and waved them back into
their seats.  “Now, now, children, there is a reason for this!  This year
Hogwarts has the highly dignified honor…”
The Tri-Wizard Tournament.  He’d known, of course; his father had only been in
proper contact with a few of his Death Eaters, but he still had eyes and ears
everywhere.  But cancelling Quidditch?
The excitement rose to a near fevered pitch, students chattering in excitement
about the opportunity for “glory” in winning the tournament.  Harry, himself,
was far from looking forward to this.  He knew that one of his fellow students
was a servant of his father’s, and that they would be Confounding whatever was
choosing the Champions.  It wouldn’t do, of course, for Voldemort to appear to
be overlooking Harry Potter.  The Headmaster expected some kind of
nefariousness of his former student, his father said.  The Headmaster was
entirely convinced that he knew all there was to know about him.
Harry wished he could shuck this persona away.
He let his eyes fall over his fellow students, wondering just who had been
replaced.  He had seen no obvious signs yet, but he was sure something would
catch his attention soon.  Whomever it was would not know his relationship with
the Dark Lord, so they would probably strive to make his life a living hell on
principle.
The excited murmurs turned into frightened shrieks as the doors to the Great
Hall slammed open, bouncing off the stone walls.  An absolutely horrifying man
stalked in then, gnarled like an ancient tree, scarred and pock-marked with age
and old injuries.  His eyes were the most damning, frightening feature, though,
and even Harry found himself shrinking back as lightning streaked across the
Great Hall’s sky.
Only one eye was human – though squinting, creased, and dark.  The other was
terrifying.  It was round and large on the cragged face, never still even for a
moment.  It rolled and whirled, seeming to be trying to look in all directions
at once.  It pinned him as the man limped by and the owner tilted his head, a
teeth-baring mockery of a smile on his face as he winked that one human eye.
Harry sat stunned as the man hobbled his way up to Dumbledore, who greeted him
with pleased aplomb.  His introduction put him down as the famous Auror Mad-Eye
Moody, hunter of Dark Wizards and their new Defense professor for the year.
Harry watched him warily, pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his mind. 
His father had to be out of his damned mind to replace Moody of all people… but
the biggest question was who with?
The answer came as Dumbledore dismissed them all, the entire Great Hall
standing and speaking at once.  Harry sought the grizzled Auror’s eyes over the
crowd and the man grinned… a half-mad, toothy, roguish grin so at odds with the
face it was on that Harry could not help but laugh in horrified understanding.
This year would prove interesting, indeed.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Foremost, all credit for this plot idea, the inspiration, most
     of the opening scene (mussed around a bit with the language and a few
     points that didn't fit with where I was going, but it is 95% her),
     the general backstory, and permission to use all of the above goes
     solely to Belle's Noir for her fic Bittersweet. Read it. Going off
     the same idea, we intend to explore two entirely different
     directions, and I couldn’t have done this without her.
***** One's real life is often the life that one does not lead. ~Oscar Wilde
*****
Under the protection of his invisibility cloak and with the sound of his steps
muffled, Harry skated through the quiet pre-term halls of Hogwarts.  Most
students were in their dorms catching up with one another, and even the
prefects and professors were lax in their patrols on the first night back.
He relished in the utter silence, peeking at the Marauder’s Map at
intersections, following the path to the small, pacing marker titled Bartemius
Crouch, Jr.at the base of Ravenclaw’s tower.  He wasn’t even in the proper
corridor when he saw the figure move towards the door to the room, standing
still, obviously awaiting something. 
He stopped in front of a severe suit of armor that the map said was the
entrance, glaring up as it lifted its mace with a menacing… tilt to its head? 
Harry wasn’t sure how something without a face could be so expressive, but it
was nonetheless.  With hunched shoulders it raised a mace, tilting up its chin.
With a loud thud that echoed throughout the corridor, the armor suddenly
lowered its arm in a heavy swing that should have cracked the stone it
impacted.  Instead the wall the armor leant against swung inward, revealing a
dark, dusty hall with faint light at the end of it.
Despite the map telling him only Barty was in the room, he couldn’t help the
chill of apprehension that ran down his spine.  He folded the map and pocketed
it, pulling out his wand and stepping as silently as he could.  There were
cobwebs clinging to the low ceiling.  He could see into the rooms themselves
now, barren though they were.  Aside from a pair of wingback chairs and a high,
wide bookshelf, the only décor was an assortment of gadgetry that Harry only
recognized half of.
He tugged the cloak closer to him as he stepped into the room, wand at the
ready, scanning the room in sweeping motions as his father had always taught
him to.
He gasped as an arm snaked around his waist, pinning his wand arm to his side,
and yanked him back against a warm human body.
“Now, now, Young Lord, you neglected to cancel out the sound of your
breathing.”  A second hand pulled down the hood of his cloak, and he leaned
back to look into the floating head of Barty Crouch Junior, eyes glinting in
delight.  That second hand traced his jaw and tipped back his head, fingers
dancing over his Adam’s apple.  “You’re lucky I am who I am, else I’d have
separated your pretty little head from your lovely little shoulders.”
Harry couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through him, leaning back harder on
instinct.  The arm around his waist tightened and Harry fought to breathe. 
“Erm, honestly, I don’t know that I’ve learned the spells necessary to do
that.”  He knew the theory, of course, but his father had focused on offensive
magic almost completely.  He knew curses, hexes, and charms to harm or stop
another in a myriad of ways, but other arts had been left by the wayside.
“Oh?” Barty said with obvious surprise. “I’ll have to teach you then, won’t I? 
Fancy that, actually getting to teach as a teacher.” Fingers, long and pale,
dragged across his stomach as he was released, but then Barty was gently
pushing him forward.  He pulled off both invisibility cloaks and spun Harry
around, bending low at the waist and bringing Harry’s knuckles to his lips. 
Their eyes met and held as Barty smiled, lips still pressed against Harry’s
skin.  “I am at your service, Young Lord.”
As his hand was released, leaving Harry feeling strangely dizzy and bereft,
Harry fought down the urge to grab the hand back into his own.  Instead he
forced a smile, straightened his posture, and tried to summon back the control
and ease of interaction his father had instilled in him. 
He raised his wand to the man, jaw clenched in that same, insincere smile. 
“You are obviously who you say you are, but I want to know how.  You died in
Azkaban.  If you had, in fact, escaped from Azkaban, where have you been?  Why
did you not seek to restore the Dark Lord if you were walking free?”
Sharp brown eyes shuttered and the man tensed.  His tongue flicked against his
lips.  “My father has had me under the Imperious curse since I was removed from
Azkaban.”
Harry stifled a gasp.
“The dead body in Azkaban was, I assume, my mother.  I’ve been under lock and
key in my father’s home in London.”  He paused then, eyes focusing as he bared
gritted teeth, his eyes blazing. “He kept me from my Lord, my great and
magnificent Lord.  I will see him dead for that.” 
“You would kill your father?” asked Harry hesitantly.  He did not ask with
disgust, only curiosity.
He turned to Harry, near snarling, stalking forward like a great jackal.  “I
lived a half life, Young Lord.  Can you imagine?  I was eighteen years old when
they threw me in that prison.  When I finally freed myself from my father’s
grasp enough to look into a mirror and comprehend what I saw, I did not even
recognize myself.  I have missed my entire adult life!” he ended in a roar,
leaning over and tearing at his hair.
Harry shivered, unable to even fathom what this man had gone through.  He took
a hesitant step forward, but Barty’s head flicked up then, tongue wetting his
lips compulsively.
“Yes, Young Lord, I could kill him,” said Barty lowly, straightening ever-so
slowly. “I would rejoice in the opportunity.  I would love to have him writhe
beneath my wand, begging to be freed.  I can never have back what he took from
me, and I would see him dead in an instant.”
Harry pulled back the hand that had unconsciously hovered between them,
scowling to himself that it had moved without his active knowledge.  He looked
towards the shadows that danced on the stone walls, uneasy in the silence but
not sure how to break it.
“Harry Potter,” Barty sang, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence.  Harry
looked back to see the man grinning again, dancing towards the wingback chairs
at the fireplace and falling into one, legs draped languidly over the arm.
“Harry, Harry Potter.  How does Harry Potter end up in the service of my
glorious and magnificent Lord?  What magic has been made to bring such an
end?”  Barty laughed and the sound was half delight and half madness, and Harry
thought himself odd for finding it attractive.
“No magic.  Pure luck,” Harry said with a shrug, speaking only the truth.  He
walked to the second chair and sat uncomfortably on the edge.
“Oh, Young Lord, surely you jest,” Barty kicked one of his legs to lie over the
back of the chair, effectively rotating him more in the chair.  “Harry Potter,
knelt at the feet of my powerful Lord, Heir in name and power.  Harry Potter,
Boy-Who-Lived, believed Chosen One by all the silly little peasants.  There
must be magic here, Harry.  ‘Tis only a matter of what sort of magic it is.”
Harry steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them, watching the man
babble with bright, clever eyes.  Harry could see why he had been a favorite of
his father’s for so long.  He was quick and blunt, guileless, all with the
masterful logic of the Ravenclaw genius he was.  ‘And half mad,’ Harry added
mentally, though that wasn’t necessarily a negative.  The years and insanity
seemed to have only deepened Barty’s devotion to the Dark Lord.
“The change in plans has startled me,” Harry said finally, cutting off the
murmured stream of praises for Voldemort.  “Originally, a student was going to
be removed from the picture and replaced by one of the few Death Eaters
privileged enough to know the Dark Lord has returned.”
Barty flashed a grin.  “It was a last minute decision.  To be a part in my
Lord’s reemergence into the Wizarding world…” Barty tipped back his head and
closed his eyes, grin stretching wider.  “I am honored with his trust in me, to
lay your safety and the sanctity of our plans in my hands.  My Lord is truly
magnificent.”
Harry hummed in his throat.  “Your position as a Professor in this school gives
equal parts advantage and disadvantage to the plans as they are. Will there be
any major revisions now that you are here?”
Barty shook his head, trimmed brown hair swaying lightly.  It was shorter than
it had been at the World Cup but still not at all styled, sticking up jauntily
in the front.  “All remains the same.  You will be an unexpected fourth Tri-
Wizard Champion; you will win and reach the cup in whatever manner they
contrive to test you.  You will be Portkeyed to where my Lord awaits and, with
your invitation as an accepted student of the school, he and a few chosen will
be brought back to Hogwarts to give a dramatic return to the public eye.”
He wondered how this would play out now that he had assistance.  He was pleased
– more than he cared to admit – to have Barty in the school, but he was wary of
any sudden changes to the plan they had been concocting for the last two
years.  But to have a Professor in the school both aware of who he was and
where his allegiances laid was a boon of the highest caliber, and he knew to be
grateful. 
When he came back to himself and focused on Barty, it was to find the man
balancing precariously on the edge of his seat, leaning to nearly touch Harry
across the space between them, hands on his knees.  “Now tell me, Young Lord,
if you will… how have you managed all these secrets right under Albus
Dumbledore’s nose?”
He leaned back, half wary and half breathless, his eyes fastened on the hyper-
intelligent brown eyes in front of him.  “I manage them because I keep as few
as possible within these walls.  When I am here, I am Harry Potter: Boy-Who-
Lived.  I am a good Gryffindor who only wants everyone to be safe and happy,
who befriends Mudbloods and Blood Traitors, who has not a thought in his mind
about anything but keeping dead the killer of his parents.”  He waved a hand a
bit.  “In truth, you’re the first person but my father and me to know any of
this.  He does not trust his servants readily, as you know.”
Barty jerked a bit, eyes narrowing.  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so trusting.  I
could be a spy; I could be here to ruin the Dark Lords plans.  I could be
looking for weaknesses in you and him to bring all of this down around your
head.  How would you know?”
“I know,” Harry said at length, surprised by how honest it felt. The man’s gaze
did not soften.  “You were one of my father’s most faithful: a prized follower
in all ways.  He has always spoken most fondly of you, of your sharp wit and
intelligence. You know who he truly is; you know the life he has led.  You only
loved him more for it.  No, you would never harm him.”
“And you?”
Harry smirked.  “My father would have killed you the moment you Apparated to
him if you had even the inkling.”
Barty returned the smirk, tilting his head to prop in his hand.  “You know me
so well already.”
“Only so much as my father could tell.”
The smirk widened and narrowed all at once, becoming sinuous and sly.  “I am
sure we’ll have much time to get to know one another, Young Lord.”
Goosebumps rose instantly, and Harry fought down the reaction.
“If you’re interested in sharing, why not tell me how it is, exactly, that you
have come to call my Lord father?  He told me much before I came here, but he
did not tell me this.”
Harry realized his mistake now and damned himself for it.  He peered at Barty
through his lashes, assessing the bright, mad gleam in his eyes, the eager cant
of his body.  The man breathed for Harry’s father, for Harry himself.  The
Darkness was the entire world to this man and, if anyone was to be trusted,
Harry felt that person had to be Bartemius Crouch, Junior.    “Well, I suppose
it would help for you to know that… if only to fully grasp the circumstances.
It all started with a whale, a horse, and a pig…”
 
===============================================================================
 
“In the Chamber, I found it was a diary my father had created that contained… a
shade of himself from his Hogwarts years.  The Weasley girl was dying from his
influence and it was only a matter of waiting.  That year really highlighted
how inconvenient it is that I cannot contact my father from September to June. 
If I had been able to ask him, I’d have known much sooner what was happening.”
Barty looked thoughtful, humming in the back of his throat.  But after a moment
of silence he didn’t address whatever had him suddenly distant, thinking
deeply.  “His return was strong, then?  He looks perfectly healthy, of course,
but if there is anything I could do to make his well-being more sure—“
Harry shook his head.  “Don’t worry, it was seamless.  He possessed the body of
his shade and, with a ritual he had had already prepared and a few small
modifications, he was able to regain himself entirely: magic, blood, and mind. 
I’m grateful for it, as that let him take me in fully.”
“So he’s adopted you by rite of blood and magic, then?”
“Mmm,” said Harry.  “Just that summer.  Once he’d regained his body we’d gone
about the ritual immediately.  I only wish it worked on a more physical level,
I had grand hopes for hair that didn’t stand on end.”
It was early morning before Barty shooed him away, fingers lingering on Harry’s
shoulder and hip as he guided him to the door.  “There is no password; Moody
would never leave such an abominable weakness.  But the guard knows you now and
I will ensure you are always allowed in when you wish it, no matter the
circumstances, Young Lord.”
Harry smiled before it was broken with a yawn, and then he was on his way back
to Gryffindor Tower and a deep, dreamless sleep.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Hah!” Ron chortled, watching with satisfaction as his Knight pummeled Harry’s
Queen.
Harry hated chess.
“That was better, mate.  You lasted fifteen minutes that time!”
For all his complaints about Ron’s pathetic existence, he had to give the boy
credit for his skill with strategy.   Voldemort had tried early on to teach
Harry the game, but as the years wore on it became obvious that Harry was
really just terrible at it.  He had no head for strategy and it showed in every
sacrificing move he accidentally made on the chessboard.
He was ashamed to admit it, but he hadn’t had to lie to the Sorting Hat to get
into Gryffindor.  He had rejected Slytherin first, yes, but Gryffindor was its
easy second choice.  He was brash and headstrong at the best of times, he knew.
His pieces were jeering at him, and his King was mooning him.  Harry pushed
back from the board with disgust. 
“Aww, mate, s’all right.  You’ll get better the more we play!”
Harry wanted to strangle him.
“Really, Ronald.  You should both be working on your Potions essay that
Professor Snape assigned.  It is due tomorrow afternoon!”
“That greasy git,” Ron grumbled, obviously giving in as he slinked over to the
couch.  “He knew there was only a two-day break between classes, why would he
assign so many inches?!”
“Because he’s Snape,” said Harry, waving a hand.  “His job in life is to make
ours hell.”
“Professor Snape, Harry.  And really, he has much better things to do that
worry about the lives of us three.  Now, I’ve decided to focus on the primary
differences between ground and powdered ingredients in this, you can do
something else if you’d like.”
Harry wasn’t going to tell them this, but he’d already finished his
assignment.  When anywhere but near Snape, he enjoyed Potions well enough.  He
had always had a knack for cooking, and though more volatile than any pasta
could ever be, he could see the parallels and understood it, though he had no
great talent.
But oh, how he loathed Snape.
Snape, one of his father’s beloved followers.  Once upon a time he had been one
of the Dark Lord’s most loyal, skilled, and ruthless.  He remembered the tales
his father had spun of the first war as bedtime stories for him, and Snape was
often a forward player in these.  He was a deft hand at potions but was even
more adept at Spellsmithing, with a sharp, Dark mind that came up with some of
the most ghastly new curses the Dark had seen in centuries.
He trusted his father that Snape had once been his without doubt.  His father,
however, could not see the man now.  After years of watching Snape, he was sure
he’d fallen beneath Dumbledore’s thumb in the years since his father’s
downfall.  In first year, he’d been the primary factor in Quirrell being unable
to snatch the Philosopher’s Stone for the Dark Lord.  And, while he despised
Harry Potter bitterly as any loyal Death Eater was apt to, the hatred was just
too personal.  This was not the anger of a servant for the loss of his Lord,
this was the hate of a small-minded man for the son of a bully.
Snape was an asset to the Dark Sect and his father was loathe to off him, but
deep down Harry didn’t really see it turning out any other way.  He was too
stubborn, too wrapped up in Dumbledore’s machinations.
