Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13224090.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/_Voldemort|_TMR, OFCs/_OMCs, OMC/_George_Weasley
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Lord_Voldemort|_Tom_Riddle|_Marvolo_Slytherin, Weasley
      Twins_-_Character, Sirius_Black, Remus_Lupin, Lucius_Malfoy, Fenrir
      Greyback, OCs
  Additional Tags:
      Mpreg, Runaway, gringotts, Goblins, Lordships, PTSD, Dobby/Winky/Kreacher
      -_Freeform, InnerSlytherin!_Harry, Intelligent!_Unforgiving!_Magically
      Powerful!_Harry, Soul_Joining, Harry_may_have_a_slight_penchant_for
      arson..., Sane!_Slightly_(reasonably)_OoC!_Voldemort, Dumbledore~Select
      Weasley's_and_OoP_Bashing!
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-01 Updated: 2018-02-06 Chapters: 9/? Words: 80594
****** Stranger Things Did Happen ******
by SelectiveSilence
Summary
     The summer of fourth year finds Harry Potter suffering through the
     abuse of his uncle and left for dead, abandoned by his friends. With
     Voldemort deciding to visit Privet Drive only to discover that the
     Blood Wards are gone, the Wizarding World will be rocked by the
     consequences of their encounter.
     When you have control for the first time in your life, how far can
     you escape the life you left behind without it dragging you back?
     Including a sane Voldemort, new possibilities, plotting Death Eaters,
     very confused Order members and smirking goblins (cue the shifty
     goblin eyes) it's a good thing Harry heard Amsterdam was nice this
     time of year.
***** 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Disclaimer: So...you mean to tell me that not only am I not British
     and living in an awesome flat in London, I do not, in fact, own any
     of these characters, the original story line, the exemplary hotness
     of Tom Marvolo Riddle, Harry Potter's green eyes nor the questionable
     brilliance that is the Sorting Hat?...Well....Damn.
     =====================================================================
     =====================================================================
Date: 14th June, 1995
Location: Surrey, England.

There were many things that Lord Voldemort had not expected nor anticipated
upon his resurrection. One such thing was the complete and utter incompetence
of Pettigrew, the stupid rat.
Weeks after emerging from the cauldron that contained a potion of his own
creation, he, the greatest and most feared Dark Lord of the last century, could
not fathom how, exactly how Pettigrew had managed to get Nagini's scales in the
thrice damned Brew of Rebirth. The resulting bald head, scaled skin and rather
obvious absence of a nose was...fine, it was, admittedly, wonderfully
terrifying but was nowhere near what he wanted. The bloody potion was supposed
to fix the damage he had sustained though frequent exposure to dark rituals,
not enhance it, bloody rat.
The next and far more alarming unexpected occurrence was that pleasurable half-
measure of wholeness he had discovered once his magical core had settled after
the ritual. At first, he had impulsively -- and, really, where was his self-
control? -- assumed that he had simply been stranded as a bodiless waif,
drifting tormented, for too long to immediately assimilate to a physical body.
That was flown viciously into the floo when he realised that he hadn't had this
lingering warmth since he was sixteen, just before he made his first horcrux.
His meticulously ordered study had suffered for this. Severely. He still could
not recall if there had been anything important in that file that had quickly
become a pile of smouldering ash on the rug.
And then Lucius had suffered...once he failed to provide his Lord with the
Diary, that is. Yes, suffered. It truly was too bad that he inhabited an
important and high-profile role in the Ministry as incessant twitching would be
too telling a sign of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.
Voldemort growled inaudibly; he had yet to decide upon a fitting punishment for
the Malfoy Lord and was not ready to admit to himself that locking the Blonde
in a small room with Pettigrew was the best he had so far.
Of course, it was this newly acquired wholeness, and thus increase in sanity,
that had enlightened the dark Lord to some of his...well, more insane moments.
He shuddered. His goals, his influence, his ambition; everything ruined. He
knew, with every ripped half of his soul that somewhere, the old fool was
stroking his beard and cackling while he did that twinkle thing with his eyes
like the deranged Headmaster he was.
And truly, the worst part was that Voldemort couldn't even fault him for it
because it was he who had been so insufferably, inconceivably, imbecilic.