But then, Harry was terrible at strategy. He knew his own shortcomings; he knew
he could be making his judgments on perception and partial information.
He glanced back at Ron and Hermione to see that their faces were growing
steadily redder with anger.  He had tried to at least become fond of them over
the years, to make this whole performance easier, but he’d never managed it. 
Ron was an imbecile and a bigot, Hermione was so insecure and ‘by the book’,
all puns intended, that she lacked any creativity.  They were infuriating.
“If you’re not going to listen to a word I say, I’m not going to keep helping
you!”
“You call this help?  This is just you lording over me!”
“You—  I— ARGH.”
Harry tried to slink away, but Hermione pinned him with a snarling glare.
“And just where do you think you’re going, Harry?”
He gritted his teeth and couldn’t stop the roll of his eyes.  “Somewhere where
I can hear myself think.  You two are giving me a headache.”
She deflated instantly, looking hurt, but Ron just seemed to direct his anger
towards Harry instead.  “So this is how it is, huh Harry?  Can’t even stick up
for your best mate?”
“Why in the world should I have to?  You’re just bickering like children.” Ron
was truly angry now, but Harry just stood and walked towards the stairs to the
dorm.  “Never mind, I’m going to bed.”
He heard Ron bellowing as he took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the little
voice in his head that told him he could grab his Invisibility cloak and head
towards Ravenclaw tower.  Instead, he pulled out a charmed copy of a book his
father had gotten him for his last birthday, Summoning Shadows, and slipped
into his bed to read by wandlight.
 
===============================================================================
 
The first week of term passed without anything of much importance, though Harry
had received an owl from Sirius that had given him pause.  He still didn’t know
what to do about the man.  He had no need for a father figure, not that Sirius
seemed capable of it.  From what he could tell, the man was too stunted for
that.  As with Barty, his life had been put on pause in 1981.  He’d been
imprisoned most of his adult life, and Harry couldn’t even imagine the scars
that left on a person who, for all intents and purposes, was innocent. 
Despite that, he couldn’t help but feel a fondness for him.  It was overly
sentimental of him and the notion had made his father sneer in disdain, but he
hadn’t rebuked him.  Harry appreciated that and loved his father all the more
for it.  Even in Harry’s weakness he was accepted.
He was on his way to lunch with his ‘friends’ when Draco Malfoy began shouting,
and Harry resisted the urge to slam has face into his hand.  The boy was a
menace.  He was almost as intolerable as Hermione and Ron, just in an entirely
different way.  This was a boy whose views aligned with his own – he shouldn’t
be so damned irritating to him!  Perhaps it was the life of the spoilt heir
that had made him so grating, or maybe it was just Harry’s intolerance for
people his “own” age.
“Weasel!” the boy called with a malicious grin.  “Have you seen?  Your father’s
in the paper!”
He’d played his part properly, looking offended at the right times and angry at
others.  He darted to Ron’s defense when explosion from the redhead was
obviously imminent.  “You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry as he grabbed
the back of Ron’s robes. “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under
her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with
her?”
Pink fanned quickly across the bridge of Draco’s nose quite attractively on the
boy’s pale face, but the quick spark of attraction Harry felt was doused as the
boy lifted his lip in a snarl. “Don’t insult my mother, Potter!”
He’d turned to help Hermione haul Ron into the Great Hall when he heard an
enraged shout. “OH NO YOU DON’T!”
Pale yellow spell-light grazed his hair as he whipped back around, seeing Barty
charging down the marble stairs, Moody’s wooden leg thunking against each
step.  There was a cacophonous BANG! as the form of the old Auror hobbled
towards him with purpose, and Harry just barely glimpsed a white ball of fur
where Draco had stood.
A hand insistently gripped his forearm, and he saw real rage in Moody’s
borrowed eyes.  “Did he get you?”
He shook his head mutely, wincing lightly as the gnarled hand clamped down
harder.  He bellowed, “LEAVE IT!” before spinning and glaring at one of Draco’s
lackeys, Crabbe or Goyle (Harry always forgot which was which), who had
approached the small animal Draco had been turned into.  Was… was that a
ferret?
Whatever it was, it was running now, streaking for the low stone passage that
Harry knew to contain the dungeons.
“I don’t think so!” Barty flung Moody’s wand out in a wide arc, twirling it in
a small circle that sent the white ferret into a barrel roll then flying up
towards the ceiling.
“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled
Barty as he sent Draco into the floor then back higher before crashing him back
down. Harry tried not to grin as he squealed in pain. “Stinking, cowardly,
scummy thing to do…”
 “Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice.
Harry, who was still standing directly behind him, pressed his hand to Moody’s
elbow and hissed in his ear, “The jig is up.”
“What - what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the
bouncing ferret’s progress through the air.
“Teaching,” Barty said with a disinterested air.  Harry was at once smothering
laughter and horrified… and more than a little frightened.  Barty could not be
caught out because Draco Malfoy was a git.  He wouldn’t allow it to happen.
But it was not an issue, he found.  He hadn’t known anything about Moody beyond
his reputation, but apparently nearly breaking every bone in a student’s body
as he smacked him into the stone floor was not too far out of the norm for
him.  McGonagall had been appalled, yes, but not overly surprised.
He ran to Barty’s rooms after classes that day, not bothering to pause for his
cloak, ensuring he was not watched as he slid into the man’s rooms.  He was
still wearing Moody’s skin, which revolted Harry a bit, but he couldn’t stop
grinning at him.  “Did you really turn Malfoy into a ferret in my defense?”
Barty grumbled, tromping on Moody’s wooden leg to the bookshelf.  “Arrogant
little shit, trying to harm myYoung Lord.  He’s lucky I didn’t feed him to the
Thestrals once I was done with him!”
Harry smiled as Barty ranted, tongue flicking against his lips as he spouted
off Dark curses he’d like to take out on Draco’s hide.  He leaned against the
passage entrance and just watched the man, flipping through books and obviously
looking for something in particular.
“Here!” Barty barked, Moody’s voice rough as always.  Even alone with Harry,
when Barty was in Moody’s skin, he was Moody.  With an errant flick of his wand
he’d conjured a small table, and a grumbled Summoning charm had a small box
flying out of his bedroom.  Harry began walking closer but was stopped by the
mad spinning of Moody’s magical eye, pinning him in place.  “Hate backstabbing
cowards.  His whiny ponce of a father renounces our Lord to stay in his soft
and cushy bed, teaches his son to have just as much misplaced self-importance
as he does—“
Halfway through whatever task Barty had buried himself in, Harry could see the
signs of Polyjuice wearing off.  He dashed over and Barty accepted his help
unstrapping the wooden leg as he brutally forced out the magical eye, a sight
that made Harry’s stomach turn.  But quickly enough Barty was there in Moody’s
oversized clothing, the broader shirt dipping low on his chest.
His concentration did not waver.
Harry, after checking to be sure there was still significant time before
dinner, wandered around the room, perusing the bookshelf and running his
fingers over the small Dark magic detection devices in the room.  One, a small
bronze and copper series of concentric rings, began whirling madly as he
brushed his fingers across it, nearly flying apart from the speed.
Harry pulled down a book entitled Rituals Involving Limited Human Sacrifice,
leafing through the pages.  The first page he flipped to, a ritual to give the
caster metamorphmagus abilities, had a very grizzly picture of a specific way
to hang a disemboweled person for their blood to drain properly.  Harry moved
on past that quickly. 
He was engrossed on a nearly feasible-sounding ritual to rewrite past events in
a single person’s mind when chilled fingers tipped back his head against a bony
shoulder, and he found himself looking up at Barty’s jaw, stubble lining it. 
Harry blinked.  “Done, then?”
It took Harry a moment to realize the contact was not spontaneous, but that
Barty seemed very intent on something near the short hairs on the back of
Harry’s neck.  After a period of time that Harry’s libido insisted was at least
ten minutes but was likely no more than a single one, Barty finally stepped
back with a pleased, “Aha!”
Harry turned and glanced at him with confusion, taking in the more-mussed-than-
usual fluff of Barty’s hair and the way he could see all the way down the man’s
sternum due to the size of Moody’s collar.  He forced his eyes up.
With a wave of Barty’s wand a mirror was between them, and Harry noticed the
addition immediately.  It was small and, if it was meant to be spherical,
misshapen.  It was a deep hue of blue that seemed almost black in the shadows,
and it was wrapped in a swirl of delicate bronze wire.  Ravenclaw colors, Harry
realized with amusement.  It was a necklace, attached with thin leather cord
and settled in the hollow at the base of his throat.
“Don’t take it off.  Ever.  Especially this year, but ever.” Harry peered
around the mirror to see Barty avoiding his eyes.  “I take my Lord’s orders
seriously, and your safety is one of his highest concerns.  Keep that on and
I’ll always know when you need me.”
“Is this all because Malfoy tried to hex me?” He kept his eyes on Barty’s face,
fingers catching and tightening on the man’s wrist without thought, lowering
the mirror to chest-height.
“Curse,” he said with a frown.  “That was a variation of the Choking Curse that
tricks you into thinking it is over after a few minutes, but over the next
hours and days slowly closes off your air supply more and more.” Barty released
the mirror and let it Banish as he finally met Harry’s eyes.  “I won’t let harm
come to you.  That traitorous bastard Karkaroff will be here this term, as will
any number of others who don’t know of your greatness.  Even over our mission,
your well-being is the most important thing.”
Harry released Barty’s wrist, raising his hand to touch the bauble at his
throat.  “What will it do?”
“It will tell me when I’m needed, that is all.  I put a series of empathy
spells on it with a modified Protean charm, as well as a few sensing spells and
monitoring charms.  Any harm comes to you, I’ll get there as quickly as
possible.”
Harry nodded mutely and stepped back, casting Tempus, cursing as he realized
dinner was only minutes away.  “May I come back tonight?”
Barty frowned.  “This weekend.  I have a few things I’m in the middle of.”
It wasn’t right to feel disappointed.  “See you in class tomorrow, then.”
“Aye,” Barty said softly, looking into the fire now.  He didn’t turn to look at
Harry as he left.
***** I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of.
~Michel de Montaigne *****
Harry relished in the wind ripping through his hair as he went into a freefall,
forcing his instincts down as he pried open his fingers and let go of the
broom. With only his legs clamped around it, he threw out his arms to his
sides, eyes closed, letting gravity take him as it would.
He had missed this.
He was less than fifty feet from the ground when he gripped his broom again,
yanking hard to pull it out of its unrestrained fall. His shoe just barely
grazed the grass of the pitch before he was in control again.
His Firebolt was so responsive. His Nimbus 2000 had been amazing, but this…
this was magical. He needed to write to Sirius again and thank him for the
gift.
"Potter, you reckless imbecile!"
He reeled his broom around and glared towards the hated form of Professor
Snape, touching down and swinging off his broom. He didn't respond, just waited
for the man to storm up to him in the falling darkness, eyes alight with anger
and yellowed teeth bared in a snarl. What was he even doing out here?
"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Arrogant, foolish little heathen!
Twenty points from Gryffindor for sheer idiocy!"
Oh, how he loathed him. "You can't take points for flying, you great bat!"
"Ten more for your cheek, Potter," spat Snape, rankled and irate. "And
detention with me all weekend, from lunch to curfew!"
Lunch to curf—that bastard! Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were arriving in two
nights' time. If he was in detention, he would miss the welcoming ceremony.
He just wouldn't attend detention that night, Snape be damned.
He tensed his jaw in the most mulish look possible, sweeping past Snape on his
way back to the castle. The man snarled, but Harry kept walking, and his
professor did not follow.
October had brought a chill to the air, and Harry found himself thinking of
Yule. It had been three years since he had spent the holidays with his father;
their quiet nights with the Yule log, thanking magic, were some of the most
amazing memories he had. This year would be par for the course, though
Hogwarts, at least, had a few things going for it this year that it had not
other years.
As if summoned by the thought of him, Barty tromped around the corner up ahead,
Moody's clawed wooden leg and walking stick preceding him. Harry gave him a nod
which was returned with a wink, moving past him towards the library. He had
both Charms and Transfigurations essays due that week and needed to work on
them, even if he'd much rather be holed up in Barty's rooms in front of the
fire.
The library was quiet and dark, curfew falling in just an hour's time. Behind
the musty Household Charms shelf he pulled his Invisibility cloak around his
shoulders, creeping through the shadows to the Restricted Section. He
Confounded the spell that monitored for intrusions, slipping past it and into
the living darkness of the windowless room.
"Foolish are nestlings who creep where Darkness breeds," a voice muttered, with
the garbled, broken quality of one speaking to themselves. "Senseless are the
wizards who are not wary."
He followed the voice, trying not to disrupt the thick layer of dust on the
floor. A book tried to leap off the shelf at him but was restrained by the
spells on the place.
"Stupid manchild, foolish nestling. You discovers nothing when you know nothing
to discovers."
Harry noted, then, the faint hiss beneath the words, and he began searching for
the snake. It continued its admonishments in broken sentences. It was in the U
section, not the S's as he's begun to believe, that he found it, not a snake in
truth but a relief of one on the binding of a book.
"Ugly, stupid human, staring now as you are. Manchild shall touch me and
snakeling will bite. Manchild will never have chances to scream."
"Actually, I don't plan on doing any such thing."
The next hiss was louder and somehow angry. "Another Speakers, another thinking
to be better than snakelings."
"Another, hmm?" Harry wondered if it was his father she spoke of, or perhaps
his father's grandfather. "What is in your pages?"
It did not respond, just hissing more allegations and insults. He left it as it
was, curious but not quite Gryffindor enough to touch it. He cast a few
detection spells on its binding, but there were several spells he had never
heard of on it, and several more he did and did not wish to tangle with.
Perhaps Barty would know or, barring that, over the summer he could ask his
father if he had found the book as well.
Harry stopped focusing on the distracting snake and made his way back to the
B's for binding spells. Some of the titles were truly horrifying, even to him,
and some of the enchantments on the books themselves were ghastly. One seemed
to hold at least the illusion of a trapped child, sobbing quietly around
nursery rhymes. Another, proudly titled Ensnarement: Bending the Human Mind,
sang softly like a siren, pulling Harry's attention even as he tried to find a
book on the subject he was there for.
When he saw one with a promising title (Objuration & Colligation) and cast a
few detection spells on its spine, removing an old, weak compulsion and a still
moderately strong pain hex before pulling it down. A quick Tempus revealed it
was nearly curfew, so Harry made sure his cloak was around him and slipped back
into the library proper.
He snuck past a group of Ravenclaw seventh years and some Slytherin second
years, finding an ill-used corner to remove his cloak. He wrapped his book in
it and awkwardly pinned it under his armpit. He made his way to the proper
sections and chose Charms and Transfigurations texts, one each, that he thought
would help on his essays, placing the invisible book atop them as he skirted by
Madame Pince who glared over her spectacles. She tapped the two visible books
with her wand and he left, rushing back for the Fat Lady's portrait.
===============================================================================
"I heard that Beauxbatons girls were like Veelas," said Seamus, eyes wide. Ron
made a scoffing noise in his throat, but Dean and Neville both turned to
listen.
Harry sighed and poked at his Yorkshire pudding, pushing a bit of it back and
forth across the gravy river he had constructed. A piece of roast beef toppled
from its mountain, damming up the river. Many citizens of Roastopia died in the
ensuing flood.
"I'm serious, Ron! The school is more than two-thirds girls, they say, and so
many of the French come from Veela lines that it is just a sea of beautiful
blonde girls, lots of 'em lonely since there aren't enough boys around for them
all."
"Do ya…" Neville cut off, looking pink and choked. He'd gained some confidence
after the events first week with Moody and had been talking more, though Harry
couldn't fathom why. "Do ya think they sometimes are with, erm, each other?"
The last word was a squeak, and the color that flooded Neville's cheeks was
luminescent.
Unfortunately for Neville, he'd chosen the moment Hermione had sat down to join
them. "Neville, I'm surprised at you! What a crass question to ask," she said
with horror, hugging her book to her chest.
Harry snorted, finally looking up from where he had started a colony of peas at
the head of Roastopia's dam. "What's wrong with it? It's immature, yeah, but
the question itself is just a question. This is Neville," with this, he waved a
hand at the mortified boy, "he couldn't be vulgar if he tried."
The boy looked as if he didn't know whether to be complimented or insulted.
Harry wasn't sure which he should be, either. Harry let his attention wander
and flicked his eyes across the hall at the other house tables. Maybe he should
have tried to bully himself into Ravenclaw rather than put up with Gryffindors.
Roger Davies, a very good looking sixth year, met his eyes then and Harry sent
him a coy smirk, which the boy blushingly returned. Hmm. Interesting.
"Harry's right," Ron said with a nod. "And blimey, can you picture it?"
Hermione looked totally incensed, though Harry wondered if that was due to some
kind of odd muggle beliefs or Ron's smarmy grin. Though some of the oldest
families still stuck rigidly by arranged marriages and passing one's genes down
through childbirth, with blood adoption as an option that also gave new blood
into a line, it was no longer completely ghastly to not marry or to wind up
with someone of your own gender.
They continued their bickering even as dessert added itself along the table,
and Seamus, Dean, and Neville scooted closer towards Harry and away from the
two.
"R-remind me to never talk when Hermione is around ever again," Neville moaned,
face in his hands.
Dean patted his shoulder, "There, there, mate. A woman's wrath is super scary…
or something."
Seamus leaned over Harry's shoulder, staring at the war between the Peas and
the Carrots in the dry bed formed by the beef-dam's creation. "Harry, what in
the hell are you doing?"
"Directing civilization," he muttered, knocking several carrots off of the
roast mountain into the deep pool of gravy. "Peas are the conquerors."
"You know you're really weird sometimes, don't you Harry?" Dean asked with
quivering lips.
"The Killing Curse to the head addled his brains," said Seamus.
"Hah bloody hah," he said dully. "Right, well, any other insights into the
schools, or should I just take off to my detention with Snape? They get here
tomorrow, after all."
Seamus shrugged. "Not really. Durmstrang is supposed to be full of Dark
wizards. Not sure what a Dark gal would look like, but I imagine she'd have
wicked jabs. What d'you think, Har? Goodie-goodie Beauxbatons girls or the bad
girls from Durmstrang?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "The one with a cock."
Neville and Seamus began choking in unison and Harry just chuckled, shouldering
his bag and snatching a chunk of Parkin cake from a dish. As he made it to the
doors of the Hall he heard a spluttered, "What?" in what was unmistakably Ron
Weasley's voice
===============================================================================
"I do not hear scrubbing, Mister Potter," Snape drawled, irking Harry yet more.
He did not rise to the bait.
He'd been in here for three hours already, with what had to be the world's
smallest scrub brush and the long untended flagstones of the Potion's classroom
floor.
If Snape had not been hovering over him, he could have set the brush to
scrubbing on its own, which would have at least given the impression he had
done the work, but the bat was lounging comfortably at his desk, stack of
essays at hand, watching Harry's every move through the lank curtain of his
hair. Harry, incongruously and with no small amount of disbelief, felt a moment
of deep pity for the man.
It couldn't be easy, after all, living life as a production. Harry wondered
when the last time the man had even been himself was. No matter who his real
Master was, whether it was Harry's father or Albus Dumbledore, Snape's life was
a song and dance routine. Harry refused to imagine what his life would be like
past this year if he survived.
With that thought, he stopped his petulant glaring through his fringe and
scrubbed away at the stones, thinking of the next evening. The other schools
would be arriving and the plan would be set in motion Monday night. To be
technical, he could simply invite his father and his servants in now and have
all be done… but his father had a flair for the dramatic. Not only did he want
maximum exposure, but the boon of having the Ministers of the three greatest
European powers in one place the night of the final task, not even counting
however many other politicians from the continent, was too great a chance to
ignore by striking too soon.
People would be coming from far and wide, and all of them would have front row
seats to the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort. It would be a performance like
no other.
He wondered what life would be like once he was revealed to the world. Harry
could hardly imagine. Foolishly, childishly, he hoped it meant he could finally
form proper relationships with others. Constantly hiding such huge parts of who
he was meant that he really didn't have anyone who… saw him. Knew him. He had
his father, of course, but Voldemort was hardly paternal. He was possessive and
loved Harry, he had no doubt, but he was unable to demonstrate it. Harry
understood; the life his father had led could very well have been his own if
Voldemort had never come across the Dursleys. As it was, their formative years
were near carbon copies of one another.
He glanced up at Snape again as he scrubbed, the man's thin lips flattened in
an agitated line as he struck out at an apparently disagreeable assignment.
From what he knew from his father, the man's childhood, too, was rather similar
to theirs. Was that at the core of his hate, his bitterness? Or was it the
years spent in service to Harry's admittedly cruel father, then the even more
dastardly Dumbledore? What had caused his shift in allegiances, anyway?
Black eyes, glittering with malice, peered over the parchment he was rolling
up, catching Harry as he stared. "Are you intending to be here all evening,
Potter? I have been very kindin allowing you to leave once you have completed
your task, perhaps you should swallow down your foolish pride and just finish
your task."
He reigned in his anger and resumed his scrubbing, trying his damndest not the
rise to the bait. There would be a time for that, but it wasn't now. The next
night the other schools would arrive, and the night after would be the drawing
of the names. Then it would only be a matter of time… just a matter of time.
Some days, the wish to spill his mind, to verbally eviscerate the man before
him, was nearly irresistible. But no… he needed information first. If he was
going to break and completely explode at the man, he needed to be able to hit
Snape where it hurt most, dig under his greasy, sallow skin to the meat of him
and rend him piece by piece emotionally. He was a very determined child, his
father had always said.
He hid a smirk by ducking his head. He hoped he was there to see Snape's face
when the world came crashing down around him.
===============================================================================
"But did you see her, mate?" Ron was nearly swooning, and Hermione's face was a
study in rage. Harry tried not to let his irritation show.
"Yes, Ron. We all saw her."
"She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. To even get her to look at me-"
Hermione slammed down her book on the common room table and stormed away,
leaving Ron to blink owlishly. "Erm… what's wrong with her?"
Harry closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't have the patience for Gryffindors
right now. "Dunno, mate."
Ron eyed him with a wary look. "C'mon, you're a poof, you should know."
Harry was surprised by how instantly accepting Ron had been since his crack
during lunch the day before; if anyone was going to overreact and ostracize
Harry, he'd have thought it to be Ron. He'd been shocked, of course, but the
redhead's irrational temper had never even shown itself for even a moment about
this. "Know what?"
Ron cringed and squirmed. "What made 'Mione all pissy. Isn't that, like, part
of being gay?"
"Ron, gay or no, I'm still a guy. I'll never understand women."
Ron nodded and sighed, propping his head on a hand. "Was afraid you'd say that.
Damn. There go my hopes."
"Why don't we finish up so we can get down to the Great Hall? The names should
be pulled from the Goblet soon."
"Blimey, I wish I could be chosen," he said with a long sigh. "The fame, the
money…" blue eyes narrowed and Harry stiffened. "You'd know all about that."
Harry blinked, feeling oddly hurt by the narrow, bitter look on Ron's face.
Hadn't he just been thinking about Ron's irrationality? "Huh?"
"Don't even start," Ron said grumpily, turning away. "You've got everything,
mate, and you know it. Everything a bloke could possibly want all around you,
and where does that leave the rest of us, huh?"
Harry stood then, turning away in irritation. "Says the guy whose parents
aren't dead."
Ron flinched momentarily, but then the red was creeping up from his neck and he
was glaring obstinately at Harry. "Oh, poor orphan Potter. Gonna throw that in
my face now?"
"Throw it in your face?" Harry gaped. "You're the one 'round the bend!"
Ron was on his feet as well now, toe to toe with Harry and shaking. He tried to
ignore how the entire common room, full so near the feast, was watching them
with wide, stunned eyes. "You're such a stuck-up… jerk!" Ron bellowed, fists
clenching. "You roll around in your millions of galleons, people falling all
over themselves to give you whatever you want. Then you look at Hermione and me
with all that… expecting you have like there's no reason why we wouldn't want
to sit in your bloody shadow forever!"
"I never asked for this!" he bellowed, failing to keep his control firm on his
magic. Ron flinched back as the electric presence of Harry's anger presented
itself, and Harry sneered. "And I don't expect anything from you! If you don't
want anything to do with me, then bugger off!"
He stormed out of the tower then, knocking the Fat Lady so hard in her frame
that she squawked and fell into the portrait beside her. A group of second
years scattered with terrified shrieks as he snarled at them, a hand planting
on the banister so he could level himself over it and drop the two flights down
from there. He shot a spell at the ground to slow his descent and continued on,
temper whipping his magic around him. The landing jarred the bones in his legs
hard and he knew it would hurt the next day.
It wasn't like he gave a damn what Ron thought, he told himself. It wasn't.
But… he was such a prat! He'd done nothing to deserve the accusations, not yet
at least. There was no telling how vile Ron would end up being come tomorrow,
and Harry took this moment as a test for his resolve. Could he handle being
ostracized entirely? Could he take the rage, censor his first instinct to snap
out harsh words, and just play Boy-Who-Lived through it all, scared and
reluctant?
He nearly barreled into another person as he flipped around a corner, and
gnarled hands settled on his should. "You alright, lad?" Moody's gruff voice
asked, eyes narrowed on Harry's.
He relaxed into Barty's hold and breathed deeply, trying to rid himself of the
anger. It wouldn't do to go into a tizzy whenever someone insulted him. It was
just… despite it all, despite the annoyance and the lies and the frustration,
Ron and Hermione really were the closest things to friends he'd ever had. If
they could turn on him even with his best, innocent, Gryffindor face on…
Moody's fingers were rough and his face made Harry recoil, but as Barty tipped
up Harry's face and began to speak, Harry closed his eyes and imagined there
was no Polyjuice involved. "I know yeh weren't getting hurt, but I was
concerned by your anger there, Young Lord," he muttered quietly, nearly under
his breath. "Is everything all right?"
The concern touched him, and he sagged just a little more. "Yes, I think I'm
all right now. I just had a moment. I hate Halloween."
The grunt that came from Moody then made Harry think he wasn't very convincing,
but the hands released him nonetheless. "We've got big things we're heading for
here, lad. Shall we head on?"
Harry hadn't opened his eyes yet and found himself gripping Barty's forearm,
senses on his surroundings in case anyone approached, just relishing in the
man's presence. He melted just a little when the man gave a little huff that he
always did when he smiled and a hand gripped his shoulder strongly.
"Only a matter of waiting now, Young Lord," he murmured. "Let's go watch
everything take shape."
He opened his eyes and smiled at the man, disguised or no, and nodded firmly.
"So we should. Shall I go ahead?"
"Would be best. Obviously no one else knows you've spent nearly every night of
term in my quarters, and it wouldn't do to bring suspicion on why we're
chummy."
Harry snorted and nodded, released Barty, and swept away without another word.
There was more traffic on the more main cooridors; it seemed everyone was on
their way to the Great Hall now. Harry flicked a quick Tempus when he noted
this, and he saw that it was only fifteen minutes to the ceremony. He shivered
in anticipation, biting down a grim smile.
Any wish to smile fell as soon as he walked through the doors to the hall,
scanning the staff table. His eyes zeroed in on an unexpected face and he
froze, the stream of people entering parting around him as he fought to move.
Only the thought of Barty on his way to this very room got him moving, and
Harry spun and ducked back out the doors with as little notice as he could
manage, racing right back the way he came.
Moody's visage had made it to the throng of people, however, so Harry could
only try to meet his eyes. That part was easy, but inconspicuously pulling the
man away was a bit harder. They managed to duck into a small alcove beneath one
of the grand stairs near the entrance hall, and Harry whispered that Barty
should put up one of the localized silencing barriers he had been teaching him.
He just wasn't stable enough with them yet and didn't want to risk anything.
When Barty did so, Harry kept his eyes on the man. "Barty, I think you should
claim sickness and go back to your rooms."
Moody's gnarled face contorted comically as Barty raised an eyebrow. "Excuse
me?"
Harry swallowed and grimaced. "Your- your father is in the castle."
Barty froze, face and body still, magical eye spinning more madly than ever in
its socket. Then Barty's tongue was flicking out against his lips rhythmically,
breathing accelerating at a speed that worried Harry. "I see."
"Barty… what are you thinking?"
Both the magical eye and the dark, scarred human one pinned him and Moody's
teeth bared. "Of how best to kill him slowly, of course."
He'd been afraid of this. "No, Barty. You can't. Not now, not when so much is
on the line. You need to go to your rooms and play ill, avoid being anywhere
near him, and keep yourself in check."
The man snarled; it was a truly frightening expression on Moody's gnarled face.
"I am not a child to be minded. The man needs to die, Harry. He locked me in my
room, mindless, helpless. He stripped my knowledge from me, my passion, my
Lord. He—he—!"
Harry gripped him as he jerked, tongue flicking out once more as he fumbled for
his flask and took a deep draft. Harry wished that it really was alcohol to
steady him.
"Barty, this is an order." He didn't want to stoop to this, but he would rather
have his companion and cohort unharmed and free. "Go to your rooms, stay there
until I fetch you. Now."
"Why?" he whispered, and Harry cringed at the desperate tone.
"Because if you're found out, it's the Kiss for you. I need you here; please do
not force my hand in this."
The man continued staring and he nodded with a jerk. "As you wish, m'Lord."
Harry had spent half his life groomed for Lordship beside his father, but
Barty's sudden stiff subservience felt like a slap to the face. The man spun on
his heel and slashed his wand out, taking down the silencing barrier and
stomping away, the reverberating thump of his wooden leg ringing out for long
minutes after he was gone. Harry pressed a hand to his chest and wondered at
the ache there.
He shook his head and noted the time after a quick Tempus, running for the
Great Hall and entering just as Dumbledore rose with a pleasant smile.
"Welcome, young minds of Europe. We gather here with a new and fantastic
journey before us: the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It is a dangerous competition, to
be sure, but also a waiting adventure for both the participants and the
spectators." With a dramatic flair, Dumbledore swooped his wand around his head
and all the lights in the Great Hall extinguished but for those in the charmed
Jack-o-Lanterns.
Some of the younger students made muffled screeching noises, but they quieted
down quickly as Dumbledore strolled forward to be illuminated by the odd blue-
white fire of the Goblet. It shone like a tiny, captured star there on its
pedestal, and Harry felt a chill of thrilled anticipation.
As Dumbledore summoned out the name of the Durmstrang Champion (Viktor Krum, of
course) Harry peered at his classmates. He wondered who it would be that would
be the Hogwarts' chosen.
After the expected result from Beauxbatons (Ron's crush, Floor or whatever her
name was) Harry felt the same anticipation thrum through him that was making
every Hogwarts student sit on the edge of their seat. Would it be Montgomery
from Slytherin, who was vaguely the same size as Draco's lackeys but corded and
thick with muscle? Or would it be Diggory from Hufflepuff, pretty and liked by
all of his year? How would the school react when Harry was chosen as the fourth
champion from no school at all?
"And the Hogwarts Champion will be-" Dumbledore stopped suddenly, giddy smile
dropping from his face. Harry felt his stomach plummet. What- "Harry Potter?"
"Oh, bloody buggering hell," Harry moaned, face falling into his hands.
===============================================================================
He crept beneath his invisibility cloak, testing his hold on a small, self-
anchored silencing ward that centered on his body. He wasn't likely to go
looking for Filch to see if he'd mastered it, though, so he would just have to
be sneaky regardless and hope for the best.
The suit of armor that guarded Barty's quarters seemed to sense his urgency,
despite not being able to see him, and quickly caused the door to swing inward
to allow Harry in. He ripped off his invisibility cloak in the cobweb-cloaked
front entry and tossed it aside as he strode into the main chamber.
Barty was in one of the wingback chairs before the fire, fingers steepled
beneath his chin and his eyes on the flames. Harry paused and felt tension
drain from him as he examined the man's profile; he was disturbed to note how
important Barty had come to be to him in the last two months, but only took
comfort in it nonetheless. Barty's sharp jaw was vibrating with tension and his
nostrils were flared, but he did not turn to look at Harry.
A deep well of regret opened in Harry as he hesitantly stepped forward.
"Barty?"
"Yes, m'Lord?" replied Barty, hardly moving his lips.
Harry cringed. When Barty called him Young Lord it felt like an affectionate
nickname, but this was toneless and dull, forced. "Please don't do this."
"And just what is 'this'?" Barty barked out, head snapping to the left to meet
Harry's eyes before he seemed to grab the reigns of his own madness and lowered
them subserviently. "I am at your service. Is there something you need? If not,
I find myself tired."
"I'm sorry, Bartemius. I'm sorry I couldn't just let you kill him when he
deserves it so much. But that was just too public, and I don't want to lose you
being here at the school, let alone your life."
"My deepest regrets, my Lord. I should not have tried to take action; my place
is here serving you."
Harry made a sound of disagreement in his throat and found himself on his knees
beside Barty's chair, forcing the man to look at his face rather than his
shoes. "Barty, please. I didn't mean to disappoint you so, but I want you… I
want you here for me. I don't know how I managed without someone here who knew
me, but I don't want to suddenly go back to that. You're well, you're my
friend, aren't you?"
The words seemed to pause whatever rejoinder the man had, and he froze, eyes
flicking all over Harry's face. He tried not to squirm under the scrutiny.
"Your father will likely be here all through the year as the tasks go on; can't
we make a plan for later? Some time when he'll be alone, not in the Great Hall
with hundreds of witnesses and Dumbledore."
Barty's fingers were on his face, digging into him and tipping him back
uncomfortably. His eyes were alight with magic and rage. "I cannot stand to
know he lives, Harry. I need that man dead before I can even fathom anything
beyond that! He sentenced me to so much worse than Azkaban, so much worse than
death. Do you not see?"
"Of course I see!" he said, swallowing as the fingers on his face pressed
harder. "I know, Barty, I know. And I would love nothing more than to give you
that vile man on a plate, but I can't. You are too important to the Dark, too
important in this plot we have going, too important to me! There will be other
opportunities!"
The hand dropped then and Barty went limp, face colliding with the arm of the
chair and peering at Harry through his fringe. "I can't do this, Harry. I
cannot. He must die!"
"He will, he will," cooed Harry, tentatively reaching out to stroke Barty's
hair as the man's tongue flicked against his lips. "He will die and it will be
glorious… it just cannot be tonight. I am sorry."
Barty was muttering under his breath in despair, and Harry could make out only
a handful of words in the speech. He stroked Barty and let him lose himself,
alternatively looking near tears and looking near cursing. Harry's knees hurt
against the stone of the floor, but he stayed there beside the man as his angry
murmurs changed tone from harsh and sad to higher, hopeful. Harry heard various
babbled compliments about himself and his father and knew Barty had made some
kind of decision.