Everything had been working. He had had men in every important Ministry
department, even in some of the lesser sub-branches. The influence of his
amassed reputation and political weight had the majority of the Wizengamot
happily tapping to his tune.
And then he had fallen and oh how painful it was now.
By Morgana, he had even gone after a babe.
Admittedly, his brash action may very well have been fueled partly by the
selfish desire to rid this prophesied child of that which he himself had not
had; parents, love...
But why, why had he believed so fully in a half-prophecy relayed to him through
a recently inducted follower that he, when he thought about it, had barely
interacted with at all?
His mouth twisted bitterly at the sour taste in his mouth. If his younger self,
the thirteen year old that had walked out of Divination halfway through a
lesson, knew that he had initiated what he, now, supposed must have been a
self-fulfilling prophecy that was told by an old crackpot in the presence of a
lemon-sucking manipulator whilst in The Hogshead of all places during a job
interview...well, he would be doubled over and crying he would be laughing so
hard.
But now he had a problem. Even though he could -- and would -- ignore the
prophecy, Dumbledore clearly did believe the prophecy and, from what he had
been able to deduce, was busy training his little Potter Brat to be the perfect
weapon. He sneered. Gryffindor’s.
In the rather unexpected turn of events — and yes, he was acutely aware that
his expectations were rather lacking in fulfillment — in the Graveyard, wherein
Potter actually had the gall to reuse the Cup Portkey to return to Hogwarts, it
was just bloody typical that the one spell he had managed to hit the boy with
was a tracking charm. Mild. Harmless (technically). And rather obviously not
lethal.
Nagini had actually choked on the rabbit she had been swallowing when he told
her what had happened. And then sagely pointed out that it was rather stupid of
him to make the Cup a return Portkey.
But he digressed! Deciding to discover where the Brat had been hidden for all
these years without delay, Voldemort had pulled out his map, activated the
tracking charm and...gaped rather stupidly.
Harry Potter living with Muggles? Preposterous! Well....
Actually, Dumbledore was involved after all. He supposed it was possible.
And so, safe in the knowledge that the brat wasn't going anywhere, Voldemort
had realised that he didn't have to go rushing off the dispose of the boy
haphazardly and actually plan his attack.
Thus, after uncountable house pouring over dusty tomes in numerous peculiar
languages and odious potions, he had achieved his desired form.
Not even five minutes ago, a tall man, seemingly only a decade outside of his
youth, with chestnut waves curling softly behind one ear and sleeked elegantly
behind the other had apparated into a muggle suburb. Willingly.
Little Whinging, to be exact.
Across the street from No. 4 Privet Drive.
His crimson eyes shuttered despondently, lip curling in disgust as he noted the
gag-inducing symmetry of the muggle houses in the muggle populated street.
Pathetic.
"How did the old fool truly think he could hide the brat from me? With muggles,
no less!"
That was the downside of having half his soul returned. He used more
expressions.
The man's head tilted to the side slightly in thought, as he stepped forward,
his cloak disturbing the leaves resting on the cracked pavements.
The heat of the summer lingered well past nightfall, giving the impression of
lifelessness to the street. No car was parked outside on the drive, despite the
faded oil stains that signified that was where it normally sat. The closer he
came to the door of the house, the more uneasy he felt.
All of this amounted to the certainty that something was wrong.
The scenario he had built in his head of the picture-perfect house bowed under
the weight of its inaccuracy. For one, he had never imagined bars, yet there
they were, covering the second floor window, the visible glass clouded and
dirty.
But that garnered only passing suspicion for something else had captured the
Dark Lords wariness: the supposed Blood Wards were gone.
The Blood Wards that he had been truly fascinated by because of their innately
Dark nature and Harry Potter's fail safe protection, were gone.
He gripped his magic tighter, the silence of the house heavy. What kinds of
nefarious safe-guards had the fool laid?
A wave of his hand and the single latch-lock slid open, the door swinging open
noiselessly.
A step forward, a door closed and Lord Voldemort, with a breaking grin which he
hurriedly suppressed into a vicious twist of the lips, had entered the house of
the Boy-Who-Lived effortlessly. Lovely.
                                     OOOO
Curious.