He stood, trying to pull the man upright, but Barty seemed to snap out of
wherever his mind had been and ended up in a great heap on the floor, tangled
in Moody's oversized robes he still wore. Harry sighed; this was not the first
time he'd lost Barty within the man's own brilliant, addled mind.
He heaved the larger man up and leaned him against his shoulder, guiding him
towards the bedroom. News of the complication in their plans could wait; Barty
needed rest now. He waved his wand to transfigure Barty's robes into pajamas
and levered him into his bed, pulling up the covers. "Shh," Harry said softly.
"All will be better tomorrow."
Hands shot up and cupped his face between them, jerking him painfully though
the hold remained light. Barty peered at him, silent, searching him with
maddened eyes for long moments.
"Yes," whispered Barty, releasing him. "Yes, it will be."
And then he was sleeping and Harry was moving back for the entrance, resisting
any half-formed ideas of crawling into bed with the man and making his way back
to Gryffindor tower.
***** Truth hurts - not the searching after; the running from! ~John Eyberg
*****
Harry –
I have to say that I'm disappointed you didn't write me about the Tri-Wizard
Tournament! My godson, the Hogwarts Champion! James would be over the moon,
Harry, and I am too. Damn good job, Prongslet. However did you manage it? What
a coup! Ignore the papers; you know they're just trying to get to you. I know
none of that crap about your being attention seeking and using a Dark spell to
Confound the Goblet of Fire could be true. Rubbish, that!
I'm writing, though, to set up a time to meet up. I've been getting a bit antsy
in the Muggle world, so I'm coming for a visit! Are you excited? Next Hogsmeade
weekend, right before the first task, I'll meet you behind Dervish and Banges
on High Street. Be there, we've got a lot to catch up on!
Sirius
Harry let go of the parchment to allow it to pop back into its rolled form,
tucking the letter away in his inner breast pocket. It had been two weeks since
Halloween and life at Hogwarts had been a trial, to be sure. He hadn't even
thought to write to Sirius, but he couldn't find it in him to feel guilty for
forgetting.
"Is that from Sirius?" Hermione breathed beside him, peering at him through a
tuft of her hair.
"Yeah," he said, going back to his toast. "He wants to meet up in Hogsmeade
this coming weekend."
Hermione's lips pursed and she squinted at him. "He's reckless. He shouldn't be
anywhere near British Magical communities!"
Harry grunted in agreement and snatched a piece of bacon as he stood. "I know.
But it's too late to get him an owl now to remind him of that, so I guess we'll
just have to go along with it." He stopped halfway to the Great Hall doors,
meeting Hermione's eyes. "Erm… you'll come with me, won't you?"
She had been drawn these last days, frowning more than she smiled and burying
herself even deeper into her books than usual. The rift between them and Ron
was wearing on her. She smiled at his hesitance, though, and placed a hand on
his elbow. "Of course I will, Harry. I'm here for you."
He pressed his fingertips to the back of her hand and smiled momentarily, then
pulled away. "Right, we've got Defense to get to… shall we?"
A booming, fake laugh came from behind him and he saw Hermione's frown turn
tense as she glanced back at Ron. He could see how much this was affecting her
and put his hand on the small of her back, leading her away.
"C'mon, no use dwelling."
She frowned at him as they made their way to the classroom. "Don't you care at
all? You've been so stoic about how he's been acting… he's been so terrible,
but it's like you aren't even affected!"
They slipped into the classroom fifteen minutes before class would start, the
first to arrive. He sat in their usual spot in the center of the room and just
one row back from the front. He loved Defense. "Of course I care," he said
finally, sighing. "He's being a right berk about all this, and I hate it. He
won't listen to a word I say about not having put my name in the Goblet, he's
convinced I did it for glory. But I don't know what to do about it," he
finished lamely but honestly.
She leaned on his shoulder and gripped his forearm between both hands, sighing.
"He'll come around, I just know it. I have to believe that. Who else do I have
but you and Ron?"
He was saved from a response by the rhythmic thunking of Moody's wooden leg
preceding him into the room, though he did not pull away. She seemed to draw
comfort from the position and he let her.
He smiled to Barty over her head as he entered, though Moody's brow lifted in
an incredulous expression. Harry squirmed internally at the look and his own
reluctance to make Hermione move away, but externally just lifted his other
shoulder in a small shrug.
His being chosen as the primary Hogwarts Champion had complicated things for
Harry. The plans themselves were fine and untouched by this, but Harry himself
had a new set of troubles to go with everything. For one thing, his skill
levels were being called into question, since the Goblet had chosen him from
amongst dozens of other applicants as the best representative of Hogwarts. For
another, his every move was being watched very closely and by all sides.
Professors watched him with narrowed eyes during lessons, his Gryffindor
housemates were in turn betrayed and exalted to have him as Champion and
watched to see how he would handle it, and the Slytherins were obviously trying
to find a way to use this situation against him or prove he had purposefully
placed his name into the Goblet.
Barty postulated that, somehow, the Goblet had decided he was truly the best
choice. The Confounding of the Goblet was supposed to make it think he was from
a fourth school, but somehow it seemed that had gone awry. Harry couldn't help
the bit of pride he felt, though, that he was more qualified to be Champion
than any of the seventh years.
Hermione sat up as other students began filing into the classroom, and Harry
settled back in his seat as Barty began pacing at the front of the room,
magical eye watching them all take their seats. Harry's mind drifted as he
waited, automatically shifting over as Neville nervously took the seat beside
him.
"Today we're covering situations where you can and cannot counter hexes and
curses," Moody's voice sounded without preamble. He barked out a page number
for everyone to flip to and Harry's fingers followed on autopilot.
"Potter!"
Harry snapped out of his reverie, meeting the wildly spinning magical eye of
Mad-Eye Moody. How long had he been daydreaming?
"Yes, Professor?"
The human eye twitched, and Harry knew that it was not only him that was still
torn between amused and horrified by their interactions in this body. "What did
I just say about Bone-Shattering Hexes?"
He honestly hadn't been paying proper attention; his mind kept drifting to
fantasies conjured by walking in on Barty only half-dressed and still dripping
from the shower the night before. Merlin, but how he'd wanted to trace every
drop from the man's freckled shoulders to the waistline of his trousers…
"Potter!"
Harry gave an apologetic grin, ruffling his hair with one hand. "Erm, sorry
Professor."
"Detention with me, boy!"
Hermione elbowed him in the ribs and his fellow Gryffindors snickered at him,
which blackened Harry's mood a bit. He forced on a conciliatory look. "I'm
sorry Professor, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" So near the
front no one but Barty really saw the lascivious smirk that stretched his lips.
Barty twitched violently then, nearly missing a step as he trundled back to the
front of the class. Harry grinned when he whipped Moody's face around to stare
at him.
"There isn't a counter-curse for a Bone-Shattering Hex," he answered, ignoring
Harry's simpering tone. "When it comes to destructive spells, you can only heal
the damage done or stop it from happening in the first place. CONSTANT
VIGILANCE,"he bellowed,thrusting out his wand with a projectedbang! that echoed
from a far corner of the classroom. Moody's wand was twirling through the air
then as he nonverbally summoned and transfigured various objects while
simultaneously keeping them levitating in a row as he added and created more
objects to join the line.
Harry perked up as he watched. He hadn't really consciously thought of it
before, but Barty was probably, after his father, the most brilliant man he'd
ever met. He'd dropped out of school in his seventh year to join the Dark Lord,
never completing his NEWTS. Then, before he was even twenty, he'd been arrested
in thrown in Azkaban. Though he'd only spent a year or two there, he'd then
been under his father's Imperius for the rest of his adult life.
To the average student in this class, they were seeing a man in his seventies,
experienced in all walks of life and battle-worn. But Harry saw through the
scars and the matted, grizzled hair. He could see the striking thirty-something
Ravenclaw who had so much knowledge swirling around his mind that he could pass
for someone with several times his bare few years of magical experience. It was
no wonder that he was a favorite of the Dark Lord.
As he continued talking, Harry closed his eyes and imagined it was actually
Barty at the front of the class. That he didn't have to hide. When Harry's
father took over the Wizarding world, he wondered if he could convince Barty to
come back and teach, because he really was brilliant at it.
"POTTER!"
Harry opened his eyes slowly and met Moody's magical eye, and he couldn't help
the soft, fond smile that spread across his lips. Moody's chest jerked as
Barty's breathing hitched. "Yes, Professor?"
Barty stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the class to begin
shifting in their seats. Hermione hissed something to him under her breath, but
Harry couldn't hear what she'd said, too busy being unable to force down the
smile that still played over his lips.
The gnarled visage of Moody finally turned away, though Harry could still hear
the man's breathing. "Get outta here, all of you. Class dismissed."
Harry tried to lag behind to apologize to Barty, but Hermione led him out in
the crush of excited students. "What did you do, Harry? I've never seen
Professor Moody act so oddly, and that's saying something!"
He shrugged, trying for unaffected. His heart was still pounding rapidly
beneath his ribs, though he was damned if he could understand why. "Dunno, one
second he looked like he was gonna call me out for daydreaming again, the next
he looked a bit ill. Think he's not feeling well?"
She hummed noncommittally but frowned, obviously still pondering it. Harry
dodged around Ron, Dean, and Seamus where they were hanging back, obviously
trying to avoid moving early towards the dungeons for Potions. Harry flicked
his wand with a muttered Tempus to see there was nearly an hour until the next
class.
Hermione noted his spell and her eyes brightened. "Oh, this is the perfect time
for me to return a few books I finished up with last night. Do you want to come
to the library with me?"
Harry shook his head. "No thanks, you go on ahead. I'll see you in class."
She paused with a torn look before nodding and bolting off, soles of her shoes
clacking against the stone floor of the corridor. He found himself alone there,
even his dormmates having slowly made their way away, and his feet took him
back towards the Defense classroom door.
He knocked as he pushed it back open. "Professor?"
Barty was waving his wand around sending the various items he had transfigured
for examples of curse blocking and redirection skittering back to their places
on the shelves. He stiffened a bit when Harry called to him.
"Yes, Potter?"
Harry bit his lip. "Is… is everything all right? I didn't mean to make you
angry."
Barty peeked back over his shoulder and his shoulders sagged for a moment in a
sigh. "Aye, all is fine, Harry. Get on with you; I'm just an old fool."
"You're hardly old," Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes.
"Old enough to know better," said Barty, a cryptic smile on his face. "Off you
go, Potter."
Harry frowned as he started off towards the dungeons, trying to put together
just what in the world Barty could possibly be on about.
===============================================================================
"You lost, Potter?"
Harry closed his eyes as the voice came from behind him, trying not to curse.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
Malfoy was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, as per usual, though there was the
unusual addition of the pretty Daphne Greengrass trailing right behind them,
lacquered nails obvious as she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a
giggle. Harry eyed them all warily.
"You're the lion lost in the snake's den, Potter. You should be careful being
all alone down here," sneered Malfoy, magically whitened, straight teeth
clacking together threateningly. "I know the Weasel's abandoned you, but have
you even managed to turn off the Mudblood? Really? I didn't think you were
quite so abhorrent."
"That's nearly a compliment coming from you," Harry said dryly.
Malfoy puffed up. "You should, of course, feel flattered."
Harry rolled his wand between his fingertips, not feeling particularly
threatened but not willing to put his wand away faced with such uneven odds.
"I'm sure." He leaned back against the wall in an attempt to look relaxed.
"Anyway, I'm not eager to run ahead into Potions but I'm also not really
willing to sit here and play 'Witty Banter Fun Time' with you either, Malfoy.
So hey, run along, would you?"
The boy's eyebrow twitched. "Who in the hell are you to tell me what to do?"
Harry closed his eyes after looking in both directions to confirm the hall was
clear, a slow, smarmy grin stretching his lips. "Wouldn't you like to know."
For all Harry's irritation with Malfoy, the boy wasn't stupid. In fact, for all
his posturing and general idiocy, Harry had spied those moments of real
observation from the boy, the shrewd, pointed moments where he noticed things
no one else did. The subtext beneath Harry's dismissal was caught, he knew, and
he smiled yet wider.
The Slytherins moved on without another word, Malfoy hushing Goyle when he
tried to raise a question.
Snape stalked down the corridor soon after, and Harry darted into the Potions
classroom ahead of him. He smiled at a Beauxbatons girl with an empty seat
beside her and she blushed prettily when he sat beside her. "'ow are you,
'Arry?" the girl said, and Harry felt a bit bad that he couldn't remember her
name though this was the fourth time they'd shared a Potions desk. She was
willowy and delicate-featured like nearly all the girls from her school, her
hair fine and straight and cropped at her shoulders.
"Not bad, just trying to keep sane in preparation for the Task next week."
She darted her eyes to the Slytherin side of the room where Malfoy was being
fawned over by two other girls from Beauxbatons. She looked wary and spoke
quietly. "My friend, she 'as been seeing Monsieur Malfoy for a week now. She
'eard that the Task is some sort of beast and that they were 'ere already.
Monsieur's father took 'im to see them. 'E has not said what they are; Monsieur
enjoys stringing us along too much, but it was implied that they were dragons."
He sucked in a breath and met her eyes sharply. "Are you certain?"
"Oui," she said with a decisive nod. "As sure as I can be."
Harry's mind raced and he touched the back of the girl's hand with his fingers.
"Thank you."
She smiled. "Celestine, 'Arry."
"Thanks yet again," he said with a self-depreciating laugh. "I'm sorry I'm so
shite at remembering."
She shook her head, her light brown hair fluttering around her face. "Ne
t'inquiète pas, do not worry. You 'ave many other things on your mind."
Snape barked out a page number then, pulling his attention back to the front of
the room. The man's eyes lingered on him as he quietly instructed Celestine on
what ingredients to start preparing. Harry met the man's gaze with all the
arrogance the man accused him of, only happy when those black eyes finally
flicked away.
===============================================================================
"Well, it isn't like I can just cast a Disemboweling curse on it; I'm the
Golden Boy, remember?" He peered through his fringe at Barty, who was nearly
upside-down in his armchair. "I think that killing the dragon with a Dark curse
would be frowned upon."
Dragons. Harry paced in agitation across the space in front of the fire, arms
twined behind his back. The task itself was not difficult, but keeping to his
public persona added an entire dimension to it that was maddening.
"Have you considered poison?" Harry shivered as Barty threw that manic,
careless grin. "Slip it a little something before the match, make sure you have
an easy time…"
"That would require knowing which dragon I'd get. No way to tell, is there?"
Harry sighed and sat abruptly where he stood, leaning against Barty's chair.
With the angle Barty had slid down the chair, their shoulders bumped. Harry
tried not to dart his eyes towards his companion obviously, feeling abnormally
shy. "I'd rather not give my opponents an advantage, too, by poisoning all of
them. Hmm. Do you think I could get away with boiling its blood? Not externally
noticeable, might distract it long enough for me to get past it. Or maybe a
weak innard-liquefaction curse, something that will cause it pain and not be
traced back to me, since it would take weeks to kill the beast?"
At the mad chuckle, Harry couldn't help but turn his head, meeting that heat-
inducing grin. "You're wicked, Harry. I love it. Would that I could have known
so much at fourteen." Barty sighed wistfully, flicking out his tongue to his
lips.
Harry snorted. "With my father, what would you expect? Though, to be fair, I
have no idea of my mental and physical age. Chronologically I'm fourteen, yes,
but with the heavy Time-Turner use in my younger years, I lost track of how
many years I've actually lived."
Barty slid farther in the chair, snaking his head over Harry's shoulder. "Oh?"
He was always rapt when Harry spoke of his childhood and of his Lord.
"The Dark Lord did a lot of research when I was quite young. He was able to
figure out without a doubt that one's place on the Hogwarts Roster is placed
the moment a new child with a developed magical core is born. This was
important, obviously, since all our plans would have been for nothing if I was
considered age eleven and called to Hogwarts several years before I
chronologically should have been."
"My Lord is so brilliant," Barty cooed, resting his head on Harry's shoulder,
shivering and snickering. Harry glanced at him fondly.
"So anyway, yes, while according to Hogwarts, my birth date, and Ministry law I
am fourteen and a few months, I'm assuming I have at least a year or more on
top of that in experience. Father wanted me fully prepared in etiquette, first
year skills, Occlumency, core subjects, and the Dark Arts before I ever got
under Dumbledore's influence. Since I couldn't begin real training until I was
nearly ten, that wouldn't have left nearly enough time." Harry grinned and
shrugged, making Barty grumble from where he was still resting. "My father is
thorough, after all."
Harry suppressed a giggle as Barty burrowed into his shoulder, cooing
compliments towards his Lord, lost in his own world. This happened often enough
that Harry was more than used to it. It was endearing. His companion had
twisted himself into a near knot by now, and Harry prepared to help right him
when he inevitably tumbled out of the massive labyrinth of his own mind.
It happened even more quickly than usual, and with a fair bit more grace than
the undignified heap Barty usually ended up in. He spun those long, long legs
and settled himself properly in the chair, one arm jerking Harry around to face
him. He grinned wildly at the surprise on Harry's face, leaning in so close
that Harry had to force his eyes not to flutter shut of their own accord.
"You're a puzzle, Harry," he murmured, leaning in and pressing his nose to
Harry's cheek. "I want to solve it."
His eyes did shut then, and he shivered forcefully. Light breaths fanned over
his ear and, as Barty talked, lips grazed his jaw.
"I'd just love to pluck out all your pieces, luv, gather them to me like
jewels. I want to seek your ins and outs, the dark corners that you tuck away.
Can I solve you?"
Harry's breathing hitched and he felt light-headed. This man always seemed to
manage to throw him, knock him off kilter. 'Just a crush, just a crush, just a
crush,' chanted Harry, trying not to give in to the urge to sway forward. He
was a sixteen year old wizard, give or take a year, it was perfectly normal for
him to get a crush on a man he found so powerfully physically attractive and
who was so intellectually compatible with him. Just a crush. He could ignore a
crush, get over a crush.
Barty snickered against his jaw and Harry nearly groaned.
Just as Harry thought that he'd go mad from wanting and grab the man, finally
bury his fingers in the man's hair and yank him to him, Barty leaned back,
releasing Harry entirely, sitting back and crossing his legs primly. "Well,
back on topic. What would Harry Potter do, do you think?"
Harry couldn't help but gape, jaw working without purpose, staring in stunned
disappointment. Not that Barty noticed, already engrossed in plotting again as
he was. Harry sighed and put his head in his hands, huffing out a laugh. It was
that madcap brilliance that drew him, after all, and that made him need to keep
reminding himself that this was just a crush and he needed to get over it.
"Harry Potter, as the world knows him, is an ignominious twat who knows about
three spells and only thinks of Quidditch and avoiding homework," he said with
a wry twist to his lips. Barty's head whipped to look at him with a calculating
expression.
"Quidditch…" He grinned then, and Harry embraced the shiver that snaked down
his spine this time. Behind that grin it was always like he could see the man's
mind working, those fantastic gears whirling at rates Harry could only envy.
"Brilliant, Harry, that's perfect. I've seen you out at the pitch, you're grace
personified in the skies. And Harry Potter Summoning his broom would be highly
in character."
"So be it," Harry muttered, leaning back against the man's legs. "To the skies,
then, and hopefully I can keep my limbs intact."
===============================================================================
Hermione renewed their warming charms as they followed the shaggy black dog
further towards the base of the mountain, huddling close to him and puffing
breaths into her hands. It was November 22nd, Sunday, only two days before the
first task and the night before had seen the first Scottish deep freeze of the
year.
"It's cold is what it is, and where are we? Wandering up a mountain with a
great dog leading the way. I could be studying right now. I could be getting
ahead on my Transfiguration homework. I could be trying to figure out a better
plan against a dragon than summoning a ruddy broom, but no. Here I am, in the
snow…"
Hermione's muttered litany continued, and Harry bit a knuckle to stop from
laughing at her. It was a habit she'd had since first year, muttering to
herself like that, though it only usually came out at times of great stress or
worry. This time, though, her worry was more for him than it was for herself.
Sirus yipped up ahead, pausing for a moment to roll in the snow and loll his
tongue in Harry's direction. He laughed at the man despite all his worries,
gripping him by the scruff of his neck when he tried to barrel Harry over.
"Come on, you great, smelly beast. Hurry up."
They were finally led through a small copse of trees and then into a barely
noticeable crevice in the mountainside. Sirius dashed inside with Hermione on
his heels, grimacing at the tiny opening, and Harry close behind.
Upon entering, even before Sirius had transformed, Hermione set about placing
warming charms and various secrecy wards over the space. "Not taking any
chances, and I'm not going to sit here as an icicle either, I'll have you
know."
Sirius immediately enveloped Harry in a hug when he'd transformed, and Harry
couldn't conceal his grimace of distaste. Sirius was dirt-crusted and likely
hadn't bathed in weeks if his scent was anything to go by.
The man backed off sheepishly. "Sorry 'bout that, Prongslet. Forgot how gross
I'd be. Well, come on. Give us some squashy chairs, then."
Harry smiled a bit tightly and transfigured some pebbles into armchairs,
embarrassed when they looked exactly like the wingback chairs in Barty's rooms.
Sirius plopped into the one done in vivid Gryffindor red with a pleased sigh.
"Nice job, perfectly squashy."
Hermione had pulled out a book from her shoulder bag and was reading in the
light from the cave's entrance, ignoring them as well as possible. Harry smiled
fondly and turned back to Sirius. "How are you doing?"
"Not bad, I suppose. I'm cute enough, or pitiful enough at least, that I get
fed by well-meaning muggles most days, and I've not had much trouble. Getting
bored of being a dog, though. But who cares about me?" Sirius grinned, yellowed
teeth bared. "My godson, the Champion! How'd ya do it?"
Harry let a put-out moue take over his face. "I didn't."
"No need to be modest with me, Prongslet."
"I'm not being modest, I'm serious."
"No, I'm Sirius."
Harry wanted to bash his head into something and scowled at his Godfather,
dropping his head into his hands. "Sirius, please stop this. I swear to you on
my magic that I did not put my name in the Goblet, nor did I intend to be
chosen as the Hogwarts Champion." It was truth, after all.
Sirius pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking far less flippant. "And
what is the first task?"
"Dragons, I guess. I snuck down and bribed one of the handlers—" "Harry!" "—to
find out that the three dragons are nesting mothers, and we're to retrieve
something from their nests." He ignored Hermione's indignant squawk.
Sirius grinned wickedly. "That's my boy. Nesting dragons, what in the hell are
those Ministry idiots thinking? Well then, I guess our next step is to find out
who, exactly, put your name in the cup and for what reason, eh? A good, old-
fashioned mystery, that is! Maybe I'll snoop around the grounds to look for
clues—"
"Sirius Black you shall do no such thing," Hermione cut in, stomping up to them
with her hands on her hips. "You're already too reckless as it is, coming all
the way to Hogsmeade when you're wanted as you are. Honestly, how foolish can
you be? No, you need to get out of here and get back into the muggle world
until we can get your name cleared."
"And just how will you do that?" Harry was taken aback by the darkness Sirius
exuded, glaring towards the witch. "If even Dumbledore's word isn't enough to
get me a trial, why in the hell would some teenagers be able to clear my name?"
Harry wondered about that, the lack of trial. And he wondered if Dumbledore had
even tried to get one, now that he thought of it. He didn't ask Sirius,
however.
Hermione was angry now, her face flushing as her jaw clenched.
"Ungrateful—urgh! Harry, I'll meet you in the Three Broomsticks." And she was
gone, her muttered irritation drifting back into the cave for long seconds
after she left.
Sirius looked chagrined, putting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry about
upsetting your friend, Harry. I just… it seems so hopeless most days. My life
was over before it ever really started, I think, and the idea of resuming it is
starting to look like a pipe dream. Something to fantasize about, but nothing
that could ever really happen."
Harry sighed and, once again, wondered just what he was going to do about
Sirius. He could ask his father to give him Pettigrew and get Sirius's name
cleared within a week, he knew… but what then? Would the man try to take
custody of him? He had no need for a father, no need for someone to poke their
nose into his business. Especially not someone like Sirius who was so intent on
defying the Dark and his family's legacy.
Sirius tugged on his matted hair, scowling. "Don't even have a bloody wand… at
least then I could ward up a cave like this and cast a warming charm."
That… Harry could help with. Warily, he stood, reaching into the pocket of his
trousers for the silvery mokeskin pouch he had bought in China. It was
bottomless and secure and he just really liked the feel of the silvery-green
moke scales. He reached inside, searching, avoiding the curious and suspicious
look in Sirius's eyes as he ended up up to his elbow in the bag.
With a small grunt of triumph, Harry seized the wand he used over the summer
when training with his father, wishing to keep his Holly wand clean and
untainted. It was hawthorn with a core of sphinxstone, springy and good for
Defense Against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts alike. He held it, handle out,
to his Godfather.
"Harry, why do you have a second wand?" Sirius asked with narrowed eyes.
"That's a pureblood thing, having a secondary. A Dark thing."
Harry didn't answer, just closed Sirius's fingers around the wand. "Just be
thankful. It should work well enough for you, though I'm sure it won't be
perfect."
Sirius flicked it, his eyes lightening just a bit when silver and gold sparks
spluttered out of the tip. "Oh magic, I missed you so…"
===============================================================================
Harry made his way down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest when he saw Viktor
being escorted from the Great Hall, not bothering to wait for whomever would be
there to walk him down. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in
anticipation and he suppressed a full-body shiver.
When he was nine, he and his father had gone to Romania to see the world's
largest dragon reserve, and a well-placed Imperio had given them free reign to
wander there. Harry had been entranced by the beasts, mesmerized by their
beauty and majesty. His father had given him history lessons and breakdowns of
strengths and weaknesses as they strolled through the dense forest,
invisibility spells and other stealth measures keeping the dragons ignorant to
their presence.
As he skipped down Hogwarts's entry steps, a group of Ravenclaws passed him,
chattering excitedly. Behind them lagged Roger Davies, handsome as always, and
his eyes pinned Harry neatly in place. The boy's fingers trailed over the back
of Harry's hand surreptitiously as he passed, brow raised in question. Harry
smirked in return and winked, feeling a shiver of delight run through him.
It was not that he was experienced, but neither was he inexperienced. And
really, the tension he'd had lately needed an outlet. Cornering the brunet in
an empty classroom seemed a good way to go.
Harry smiled even as the tent came into view, his heart light.
Fleur and Viktor did not seem to feel as light as he did, he noted, walking
into the tent and peering around. Both looked drawn and pale, lost in their own
worlds. They were the only others in the tent and it was silent but for the
murmur of voices outside as spectators made their way to the viewing stands.
Fleur was tapping her wand against her thigh in a steady tempo, the toes of her
left foot following the same beat.
"Harry! Good-o!" Harry spun to see Ludo Bagman enter behind him, his face
overwhelmed by his jovial smile. "You're early! Guess that means we can get
this show on the road, eh?"
Harry hoped he got the Swedish Short-Snout. Chinese Fireballs were too agile,
Hungarian Horntails too vicious. The Short-Snout had exceptional flames, but it
was the least maneuverable in the air as well due to oddly shaped wings
indicative of the breed. For his purposes, it was the best choice.
But of course he drew the Horntail.
He listened to Bagman recite the way the competition would go with half an ear,
already recalculating. Perhaps he would need to pair his public persona and his
more honest self together. Something subversive to make dodging the great beast
easier.
"Harry? Could I have a quick word? Outside?"
He grimaced but pasted on a shy smile, nodding to Bagman. "Of course, sir."
"Got a plan?" said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially when they were
far enough from the tent. "Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if
you'd like them, you know. I mean," Bagman continued, lowering his voice still
further, "you're the underdog here, Harry. Anything I can do to help…"
Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, not particularly surprised that Bagman
would be willing to cheat, but surprised the man was so forthright about it.
"No, sir, I will be fine. I've been strategizing for over a week now."
"Nobody would know, Harry," said Bagman, winking at him.
Harry forced on a matching smirk[, a bit uncomfortable by the greedy glint in
Bagman's eyes. "I appreciate it, sir, but at least for this run I've got it.
For one of the other tasks, though, I might appreciate the backup."
The man grinned and chortled, shoulders back and head cocked to the side.
"We'll just have to see about that, huh? Well, since you all are early, I think
I'm going to go work the crowd a bit." Bagman grinned and threw another wink.
"Good luck, Harry! I know you can do it!"
Harry rolled his eyes as the man walked away, turning to watch the spectators
arriving in droves. The majority of the crowd moving towards the stands seemed
to be students from all three schools, but there were a lot of dignified
looking wizards in official robes and some tittering groups of civilians
milling along with them. The turnout was high and would only grow as the
tournament went along.
Harry stiffened and gasped, his hand flying up to his forehead, just as a small
cough sounded behind him. "Hem, hem."
He spun and goggled, eyeing the figure with horror. She looked like a toad,
squat and short with her jowls loose and just a bit wobbly. Harry didn't care
about that, though. He rubbed his scar and resisted the urge to dash forward
with joy; no matter the form he was in, he would recognize his father anywhere.
"What in the world are you doing he—"
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter," the woman simpered in a high,
girlish voice. Harry shuddered. "I am Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary to
Minister Fudge."
Harry stepped forward with restraint and took her hand in a short jerking
shake, his back to anyone who might be watching. This alone let him grin as
widely as possible down at the woman in her knit yarn top of a dozen shades of
pink. "Charmed, madam. What a… lovely jumper you have there."
The woman's eye twitched and Harry barely stifled a laugh. Her voice came in an
undertone with barely moving lips. "Harry, you cannot be quite so obvious."
"I'm sorry, but this is the most ridiculous person I've ever seen you bother
with in choosing your disguises. Why this toad of a woman, Father?" he
breathed, sure the commotion around them would hide what he said.
"She is useful.  She has power and position and access; I cannot let my
distaste keep me from utilizing such a resource. But Salazar help me, I feel
ill Polyjuicing into such a wretched, disgusting woman. I'd thank you to
pretend this never happened." His father raised the woman's voice, smiling with
alacrity. "Oh, I do wish you luck today, Mister Potter. No matter how you came
to be here, you're representing the British Ministry for Magic now!"
Harry basked in his father's presence, his scar buzzing. With the ritual they'd
used to cement his father in the body of his Horcrux, they had been able to
stop the pain he felt through his odd connection to his father, but his scar
still reacted in odd ways when near the man. He wished he knew why it did that,
but figured it was something about the way the Killing Curse had rebounded. He
rubbed it now on habit and could not stop grinning. "You and Barty should go
hug, both Polyjuiced. What a picture that would make!"
He could tell his father was sorely tempted to cuff him by the spike of
itchiness in the connection. But Harry could take the irritation for the
amusement it gave him. Voldemort scowled, and on the woman's face it looked
hilarious. "This form means I have the opportunity to be on the school grounds
during every event, so I cannot compromise it now, no matter how much I think
you need to be taken over a knee. I must go, Harry, but I wanted you to know I
was here to support you. I will be watching, and we will have opportunity to
speak more at the second task."
Harry fairly glowed as he promised "Madame Umbridge" that he would uphold the
Ministry's reputation in the competition, and he glided back to the
competitor's tent with a bounce to his step. With both Barty and his father
there watching him, cheering him on, he could take down all three dragons if he
had to.
Public expectations or not, Barty and Voldemort's opinions mattered to him a
million times more. He'd make them proud.
***** The most exhausting thing in life is being insincere. ~Anne Morrow
Lindbergh *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: sexual situations between minors, one more tame and the
     last... well, NSFW in any case. They bookend this chapter if you're
     looking to avoid.
Harry gasped as teeth nipped at his jaw, tensing his fingers in the short, dark
hair at the boy's neck. He arched closer at the press of a hand to the small of
his back, whimpered as the mouth sucked hard on his pulse.
Their combined breaths were loud in the dusty, disused classroom, where Harry's
back was to the rough stone. Roger Davies had two physical years on him and it
showed in the effortless way he'd lifted and pressed Harry's body to the wall,
needy fingers bruising on his hips.
Davies pulled back, breathing labored, and met Harry's eyes as he slipped a
hand under Harry's shirt. Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn't some
virgin, really, he didn't need the Skittish Maiden treatment. He hiked one of
his legs to wrap around the boy's hip, forcing their groins into harsh contact,
and the older boy's eyes rolled back in his head. Harry grinned wickedly.
Davies' eyes were lighter, his hair darker, his jaw wider and less defined, his
cheeks too round, his nose upturned rather than straight and proud. But if
Harry squinted, he thought the boy looked an awful lot like Barty. The thought
made him harder.
They rutted like the hormonal teens they were, frotting hard and gracelessly
until Davies gasped and bit Harry's shoulder, a hand fumbling to press and jerk
against the front of Harry's jeans. Harry found himself grinding into that hand
until the winding tension in his gut released, leaving him boneless and only
kept upright by the pressure of Davies leaning into him.
"Hell, Harry," Davies said breathlessly. "Where've you been all my life?"
Harry snorted, pushing the boy back by the shoulder and casting a quick,
painful Scorgify on himself. "Prepubescent?"
Davies' look was just confused, and Harry resisted a rude, disparaging sigh. It
would have been too much to ask to have the boy look like Barty and not be a
simpleton, he supposed, Ravenclaw or no.
"Right, well, I need to get back to my dorm now. Good time, Davies, see you
soon."
The boy fumbled towards him, catching Harry's wrist and making a needy noise.
"Wait, Harry, I want to see you again."
This time he did sigh, rolling his eyes. "You see me daily. We have the
interhouse Quidditch tourney this coming Sunday morning. I'll see you in all
sorts of places."
Davies shook his head, looking dumbfounded and a bit uneasy. "I meant, umm, I
meant that I wanted to, you know, hang out? Maybe, erm, go to Hogsmeade
together weekend after next?"
Harry felt silly being so momentarily oblivious, but he could say without
question that he'd never had someone… interested before. In the moment, of
course; his back-room fumbles with the children, male and female, of his
father's political contacts hadn't been a secret or something he'd been ashamed
of. But those were all just happenstance and because he was there, not because
he was there. He panicked just a bit, nervously, and shook the boy off. "Umm,
can I think about it?"
Davies nodded emphatically. "Yeah, of course, that's fine! Just—let me know?"
Harry thought of his father's red eyes as Harry tried to put his hair back into
a semblance of normality, rolling and motioning for him to follow. 'Your age
means I'll ignore this, Harry, but don't let your dalliances blind you. When
your allegiance come out, there will be many who will seek you just for the
pleasure of bedding my heir, to hope to glean information on my plans from you.
Emotion is weakness. Keep your physical desire physical.' He'd never had cause
to reconsider what his father'd said, but that conversation and a hundred more
rolled through his mind now, reminding him of the disgusted, demeaning look in
his father's eyes as he'd spoken of the weakness of humans.