Voldemort frowned at the cupboard under the stairs, noting the worn down paint
and lock on the air vent. He had barely ventured past the coat hooks before he
had felt a sickly magical residue coating the wood of the little door. It was
horribly familiar, dragging up well buried memories of his room at the Orphana
— no, he will not think about place.
He pulled open the door, narrowed eyes flicking between the well-oiled hinges
of the front door — the public door — and the dry creaking of the cupboard. It
was almost like it had been purposely neglected. Had the owners wanted to know
if this door opened?
Lumos. The flick of his wand had him mentally correcting himself.
Clearly these muggles had wanted to be alerted of any movement within this tiny
space.
He paused briefly. Did he have time for this? The house was still quite,
abandoned. Honestly, he was beginning to wonder if anybody was even home as he
manoeuvred the trunk – magical; Hogwarts – out for a better look inside. True,
it would be annoying if the brat wasn't here but he could always come ba--
Harry's_Room.
Drawn in blood, red dried brown, by the hand of a child; the curves sharp and
the lines twisting. With widening eyes he saw the little mattress tucked into
the corner, a threadbare, blood-stained blanket balled on top. A little toy
soldier stood his ground on his shelf, a striving protector covered in the dust
of his failure.
He can't breathe. Too close. Too close walls too close can't
breathtoocloseoutletmeoutplea—
No. Voldemort pulled away, closing his eyes and looking away. Deep breath.
Closed the door a bit more forcefully than intended. He would not feel pity for
the brat. He probably deserved.
Like you deserved it? Right.
"Shut up," he snarled, moving away and starting up the stairs.
He pushed his magic out. He was not staying in this...this...muggle hellhole
any longer than necessary. What in the name of the Unholy Arcane was Dumbledore
doing leaving the boy with these people? Cold, sharp tendrils curled away from
him, washing down the hall searching, searching, and brushing up against the
same sickly residue that was both weaker and stronger here, before probing and
sliding under the door covered in locks.
What the hell was going on here? A headache was building as he released the
locks, each thumping open, reminiscent of a beating heart.
Thump...life...
Thump...close...
Thump...too...
Thump...late.
The opening of the door presented to Voldemort perhaps the most unexpected but,
really, unsurprising and stomach churning sight of the evening.
The body of a too thin fourteen year old naked and curled up on his side on the
bed. Fresh blood painting grotesque shapes on scarred skin and unnatural angles
of limbs.
Half-lidded green eyes starred hazily, listlessly, at the wall as the shadows
of his hair seeped further into the mattress.
And Tom could not look away.
                                        
===============================================================================
 
Pain.
Pain. Merlin please it hurts please make it stop what did I do what—
You know what you did, you let your friend die...
No, no, not my fault. He chose. He was older. He was there. Nothing I could do.
Does it hurt. Maybe. There was pain before...wasn't there...there was...I
think...I don't remember...too long.
Let me out. Help me — you don't deserve it. I hate you. He knew. Not Him but He
did. He knew. I hate him. Let me out. Not helping.
Make it stop.
Red eyes in the doorway but I can't move. Familiar. Red eyes are familiar. He
never lies. He lies. Will he help? Perhaps he's here to kill me. Kill me. Red
eyes move over and I can feel him. Cold and dark. Familiar. Cupboard. Dark.
Cupboard. Safe. The cupboard is safe. Safe. He's safe. Come closer. Please
please end it kill m--
"Potter."
Potter. Hate that name. Tragedy. Pedestal. Hate. Hate them...who? Them...
"Harry?"
Green eyes slide over to red. Safe.
                                        
===============================================================================
 
"Potter," Voldemort calls, wondering if the boy is dead. He cannot decide if he
should be relived at the small mercy or annoyed it wasn't by his hand. He
decides to take the almost unnoticeable furrowing of the brow as a sign of the
boys continual living as no answer comes.
"Harry?"
The boys eyes move slowly from the wall and stare at him, the haze clearing a
little. He swallows and blinks.
"Tom?" His voice is harsh and dry, rasping over the vowel and Voldemort
actually flinches. "What are you doing here? Am I --" he coughed, blood rolling
down his chin and his chest heaved in a breath as Voldemort moved slowly
closer. "Am I dreaming? I missed you, you know? Of course you know. You always
knew...everything..."
Harry closed his eyes, long lashes brushing against too sharp cheekbones,
sticking to the drying blood. He blinked, appearing confused for a moment.