Harry escaped.
===============================================================================
Harry stirred his cauldron anticlockwise, humming in the back of his throat as
the Beauxbaton girl he was paired with – it was not the usual girl, Cécile or
whatever her name was, but one of her friends – read off the next instruction.
He dwelled. Some might call it moping, but Harry was not about to go that far.
He was just… deep in thought. He thought of Sirius and his fearful, careworn
expression, he thought of Davies and his pleading, brown eyes so very similar
to another's but missing that spark, he thought of Ron's vapid anger and of
Hermione's withdrawal. He thought of his father, beaming with pride in a
borrowed body, on his feet amongst the spectators just two weeks past. He
thought of Barty… oh, he thought of Barty.
Barty's easy grin when Harry entered his chambers. Barty's habit of sinking his
front teeth into his lower lip when plotting to try to keep his incessant
tongue-flicking at bay. The inevitable failure of the previous when he was too
distracted to care. Barty's laugh when Harry surprised him, the look of his
face in the firelight, long shadows throwing gaunt contours over his cheeks,
his lashes sweeping darkness over his eyes.
In normal circumstances, he would have seen the single flobberworm flying from
the Slytherin side of the room, would have noted the hastily smothered giggles
as they watched it arc towards his cauldron. His entire school career, after
all, had been training him to know when they were Up To Something. But his
distraction made him only able to blink stupidly down into the liquid as the
flobberworm sunk to the bottom.
"You little idiot, get down," Snape snarled just as he flew at Harry, tackling
him to the ground as the cauldron's contents spouted three feet in the air,
droplets just reaching to splatter across the ceiling.
"You irresponsible little—what in Salazar's name were you doing, Potter?"
Harry scowled and pushed at Snape's chest, avoiding the snarling yellowed teeth
and brush of lank hair. "I didn't do anything, I was just stirring—"
"'e was, Professor!" his partner cried, her hands over her chest. "I would
never let 'im put such a t'ing into our cauldron!"
"It vas this one," a Durmstrang boy said, scowling and pointing at Malfoy.
"Nearly knocked my arm vhile I was stirring."
Snape looked enraged that the foreign students were making his blame difficult,
and the wrathful look in his dark eyes told Harry that he would pay for it
later. "Detention, beginning immediately, for being inattentive. Mister Malfoy,
you will join him." Snape pushed himself up and spun, glaring at them all.
"Out, all of you!"
Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring hotly through the throng of
students at the peek of blonde that shone through. Hermione stopped at his side
and crouched for a moment, smoothing his hair. "Oh, Harry. Behave, okay? I'll
see you after dinner."
He pulled himself to his feet before the room was empty and suppressed a flinch
as the classroom door banged shut behind the last student, leaving him alone
with one glaring, angry Slytherin bat and one smug, gloating Slytherin ponce.
Harry drew himself up to his unimpressive, under-average height and set his jaw
firmly.
Snape seemed to sense the change with the honing look of a shark scenting
blood. He began closing in on him. "You, Mister Potter, will begin with the
non-magical removal of this… mess you've made of my classroom. Furthermore, you
will scrub all of the used jars from which bubotuber pus was taken for this
lesson. With your fingers and nothing more. If I find even a speck of detritus
marring the glass upon my return, you will have detention with me for the
remainder of the week and the weekend."
Harry swallowed down his instinctive urge to scream out in horror at the idea
of missing his Quidditch. It was the first thing they'd been able to put
together all year, with the Tournament cancelling the official House race.
Instead he nodded, stiff and angry. "Yes, Professor."
Snape looked suspicious, but simply turned to Draco. "And you, Mister Malfoy.
You will supervise Potter to ensure he does not use magic for his tasks, and
grade these Hufflepuff First Year potions essays." Malfoy looked green at this,
and through the burning pit of irritation Harry smirked. Thankfully internally,
as Snape spun back then with a gimlet eye. "You will listen to Mister Malfoy
while I am in the Great Hall. If he tells me you put so much as a toe out of
line…" Snape smirked, oily and decadent. "Well, I doubt the other Houses will
miss you at your little ill-fated game."
He strode from the room then with his robes snapping, the door slamming once
more in finality behind him. Harry listened to his harsh footfalls as they
disappeared down the hall.
Malfoy made an exaggerated noise as he stretched, arms overhead and feet
swinging to kick onto Snape's desktop. "Well, Saint Potty, won't we have a fun
hour in here?"
Harry tried to ignore him, already retrieving his usual bucket and scrub brush
from the supply closet and using a half-powered Aguamenti to fill it. Another
spell added suds and he set to work on the now semi-gelatinous globs of potion
that dripped from the ceiling.
"Oi!" Malfoy called, the clank of wood on stone telling Harry he'd sat back
proper and put the chair back with all four feet on the floor. "You have to
listen to me, Potter! Didn't you hear Professor Snape?"
Harry sat back and closed his eyes, breathing deep and long in his nose and out
his mouth, trying to keep back any overreaction.
A booted toe began prodding his ribs; he'd not heard the boy approach. "Oiiii.
Potter. I know you aren't nearly so good at this as you think you are; you'd
better give in now. Potter. Potty. Poor Orphan Potter, the stupid and
ignorant." Draco delivered a sharp kick to his ribs and Harry saw red.
"Scarhead, you'd better—"
He grabbed Draco's ankle, twisting it until the boy cried out in pain and
wobbled precariously on one foot. "If you have any of that vaunted Slytherin
self-preservation in you, Malfoy, you'll stop touching me this instant."
"And what will you do, Potty?" Draco shrieked with nervous laughter even has he
tried to yank his foot from Harry's grip. "Bore me to death? Cast Rictusempra
until I giggle myself into unconsciousness? Ply me with pitiful orphan feelings
about your disgusting Mudblood mother and your blood-traitor father until I
expire from—"
Harry's wand was at his fingertips and he'd blasted into the boy before he'd
thought it through, but the rush of lightly Dark magic roiling through his
blood for the first time in months invigorated him. He slashed his wand to the
side to cast a modified silencing curse, one that stitched the person's mouth
shut with thick, leather cord. Draco's eyes were blown wide with pupils dilated
in fear. Blood slowly seeped from the punctures around his lips.
Harry stalked closer, jabbing his wand into the hollow of the boy's throat.
"Listen to me, Draco. You are going to stop. You are going to leave me alone. I
do not have the time or the patience for your shit." He slid his wand down
until it was positioned center on the boy's sternum and fixed him with the most
ferocious glare he could. "I swear to you that I will practice the entirety of
Ministry Approved Curses for Pain and Sufferingon you if you do not stop your
baffling bullshit. Do you understand me?"
"Mmphm!" Draco squeaked, mouth quivering behind the stitches. Harry twitched
his other hand and they ripped free, pulling a scream from the boy. "Oh Merlin,
he's cracked. He's gone totally mad now. We're all going to die because the
Scarhead's gone round the bend. Oh, Salazar help me…"
Harry's hand closed around the boy's throat to shut off the constant stream of
panicking words. "I know over three hundred curses, perfectly legal, to make
your death a slow and painful thing, Malfoy." He tightened his hand. "I know
over a dozen spells that would kill you in an instant. I know a dozen more that
would kill you tomorrow, with me miles away." When he released his hand this
time, the boy stayed silent, mouth bloodied and expression frozen with fear.
"Do I make myself clear?"
The boy slid down the wall without support under his legs, nodding emphatically
but not making a sound. His usually slicked hair was arranged in a mad nest of
tendrils around his head, hands shaking as they pressed to his face.
Harry snorted at how pathetic it was. "Really? You aspire to be a Death Eater
and you're already cowering? That's pitiful. You'd better gain a backbone
before you leave Hogwarts, or you'll be turned away in an instant."
He waved his wand then, cleaning the room and the glass jars both, sending them
dancing to their spot beside the sink. He stared at Draco and dared him to say
a word, but the boy only shook his head.
He left the room without the drama of Snape but with a crash nonetheless,
grinning as he heard glass break and Draco squeal. He was about to start
towards the dorms when a low, familiar chuckle caught his attention, and the
barest swish of invisibility cloak exposed Moody's wooden claw. He darted for
an alcove down the hall and was pressed upon, drawn under the folds nearly
instantly.
It was too dark to see Moody's face and though the body was too thick, too
misshapen to be Barty's, the scent was of his spiced soap. Harry closed his
eyes and breathed as hot air blew against his neck, the pressure of Moody's
borrowed head against his shoulder. "You are so brilliant, Young Lord," he
breathed, a mad giggle quickly stifled, wrong in Moody's gruff bass. "You are
beautiful in your rage; your anger makes my pulse race."
Harry shivered as hands tightened on his hips and another laugh was muffled
against his neck. "Watching you make the boy squirm was art in motion, beauty
illustrated in sweeps of terror and blood. I wish I could see you unleashed, my
dearest Lord; I count the days until I can."
Harry couldn't control the ragged pace of his breathing as a sweet-scented
breath passed over his lips, too close, too wrong. But he was half-hard
regardless just in knowing who this was, no matter the body.
"Soon, soon," Barty half-wept, pressing hard before stepping away, leaving
Harry flushed and panting in the dark corner. "Come to me tonight, Young Lord.
There are plans to be made and new news to impart. Will you be there?"
"Yes," Harry hissed, trying to regain himself. He stared where the voice came
from, seeing just the faintest shimmer of an outline as Barty began to move
away. "Yes."
===============================================================================
Ron grumbled as the Gobstone he'd flicked rolled around the Snake Pit's edge
then skittered away, out of the circle. "I hate this game," he moaned as the
yellow sap jetted at him.
Ron was looking anywhere but at Harry. Since the first task and his resulting
attempt at an apology to Harry (and Harry's staunch refusal of said apology),
Ron had been constantly around him, nose in the air. Harry didn't know if this
was supposed to do anything but irritate him, but it did little but. He was
there constantly, seeming to be trying to rub his own ignoring of Harry in his
face.
Neville snorted from Ron's side then looked embarrassed to have done so,
immediately blushing and looking away. He still answered though, hesitantly.
"I'm only winning because Gran used to force me to tournaments with her lady
group," he said with pink cheeks. His own cherry-red Stone snapped across the
playing board, hitting another of Ron's yellow pieces and sinking his own.
Harry's own green pieces were not doing much better than Ron's, but that was
mainly due to Neville's surprisingly deft fingers flicking them away. Harry's
Stones smelt of pine, however, and though it was cloying it was still better
than Ron's lemon-scented ones. His fingers were sticky and gooey with it.
"I don't know why you three bother with that," said Hermione from her perch on
Ron's bed, only her frizzy bangs peeking out over the book she was engrossed
in.
"You don't know why we bother with anything that's even a little fun," Ron
grumbled in reply, swearing as he flicked too hard and his piece went careening
off the board. The resulting spray of lemon-scented stickiness splattered
Harry's glasses.
Hermione's fingers tightened on the book, knuckles going white. "There is a
line between fun and pointless, Ronald."
"And you wouldn't know it if it slapped you across the face!"
Neville looked horrified and scooted backwards on his rear, wide-eyed. Harry
cringed, already putting his Stones back into their container and mapping out a
quick exit from the dorm as he swished his wand over his clothes, hands, and
glasses to remove the sticky, colored remains of the Gobstones.
But the explosion they expected did not happen. Hermione stared at Ron, face
blank, long enough to be beyond awkward and to nearly make the boy piss
himself. Harry could see the telltale tensing of her lips, the way her chest
heaved in a breath then held for long moments, repeating this several times.
In the end, she just turned back to her book, but that seemed to terrify Ron
more than anything else she might have done. He whimpered and curled up, wide
eyes seeking and locking on Harry, then Neville.
Neville finished putting the pieces away and stood, gathering the box and
sliding it under his dorm bed before making for the door. Harry watched
Hermione until she gave him a small nod, his signal to leave as well. He was
glad that, when they'd caught him in the dorm, he'd already had the map and
cloak tucked away, as he could just dash away towards Barty's now, prepared for
the evening.
He was waylaid as he stepped out of the portrait hole, though; Dean and Seamus
were trotting up to him, grins on their faces. "Harry! Ready for this weekend?
We've got fifty sickles on you managing to get the snitch!"
Several of all the teams – bar Slytherin, and most especially Ravenclaw – were
short players and had had to replace with whoever was willing to bend outside
the rules for this unofficial set of games. Gryffindor only retained Harry,
Fred, and George, but Harry had faith they'd be enough, though their Chasers
were awful. "I'll do my best, guys," he said with a poorly hidden grimace,
trying to ignore the greedy looks on their faces. Two-faced fiends, they were,
just like the rest of this school. Seamus, especially, had been loudest in his
protests against Harry's entry into the Triwizard Tournament, but had suddenly
become all sickly sweet again once the first task was over and it seemed he had
a chance to win.
Dean nudged him ('Mudblood, don't touch me!' a voice like Harry's father
hissed) and slung a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Didn't see you at
dinner, mate. You eating all right? Can't have you weak and fainting if we're
to beat the snot out of Slytherin."
"Oooo, I can't wait to rub Malfoy's prissy little nose in it," Seamus crowed,
pumping an arm into the air. "Sissy little caffler, he'll see what's what,
won't he Harry?"
Harry slipped out from under Dean's arm and gave another painful rendition of a
smile, laughing in a way that grated on his own ears. "You bet your arse, I'll
get him for you. Need to go get a bite to eat from the kitchens, though; like
you said, I missed dinner. Don't want me falling off the broom, do ya?"
Seamus crowed something about him being a pull through for a rifle, and Harry
darted down the stairs, eager to escape to Barty's rooms. It was his only
comfort these days, and he could sorely remember how he had survived the last
three years without him.
The fire was burning merrily when he swept into the rooms, beckoning the
Guardian Armor closed behind him. He shucked off his cloak and nearly collapsed
into his usual chair, seeing Barty nowhere in sight but knowing he was welcome.
Harry's fingers reached up to the blue and bronze bauble at his throat,
stroking it as he had taken often to doing, as if it brought him closer to the
man who'd made it.
He didn't know how long he sat, half aware in front of the fire, but he was
brought back into awareness by the spiced scent of sausage. Before his face sat
a banger of hefty proportions, on a plate held by a smiling Barty. "I know you
didn't get food."
Harry forwent the fork and plucked the sausage between two fingers, ripping off
a vicious bite and sinking back in happiness. He loved sausage more than was
reasonable sometimes; his father was not one to crave much meat, so he'd not
had overlot of it when he was young.
"What news do you have that you need to share?" Harry asked between bites,
swallowing deeply. "You sounded excited."
Barty's teeth gleamed in a grin that was all sharp edges and feral delight.
"For the entire weekend of the second task, my father,"Barty growled, fingers
tensing at his knees, "will be in attendance."
"Oh— oh!" Harry breathed with excitement, sitting forward, his half-eaten
sausage forgotten in his hand. "You'll let me help you, then?"
A hand reached, faltered, then continued to touch against Harry's knee, Barty's
boney, spindly hand staying there for just a moment before retreating. "I would
have it no other way, Harry. No other way."
Harry grinned. "Well, then. Let's plan."
===============================================================================
"Prongslet…"
Harry pursed his lips and shook his head, smoothing his robes over his knees.
"Sirius, I can't tell you everything."
The man's pale eyes narrowed. "But you can tell me something."
Harry shrugged. "What do you want to know?"
It was cold, Harry noted as he tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
He wished he had thought to have Hermione teach him warming charms. He would
have to rectify that soon; she wouldn't always be there to make up for the
areas his training lacked.
"Why did you have a second wand to begin with?"
Harry's fingers tapped against his thigh beneath his heavy cloak, eyes half-
mast as he watched Sirius warily. The man looked like he had gone through hell,
which he had, hair still one large matted clump on his back, face gaunt. The
madness in his eyes had not been tempered by freedom as Harry had hoped it
would be, but instead seemed to have been exacerbated. There was a wildness
there, a combination of fearpanichate that made the man twitch and spin at the
smallest noises, borrowed wand at the ready. Battle training combined with the
paranoia of one whose life depended on remaining unseen.
"How much truth are you looking for here, Sirius?" The man's mouth opened to
respond, but Harry held up a hand, palm out, to stop him. "Think before you
answer, Sirius. Think of the secrets I may be keeping, the things you may
learn. Do you really want the truth, even if the truth means you find out the
things you fear, the things that hover on the edges of your mind as the best
explanations? Do you really want that confirmation?"
Sirus's teeth clacked as he shut his mouth, a pained frown crossing his face.
He was staring intently at Harry, eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth to
his fingers and back again, trying to take stock of him, understand his layers.
One hand was steadily picking at the fingernails of the other, steadily more
violent as he frowned deeper yet.
Harry took pity on him. "I am happy with my life, if that eases your mind at
all. I know that I'm a lucky person and I've got a lot of great things going
for me. They aren't things you would be happy with, but I'm happy with myself."
The sigh Sirius gave was massive, and his eyes flicked away to the cave's
entrance. "Right, best you don't tell me then. But… you know I'm here if you
need me, right?"
Harry smiled at the man. "Yeah. I know."
They sat in silence for a bit in Harry's conjured armchairs, both of them brown
with red trim now and more resembling those in the Gryffindor common room than
Barty's. He'd lost Hermione and Ron in Zonko's, never having told them that
Sirius was once more just outside of town. He knew this meeting would at least
hint at things that he didn't need them to even contemplate.
Sirius slumped a bit in his chair, grimacing. "The not asking is going to drive
me mad, though."
"Drive you there?" Harry said dryly, unrepentant even as Sirius pouted.
"I hate to say it, but it might be best if I went back to the house I grew up
in. I hate that place more than any other place in the world, but I don't think
I can take much longer living as a dog. It's doing things to me." It was an odd
moment of clarity from his Godfather, and Harry nodded encouragingly. He didn't
like worrying over the man, no matter how much he knew he shouldn't care.
"That may be wise. I assume, since it would be owned by the Blacks, it has good
warding?"
"Some of the best in the British Isles," he confirmed, nodding even as his face
took on a moue of total disgust. "Hate that house so damn much, though."
"But it's still a house."
"That it is."
Harry took a small package out of his pocket and tapped it to unshrink it,
popping open the sticking charm he'd closed the box with and handing it over.
"Here's a hot meal for you; the House Elves didn't ask questions. I'd have
brought you more, but I don't know any stasis charms."
"I don't either," Sirius looked ravenous and ate with his hands; Harry's father
would be appalled.
Harry politely kept his eyes off the man as he devoured the box of food,
probably too quickly for it to stay down fully, but Harry wasn't about to tell
a full-grown man how to eat. He found himself wondering how Sirius would feel,
facing him on the battlefield. Would he stay out of the conflict knowing Harry
would be against him, or would he fight to turn Harry to the "proper" side? He
hoped he didn't have to find out.
Sirius belched and Harry sighed in derision, earning a smug grin from the man.
"Feel better?"
"Tons," said Sirius with a satisfied slump to his shoulders. "Now I need a
nap."
Harry laughed and transfigured a bed from a small fern, using one leaf to make
a lumpy-looking mattress (he cringed, but he'd never been stellar at
Transfiguration. The chairs were an exception with how often he made them),
another to make a thin pillow, and a last one to make a garish blanket that, at
least, looked thick and warm.
"Don't let me keep you, then. I'm decent enough that that bed should last
through the night, though if you wake up by falling to the floor I'm sorry."
Sirius's eyes were hungry again, but this time at the bed. "I've always been
shit at Transfiguration. That was your dad's thing, I stayed with Defense and
Charms. Thanks, Prongslet."
Harry smiled and watched the man collapse boneless, banishing the chairs.
"Write me soon, Sirius."
A snore was his only response.
===============================================================================
Harry cringed as the Fat Lady screeched drunkenly for him to show himself, all
too loud in the silent castle. He was later than usual; he and Barty had gotten
into a rousing debate on magic classification that they'd lost themselves in
until after one in the morning. He had Transfiguration first thing, though, so
he'd peeled himself away once he'd noted the time.
The common room was predictably silent as he snuck to and up the stairs,
skipping the one that tended to complain loudly when trod upon. He pulled off
the invisibility cloak only after shutting his room's door behind him, exhaling
noisily.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Harry grimaced as Ron's lit wand surfaced, his curtains cinched wide on the
side facing the door. Day after next students would be leaving for home for
Yule and Harry would finally have a bit of privacy to study the Golden Egg from
the first task, as the second would be coming swiftly in the new year. There
had been talk of a Yule Ball that was traditional with the Triwizard
Tournament, but due to several key Ministry officials objecting, it had been
cancelled. Harry could only be relieved – what in the world would he do at a
ball? Who would he even take? – and something about the sly smirk Barty'd worn
after that announcement told him that he'd had something to do with the
decision. It was a boon, as a ball on school grounds would have kept students
back from going home, and he'd never get the privacy he so dearly needed.
Harry's lack of answer seemed to annoy Ron. "Oi, I'm not dumb, mate, I can see
you there."
He sighed and shook his head. "I was in the library studying for the second
task. You know, the tournament that could kill me?"
"Oh, don't try and guilt me, Harry," Ron hissed, trying to keep his voice down.
"You're the one that won't forgive me!"
"There wouldn't be anything to forgive if you weren't such a berk!"
Harry was surprised by how true those words felt, how deeply he actually missed
Ron's idiocy. He'd discussed it with Barty a few weeks prior and the man had
laughed at him, told him that he was only human, but he still hadn't been able
to quite puzzle out what he'd meant by that.
Ron was silent, and Harry thought that maybe he'd gone back to sleep, but the
still-lit wand told him that was a farfetched idea. He made his way to his bed
regardless, dumping his invisibility cloak and the Marauder's Map into his
trunk and stripping out of his t-shirt. He wriggled into his pajamas next,
drawing back the curtains on his own bed before he paused, back to where the
light of Ron's wand still faintly illuminated the room.
"I really am sorry," Ron grumbled in the stillness, Lumos winking out. "I was
just so jealous – thought you'd decided you wanted something better than 'Mione
and me; thought you'd get your glory and leave us behind."
Harry breathed deeply, softly. "I wouldn't. Seek glory, I mean. I can't promise
we're gonna be friends forever, Ron, but I can promise you that I'm not going
to just leave you. It will be your choice when you go." That was uncomfortably
honest.
There was a rustle of Ron's sheets, the boy setting back into his bed. "I may
be a jerk, but I'm a loyal jerk, you know. You can't get rid of me easily."
Harry gave a wry smirk into the darkness as he took to his own bed. When the
truth finally came out in a few months' time, he'd see how "easily" it was
after all.
===============================================================================
Harry looked up through his lashes at Davies, swallowing him whole as the boy
babbled incoherently. He loved the control of this, even on his knees before
another person. The ability to completely break a person into pieces with his
talents was something he had discovered young – too young, if he was honest
with himself – was something he thrived on. Man or woman, he loved this
position most of all.
"Oh Merlin, oh everything bright and magical, Harry, faster…"
Harry hollowed his cheeks as he sucked hard, making Davies sob in pleasure. He
reached down to stroke himself, his other hand clamped like a vice around the
base of the boy's cock. He wouldn't be coming yet. Not if Harry had anything to
say about it. The next day was when most students would go home for the
holidays, and Harry had let himself be tempted away by Davies again, a bit of
smuggled firewhiskey making his resemblance to Barty all the stronger. Harry
peered up and squinted until he could see another brunet in the boy's place,
ganglier and erratic where Davies was soft and unsure.
Harry hummed as Davies began begging, pleading to be allowed to come, the
vibrations causing a veritable flood of precome to coat his tongue. "Please,
please, oh Merlin, please let go Harry, pleasepleaseplease—"
Harry might have given in and let the boy, swallowed him down as he lost the
last vestiges of dignity, but the door flew open then, crashing against the
wall with enough force to make dust flutter down from the suspended, iron ring
candle holders that hovered overhead.
He sat back on his haunches, left hand still clamped around Davies' cock and
his right settled on his own, staring dumbly at the open doorway. Davies, on
the other hand, scrabbled backwards without any such freezing, prying his cock
free from Harry's stunned grip and scrambling to put it back into his pants as
if it wasn't already too late.
Harry's breath felt like it was punched out of him as Mad-Eye's swiveling,
magical blue eye focused on him and did not leave him, even as the owner
thumped into the room with a scowl directed towards the skittering Davies, just
finally zipping himself. Harry fought not to say a word as Moody's hand
trembled around his wand, clenching and releasing, nearly losing grip entirely
at one point. All the while, though, the magical eye stared at Harry, cock out
and still hard as he could be, y-fronts tucked beneath his balls.
"Get out," he hissed darkly at the stuttering Davies, who squeaked like a first
year girl and ran for the door, falling just outside of it as he tried to turn
too quickly. He scrambled to his feet and ran.
Harry finally broke as the boy's footsteps echoed down the hall, feeling light-
headed and near to passing out as all the blood in his body not already
occupied rushed to his face in the darkest flush he'd ever experienced. He
winced as he yanked his pants back over his genitals and did up his trousers
with a bit more care, unable to lose even a fraction of his erection even in
his humiliation, even if it made zipping difficult.
He felt Mad-Eye's eyes, both now, focused on his every move. He didn't dare
meet them, though, instead watching as Moody's wand was rolled between shaking
fingers.
Harry felt that he should explain, somehow. Tell Barty that it wasn't what he
thought, that the boy meant nothing, that it was just— just teenaged hormones.
He had the body of a fourteen year old and the mind of someone only a few years
older, for Merlin's sake! But he was stricken mute by the quiet, palpable rage
in Moody's posture and the shake of his hands, so less controlled than Barty
ever was in anger. In excitement, in joy, in wicked glee he was always moving…
but in rage he was always still. Harry swallowed.
There was a rustle as one of Moody's hands raised, a hitch of breathing as he
perhaps thought to say something, then nothing. Moody's wooden claw hit the
flagstones with finality as he made his way back for the open classroom door,
wand now back in his sleeve. "Get to your dorm, Young Lord." Moody's voice was
a rasp in the quiet, and Harry finally raised his eyes to take in the stiff
line of his back. "If another professor catches you out, I can't do aught about
it."
Harry leapt to his feet as Barty made to leave, "W-wait!"
He paused in the doorway, one gnarled hand against the frame. Silent again, not
looking back.
Harry felt any words he might have had dry up in his throat, fingers curling at
his sides. He felt as if they were on the edge of a precipice, but he found
himself too terrified to leap from it. Instead, he cringed, looking at his
battered trainers. "Thank you, for not giving us detention."
Moody's voice gave a huffing grunt. "Go, Young Lord."
Harry went.
***** All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is
all my own. ~Johann von Goethe *****
The holidays were passing in a buzz of forced nothingness. Barty had been gone
for a week now, escaping the castle with the students without more than a small
note on Harry's pillow telling him he would be back for Yuletide. Harry refused
to think deeply on this, could not bring himself to focus on the recriminations
and the emotional pain the distance put upon him.
Everything about Barty had only become more terrifying with distance, and he
couldn't bring himself to concentrate on that.
Harry studied the Golden Egg that Barty refused to tell him the secret of yet,
trying to eke out on his own what the screeching was supposed to mean to him.
He studied ahead in Defense and Ancient Runes, finished his holiday work from
Potions and Charms. He buried himself in the library for days, only resurfacing
for meals to keep suspicion at bay.
No one had stayed behind that could really call suspicion to him for his
behavior, after all.
The night before Yule was stormy, and the ceiling crackled with magicked
lightning. Harry listened to the near constant rumble of thunder from outside,
straightening the line of brussel sprouts that formed a hedge around the slab
of roasted goose he'd been neglecting. Spears of roasted parsnip made posts
along his hedgerow, and tiny carrots cut into triangles by some industrious
House Elf arranged on top of the goose meat in some kind of decorative edging.
"Well, my boy! It's like a savory gingerbread house you have there!" Harry
froze and scowled as the bench rocked with the man's weight and forced on a
smile before facing the Headmaster. "Though, I must say, eating it would be the
most satisfying option."
Harry carefully didn't meet the man's eyes, instead spearing one of his sprouts
and nibbling on it. "Is there something I can help you with, Professor
Dumbledore?"
"I haven't seen much of you this year, Harry," the old man said breezily,
placing a spongy treacle pudding on the empty plate he'd sat before. Drat on
the small, "personal" feel of holiday meals at Hogwarts, anyway. "I worry for
you, with the stress of the Tournament. Are you faring well?"
Harry resisted a sneer, jamming a chunk of goose and gravy into his mouth to
delay his answer. The old man hardly even looked his direction, it wouldn't do
for him to start doing so now, not when plans were in motion as they were.
Since he'd been "too late" to save Ginny and had not immediately capsized under
the disappointment in Dumbledore's gaze, the Headmaster had taken a step back
from him. At the end of last term, though, he'd been there to help with Sirius,
pointing he and Hermione in the right direction.
Harry couldn't decide how to play this, though. If he seemed too flippant about
the tasks or too buried under the weight of them, he could see Dumbledore
becoming more involved. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth finally turning
back to the man with Occlumency shields firmly in place. "So-so, Professor. I
still can't figure out the hint for the next task, but after how the first task
went, I'm more confident in myself. I've been studying Defense and Charms more
heavily to try to make sure I'm well-rounded."
This seemed to please the Headmaster, as he grinned brightly, pale blue eyes
crinkling. "Well done, my boy. I'm very proud of how you've handled this
unfortunate responsibility. I do wish we could have had the Yule Ball tonight
as planned; it would have been lovely, I had plans drawn up for decorations
that would have taken even Severus's breath away! It is meant to be a respite
for the Champions, but the Ministry—" he broke off with a scowl, then shook his
head. "No matter. I am proud of you, my boy. Keep that chin up, and if you need
anything, you know where my office is. For the beginning of the year, I am
thinking that Licorice Wands sound appetizing, don't you?"
Harry watched as Dumbledore, dollop of treacle in his beard, stood and floated
around to the few other people at the table, and he was perplexed as he always
was after speaking to the man. Even a few words and he was left with the same,
wary uncertainty of just how much of the man's persona was truth and lie.
He demolished the hedgerow in one swoop, realizing his appetite had totally
abandoned him. He eyes scanned over the dozen students who had remained over
break, the Professors who had deigned to come to dinner. He found himself
aching for his familiar companion and begged out, smiling at those who noticed
him retreating, pulling himself under the Entry stairs to throw on his
invisibility cloak.
Though Barty had always told Harry he was welcome at any time, Harry had stayed
from his rooms in the week that he'd been away. Now, though, his feet took him
on the familiar path to the rooms, finding them dark and lifeless. He cast a
spell to light the fireplace and sunk into his usual chair, curling in on
himself.
Against his will, his eyes drifted to the only door leading from the main
chamber: Barty's room. He'd been in there before, of course, usually just to
cut through to the privy linked there. He ached, suddenly, to enter there, to
shuck his robes and climb in under Barty's cold sheets and blankets, curl in on
himself surrounded by the scent of the man's soap and sweat. But no… that was
more of an invasion than Harry felt comfortable with and, honestly, roused
those terrifying thoughts he'd been tamping down to the surface.
He closed his eyes tightly, curling tighter yet, and let the crackle of the
fire lull him.
===============================================================================
"Idiots," Voldemort hissed, flute of bubbly champagne in one long-fingered
hand. Harry smiled up at him with fond amusement.
"You think everyone is an idiot, Father."
The man hummed, eyes charmed green like Harry's tonight, face slowly aging to
be something timeless rather than the 16-year-old youth it had been when he'd
taken over the shade. His father commanded respect with just a look, even to
these Ministry peons who had no idea who he was. No one knew who he was,
really.
"That is because they are, Harry, and the sooner you realize this the sooner
you will evolve. Few people in all the world are worthy of my time, of your
time. None are worth investment, but a few are worth at least a second glance."
He drained his glass and set it on a passing House Elf's tray, gesturing to a
small crowd around the Minister. "Lucius Malfoy, for example. He is worthy due
to his birthright, the status he did little work to achieve but has
nonetheless. In the years before my… accident, he was a boon to my operations.
He has clout because his father had clout, and his father's father. He himself
is a decent strategist and has a… creative streak that has always intrigued me.
He is worthy of note."
Voldemort swiveled, motioning to a more shadowed corner of the ball room where
a few people sat at tables. "Augustus Rookwood, there, he too is worthy of
note. He works as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. He's an asset;
getting a mole in that organization was something that took me years to
achieve. He is worthy, at least, in that."
He led Harry back to their table, empty now as everyone caroused. Harry's hair
was charmed honey-blonde, as was his father's, the small change more than
enough to keep anyone from recognizing him. The combination of something simple
like a different hair color and no one having even the wildest inklings that
Harry Potter might be right in front of them was enough to leave them totally
anonymous. Vapid, blind souls were politicians. He sat at his father's side,
relishing in the light stroke of fingers over his shoulder as Voldemort
continued, nodding here and there to point out former Death Eaters and
informants. It was a lesson, as most things turned out to be with his father;
he had a streak for teaching, and Harry loved being his student.
Harry's eyes traced the path of a girl, 16 perhaps, long dark hair plaited down
her back. She paused beside a man his father had said was an auror, tugging his
sleeve. He didn't recognize her from Hogwarts, but he didn't know the upper
years very well.
The lapse in his attention was caught. His father frowned. "Ah, so you are
getting to that age, then?" he said with a sigh, removing his fingers from
Harry's shoulder to push them through his hair. Harry wanted to lean back into
his father to ask them back, but didn't. He was nearing 14 now on Ministry
record, it wasn't proper to be so attached to the simplest of touches.
"What age, Father?" he asked, his voice cracking annoyingly. He hated that it
did that.
"Puberty. The human propensity for copulation, eugh," said Voldemort, an
exaggerated shiver making him shake his head. "I cannot fault you it, I went
through the same, but I can guide you in safety and intelligence through it, at
least."
Harry, who had thus far slept with no fewer than three people, two girls and a
boy, kept his mouth shut.
"Always use your contraception charms – assuming you're bedding a woman, of
course. Additionally, though potions can cure nearly everything, if you have no
wish to have purple hives covering your balls or green sap leaking from your
orifices, use protective spells as well."
Harry made a face and reddened, ducking his head. "That is really gross."
"Human interaction generally is," Voldemort said wryly, eyeing the lithe young
woman Harry had been watching. "As a rule, sex should be about pleasure or
power. Never let another put their pleasure or power over yours. You are born
to rule, Harry. Even before your birth your destiny was set in place at my
side."
Harry smiled and stopped resisting the urge to scoot closer to his father, just
close enough for their shoulders to touch. Voldemort patted his knee with an
awkward pause, still so unsure how to deal with Harry's uncomplicated
affection. "You didn't always think so."
"No… no I didn't," he said, unrepentant. "But I see it now. You were always
meant to be mine, Harry."
That warmed him and he stopped looking out at others, meeting his father's
pseudo-green gaze. Voldemort's face was serious; this was not rare, but the
slant of discomfort was more so. "In the coming years there will be confusion
for you, Harry. Oft times…" his face screwed into a moue of distaste, and for
the first time that Harry could remember, his father seemed to be at a loss for
words.
He bumped his shoulder lightly, smiling unsurely. "You can just say whatever
you need to outright, Father. These years beside you have taught me to
understand context in your lessons."
Voldemort looked away, back towards where the Minister was shaking hands. His
fingers tapped against his knee. "Emotions, Harry. Emotions are the downfall of
so many men, the end of illustrious careers, the death to an able fighter, the
deterioration of the most brilliant minds. Sex and emotion seem tied
inextricably in society, but one does not need the other. Sex should be and is
release, it does not need to herald tidings of love and commitment." Voldemort
cut a glace back at him and grimaced. "I should have waited to have this
conversation when at the manor."
Harry laughed. "I understand. It is fine, I think… I think I understand what
you mean. Don't just get attached willy-nilly, right?"
Voldemort shook his head. "Ideally, never get attached. Friendship, love, these
things are the hallmarks of the weak and feeble. We are above these things,
Harry. We need no one but each other. Love makes man weak, leaves openings for
enemies to strike."
Harry stilled and frowned down at his legs, twisting his fingers. No
friendship? No love? It wasn't distressing, necessarily, not with the way his
life had been thus far, but it still raised questions from someplace deep
within him, areas he'd squashed the life out of when they cried for
connections, affection.
Long fingers wrapped around his own. "Come, Harry, let us get back to the
party. I've heard whispers that one of my former Ministry spies – him, there,
in the green – was less than upright when the trials were on. I would like to
get some information from him so I can decide what to do with him later."
Harry nodded, shoving the conversation away.
But it would be repeated, time and again over the long, repeated months of
summer at his father's side. Had been stated before countless times but less
plainly, only now coming to the fore. Harry hunched in on himself but smiled
the picture-perfect smile his father had taught him, shaking hands as he was
introduced.
===============================================================================
In the middle-time, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, hours before
Harry's internal clock told him to rise, he was aware of movement. Weight
draped over him with warmth and the scratch of wool, the scent of spiced soap.
Fingers tangled in his hair, lips pressed feather-soft to his brow, his eyelid,
the ridge of his cheekbone. Murmurs played in the background of his dreams,
possessive whispers of need and belonging.
Harry curled tighter into the warmth, now, a whisper like an exhale on his
lips. "Barty."
===============================================================================
Barty's rooms had no windows, so Harry could not say what woke him that
morning. Nonetheless, he found himself abruptly thrown into wakefulness, crick
in his neck and shivering where he was half tumbled out of the chair. He
frowned at his lap, a woolen cloak there still soaked in warmth, his body cold
where it had fallen from covering him.
It took long moments for his sleep-addled brain to put the clues together, but
when he did he was out of the chair with a start, grinning, moving towards
Barty's rooms and tossing open the door.
And there he was, sprawled and tangled in the bedding, snoring loudly with
drool pooling on his pillow. Harry couldn't help the surge of warm affection,
nor his obnoxious leap onto the man's bed, jostling him awake even as he began
singing Muggle Christmas carols as loudly as he could.
Barty groaned and pantomimed sobbing, slapping a pillow over his head. "This is
how you welcome me home, you pest?"
He bounced a bit more, making Barty curse. "It's Christmas morning, wake up. I
have a gift for you."
Barty muttered about Muggles taking over Yule but sat up regardless, shirt
buttoned improperly and hair all pointing in one direction. He yawned as he
scrubbed his hands across his face. "Haven't seen me in a week and this is my
greeting; woken after three hours rest."
The reminder of the week away seemed to freeze both of them, the smile falling
from Harry's face even as Barty's hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Harry,
who was drooping now, lips turned down and fingers clenched at his knees. What
could he say? The terrifying, clawing things like emotion raged back up from
where he had buried them, clambering for attention over one another, fighting
to reach his mouth first. Apologies, denials, and professions all fought to be
first, and Harry felt as if he may burst from the strain of deciding what to
say.
Barty decided for him, standing abruptly and yawning again. "Well, get moving,
Young Lord. Where is this present you've promised?" Deft fingers began undoing
the buttons on his pajamas even as his other hand reached for a set of robes
and underclothes.
Harry stood and shuffled his feet, blood traveling in too many directions at
once. "Right, I'll just… get that." He was a coward for running, but he did,
going to his bag and pulling out the small, shrunken package he'd had since
before the first task. He restored it now and stroked the small box, nervy
suddenly at the idea of giving it to the man.
He'd spent hours of research he should have been using on the task to add
charms and enchantments to it, learning how to anchor the spells and add
permanence. And that wasn't even counting the several hours spent looking
through trinkets until he'd alighted, finally, upon something that called to
him for Barty.
He turned the box over and over in his hands now, simple brown paper covering a
plain white box, rather than any of the thousands of enchanted designs for
wrapping. The paper was coarse and the twine knotted, and suddenly Harry didn't
even know if he wanted to go through with this.
Barty entered then, plopping down on the ground beside Harry's feet, leaning
against his legs and making a humming sound of content. He smiled adoringly.
"Happy Yuletide, Young Lord."
Harry's breath caught and he smiled back, shakily. "Happy Yule, Bartemius." His
fingers moved to card through Barty's hair and the nape, making him coo in
pleasure and drop his forehead against Harry's knee.
The hand that still held the gift tightened, then released. He could do this.
It was… it wasn't that big of a deal if Barty didn't like it. Sure, he'd spent
hours wracking is brain, hours more searching, then days enchanting it with the
best of his young, incomplete abilities. He swallowed and thrust the package
into Barty's limp hands, cupped in his lap as they were. "Here you go."
Barty's eyes popped open and he sat straight, removing his head from Harry's
knees and looking down at the parcel in his hands. "I thought you were joking
about a gift."
"It—it's nothing." He tried not to sound as nervous and awkward as he felt
suddenly, though the questioning look on Barty's face made him believe he
hadn't succeeded.
Nimble fingers plucked at the twine, letting it fall away. The paper was
shredded in an instant, leaving only the small, square, plain white box in
Barty's bony hands. Harry steeled himself for some sort of mischief, teasing
Harry by not opening it at this point, but Barty's hands – were they shaking? –
did not pause long, going to the notch in the side and prying the box open.
Harry looked up to the ceiling at the first flash of gold, twining his fingers.
He didn't need to look more at it; he'd stared at it for ages. It was a plain
pocket watch, antique gold, with only a ring of simple, flowing etchings
circling the edge with Bartemius woven into them near the clasp. On the back,
looking as flowing etchings themselves following the same circle, the words "Be
not afraid of growing slowly; be afraid only of standing still," ringed the
watch. That had been a silly addition, but one he'd added to try and make the
whole gift seem more meaningful and less juvenile.
Within the watch, which told time like a proper Muggle timepiece rather than
many of the enchanted Wizard's sort – it had always annoyed him, that – there
was a single, additional hand that, with an activation word, could be set to
count down to any event. Harry had charmed it, currently, to read "Third Task"
in tiny letters on the hand, and its stubby circle noted it as being many, many
days and hours away.
He'd left the inside cover blank on purpose. He wanted Barty to be able to add
whatever he wanted there.
The watch was charmed waterproof and shatterproof, at least as well as he could
manage. He'd been too afraid to test. He'd tried to charm it into a Foeglass or
to warm with danger, but it was so far over his head to do so that he'd been
sorely disappointed. He'd cast a spell trying to get it to work as a Secrecy
Sensor then, heating if someone was lying to the holder, but despite various
tests on it there had been no response from the watch.
Barty was silent through all Harry's ruminating, and that was odd, indeed.
Harry tipped his head back down now that he thought he would not glow red from
his flush, a pink dusting across his cheekbones difficult to see in the dim
firelight. Barty had the watch clasped between both hands, held close to his
chest, and was staring at the fire with an unreadable expression. Harry
squirmed.
Barty turned at that, rising onto his knees, staring at him with that same
expression. One hand separated from the watch and reached up, slowly,
hesitatingly to cup Harry's cheek, the unreadable look morphing into one of
wonder. "Oh, Young Lord."
"I hope you like it?" Harry said in a rush, hunching a bit, but not moving to
escape Barty's warm hand.
His breathing stuttered to a halt as Barty's thumb stroked across his
cheekbone, gently, slowly. "It is a fine gift, Harry. A beautiful gift. It…"
Barty paused, his hand dropping back to the watch, opening it and closing it
again, pressing it to his chest. "When I was a boy, the day I left for
Hogwarts, my mother gave me a pocket watch. My father had always had one, a
silver antique, and I had gotten in trouble a thousand times for touching it,
playing with it, when I was a lad. But she gave me one that day and told me—"
Barty's head bowed and Harry made an apologetic sound, which was waved off
instantly. "I lost it, when they took me to Azkaban. Thrown out like all my
other personal affects, I reckon. Thank you, Young Lord. Thank you, Harry." His
eyes came up to meet Harry's and Harry didn't bother breathing, afraid that he
would begin babbling nonsense at the man. He kneeled there with such open eyes,
a smile unlike any Harry had ever seen on his lips, and Harry realized in that
moment that he couldn't be without this man.
He was in love with Barty.
He was in love with Bartemius Crouch, Junior, his father's servant, his own
teacher, a man at least a decade his senior who was a condemned felon. And
those things mattered so little to Harry in that moment that he could sob. He
wanted to fling himself forward, gasp his confessions into Barty's hair, the
skin of his throat, breathe the words into his mouth and take his own breath
from there. He wanted to—
Barty was on his feet, pressing the watch into his waistcoat's breast pocket
and keeping a hand there, over it, grinning manically all the while. "Well,
suppose it is time for your gift then as well, isn't it?"
Harry felt faint, the dramatic comedown from his realization too much for him.
He vaguely nodded, and that was enough to encourage him.
"Perfect!" Barty was dashing off to one side of the room now, pulling down a
book and muttering as he flipped through the pages. "Just let me get a
protection in place here; I don't want any snooping while we use this. Now, you
can't leave grounds, sorry to say, Dumbledore has too many of his little
knickknacks trained on you to know if you go anywhere, but I thought this might
be the next best thing. Ah!" he stopped and pulled his wand, fluttering it
through the air and pointing it back at Harry. The spell missed and went over
his shoulder and into the fire.
"Umm…"
Barty's grin was infectious and he felt a small smile creeping onto his lips.
He darted to him, clasping Harry's shoulder and pulling him up and towards the
fireplace. "Well then, on your knees, Young Lord," and didn't that make his
pulse pound, "and here we are. Riddle Manor!"
And Harry understood. His breathing caught and he latched himself to the man's
legs, tightly, hugging them awkwardly for all he was worth. "Oh, Barty!"
That fantastic, manic grin was his response and the man was pushing his head
into the green flames, cooing as he stroked down Harry's back.
"Father!" Harry called, his head swiveling to take in the familiar room. His
father's study had been the first place they had fixed up after their bedrooms.
"Father?"
With a dramatic snap of his robes, Voldemort strode into the room, grin wide
and showing his straight, white teeth. "Harry! I see Bartemius has given you
your gift?"
"Oh, Father, it is so good to see you!" Harry found himself near tears,
swallowing to keep them down. "I thought you wouldn't open the Floo?"
"It isn't open. This is a direct connection from that fireplace to this one,
the only connection that will be available. I agreed when he pointed out the
benefits to your being able to contact me, and him besides. But enough of that,
Happy Yule, Harry. Has Hogwarts been agreeing with you?"
He rambled to his father then, his great and terrible father who sank to his
knees before the fire, still regal but on the floor nonetheless, nodding along
as Harry breathlessly regaled him with the recent events. There was no need for
this, not really, there was no update that Barty had not likely given while
outside of the castle, no plans gone awry. But to just have a moment with the
man who had raised him, seeing his wry expressions and patient doting, made
Harry's heart quiver.
The conversation was not long, Barty joining him in the fire to remind him that
he was expected down for breakfast in the Great Hall, shoulder jostling his. If
Harry leaned into him a bit, it wasn't something either of them pointed out.
"I am glad to see my most loyal and my most treasured working so well side-by-
side," Voldemort murmured as he rose fluidly to his feet, nodding down on them
as Barty cooed happily. "You shall keep up your good work, Bartemius. Watch
over him."
"Even without being told, m'lord," Barty said breathlessly, bowing his head
until it looked nearly in the embers. "Until my dying breath."
===============================================================================
"So no poison, then?" Harry sighed, tugging at an overlong bit of fringe that
was tickling his nose. Barty was sprawled in his chair upside-down, more and
more upset by their conversation as the evening went on.
"Too easy," he said with a scowl, fingers rolling his wand back a forth between
them, keeping his hands busy. "I want to be able to look him in his eyes so
that he knows who has done him in, what his ineptitude has wrought for him. I
want him to know that I live and am thriving, away from him, despite of him."
Harry stifled a sigh. Barty's usual stealthy cunning was completely out of play
when it came to his father. Harry feared what would happen to him when he had
lost himself in the heat of the moment, faced with the man he credited with his
entire life's ruin.
But that was why Harry would wind himself into whatever plan Barty made, make
himself inextricable and unable to be left out of it. Because he needed to be
there for him in that moment, to hide him away if need be, to extract Barty
from whatever danger he put himself into.
"What is the second task? If I knew, I would be able to plan more thoroughly."
Despite his mood, Barty found a smile for him at that. "Now, now, Young Lord,
that would be telling. You'll get it soon enough, I have faith. You have plenty
of time, yet."
Harry sighed. "At least tell me whether it will be indoors or outdoors?"
"Out," Barty said, twisting a bit to be flopped across the chair with his head
dangling over the arm at Harry's side. "But he'll be here for the weekend, and
likely have rooms within the castle."
"Is he the sort to do so?" asked Harry, wiggling his fingers. "He isn't
snobbish like Lucius Malfoy who will, undoubtedly, Floo home to his mansion
every evening?"
"My… father has always been a sentimental man," Barty ground out. "He has fond
memories of his time in Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin before the Dark Lord's
reign, and though he came to despise his housemates in later years, he has a
loyalty to the school and his beginnings. He credits his Anti-Dark Arts
campaign with beginning right here, as a first year under Head Boy Tom Riddle,
and later seeing what became of him."
"I do hope you appreciate how rare it is that you know of my father's past.
Other than a few of the very oldest Death Eaters, I think you are the only one
to know… or to be allowed to live, at least. Only you would love him all the
more for his background, despite his blood status. I think that is what let him
keep you alive despite harboring a few of his secrets."
Barty smiled, a weak and forced thing, but his eyes still held that adoring
spark. "I do know how lucky I am. I know so much of your father that I feel I
know his story better than my own. When I was a boy, my father would tell me
stories of how a charismatic, intelligent half-blood boy in his house had been
driven mad by Dark magic, lost everything he once had had. It was meant to put
fear in me of the Dark Arts, but deep down, I admired the lengths my lord had
gone to for betterment."
"His learning, his travels?"
"Those as well. But I mean his Horcruxes, of course."
This time Harry was the one to fall out of his chair, eyes wide. "Barty!" he
gasped as he scrambled to his knees, beseeching. "Do not ever let him know you
know of them! How do you know of them?" Harry felt panicked; his father would
kill Barty for knowing this, most loyal or not!
"I was friends with a boy in school, a Slytherin. He was a year older and I
snuck out of school to go with him to his induction into the Death Eaters,
earning myself a place as well. I look back now and know I was blessed that my
Lord did not kill me where I stood for coming uninvited."
He ran his fingers over the top of Harry's head gently for a moment before
sitting back. "The boy was my best friend, a cousin. My father would have
disapproved very much of our friendship, had he taken even a moment to care who
my friends were." The last was said with a growl, Barty's fingers tightening on
the chair's arms before he seemed to force himself to relax. "I still do not
know what turned him away. But something made him run, made him plot against
our great and magnificent Lord. The night before he died, he told me of objects
of untold power, the key to immortality, seeming mundane and scattered across
Britain. He wished me to take up his cause, I think, and seek them out, but he
made a mistake."
"What was that?" Harry asked, settled back on his rear now, face propped in his
hands.
"He believed my love for him and our friendship was deeper than my love for my
Lord. He was wrong."
Harry shivered. That level of devotion was nearly frightening.
"Regardless, he died then, taking the secret with him. I would never tell
another soul, of course, and I never bothered looking into what the objects may
be. I do not need to know. It gives me comfort, however, knowing my Lord's
power is so absolute, that his mastery of life will go unchallenged, that even
death cannot keep him from our glorious purpose." Barty sighed and relaxed back
bonelessly. At least the ruminations had gotten him out of his slump.
Harry pulled himself up into his chair, thinking about Barty's knowledge. He
knew nearly as much as Harry himself did. That was dangerous, and it made
Harry's stomach clench, not in fear for his father's safety but for Barty's
own. It was only after the incident with the Diary that his father had
explained anything about his soul-containers at all, briefly and vaguely
telling him of their purpose as failsafes. Harry, too, had not asked or looked
deeper into what the objects were. Too much information was a dangerous thing.
Harry gasped suddenly, sitting forward in his chair with his eyes alighting on
Barty, in repose, staring into the fire. "I've got it. I know the perfect place
we can take your father to give you all the protection you need."
"Oh?" Barty asked, face swinging slowly to face him.
Harry grinned. "The Chamber of Secrets."
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