"You changed. You're..." Lidded eyes trailed over Voldemort’s face and then
down to his hands, flicking dismissively -- or was it uncaringly? -- over the
clenched fingers that held a bone-white wand in indecision. He licked his lips.
"Older."
The boy smiled now. A sharp, bloody thing that soothed over split lips and
bruised eyes. The washed out moonlight through the dirtied glass cracked across
his face and in that moment, if someone had asked him what Death looked like,
Voldemort would say this. Death looked like this.
"Voldemort. Are you here to kill me?" The wraith-like being lifted his head and
cleared his poisonous eyes, voice lilting with his plea. "Will you kill me?"
This was all wrong. This is what he wanted and here was the boy, this boy that
he had made into what he had thought was the bane of his split existence,
practically begging for death. This entire mess could be cleared up with a
flick of the wrist and two words...
He wanted this; so why was he hesitating?
He cleared his throat. "No." What! "No I won’t kill you." Well, there you go.
Now what?
The boy shifted, shoulders sagging and face shutting. A sob tore from his chest
and a twisted hand rose and clawed at the skin as though to capture the sound
just to crush it.
"Get out." A broken, harsh whisper. "Get the fuck out. I don't need this. Get
out!"
Voldemort closed his eyes then shook his head. He conjured a simple wooden
chair as what he assumed was once a desk chair was now a blood splattered pile
of splinters swept into the corner of this tiny cellroom.
"Who did this?" Was it a muggle? Is this regular? Does Dumbledore know? Why are
you here? Why?
The unasked questions were loud in the silence that followed; stretching so
long Voldemort was beginning to weigh up the benefits of legilimency on the boy
when he spoke with a bitter, condescending twitch of his lips. "Uncle. My
Uncle, of course. Who do you think it was? But you knew that Tom, you always
knew."
The Dark Lord frowned. "Why do you keep calling me Tom?" How do you know that
name?
"Hmm?"
"Why do -- Harry!" Voldemort lunged off his chair as the boy's body sagged
fully, limp and lifeless. He wanted answers dammit!
Fuck. Right. Blood; likely suffering from blood loss. He tossed his wand onto
the bed as he dug through his pockets, pulling out different colored vials
until he came across the ones he wanted. Yanking out the stopper with his
teeth, he eased the boys head up and pored one, two, three Blood Replenishing
potions down his throat, massaging the column to the ease the passage -- his
fingers tingled in heat -- no, stop, have to stop the blood flow.
A pale shade of colour traced the boys features as Voldemort had a brief
internal battle then cast a shallow diagnosis charm knowing that an in-depth
casting would take too long if the state of the boy were any indication of his
medical history. The wand made the learned but, honestly, unfamiliar movements
and he held still as a pale olive coloured ball of light focused on the tip.
Mere seconds and the spell was complete, the ball expanding and forming into a
list of runes in the air.
Cracked ribs. Pierced lung. Internal bleeding. Broken arm. Fractured wrist.
Dislocated shoulder. Shattered knee. Cranial bruising. Partial crushing of
windpipe. Anal teari -- oh Mordred.
Whit hot fury lashed out, hatred twisting viciously through his core the
further the Dark Lord read.
This..this was how the muggles treated the Boy Saviour. By Morgana, even
Macnair never went this far!
Now what? Fuck, he wasn't a healer, the boy was going to die!
Calm down, bloody fool, forget the spells...magic...look at his magic...
Magic. Of course. Voldemort frowned and narrowed his eyes, pushing a sliver of
his magic into his visual receptors and had to blink rapidly at the wildly
swirling light that unexpectedly filled his view.
Green and bright and poisonous with tangles of violet in ranging depth and ash
sticking to the outer edges. Not unlike a blanket, Harry's magic wrapped
tightly around his body, loose corners quickly tucking themselves below others
and tying snugly, creating an intricate knot of constant movement that was
inherently defensive in its radiance. Remarkable.
He watched, captivated, as each individual thread pulsed with each beat of the
heart, fluttered with every breath and ebbed and flowed with the rush of blood
through veins.
Voldemort pushed his own magic forward in curiosity, deep midnight blue and
lilac tinted, watched as the green -- the Killing Curse green -- opened and
grabbed onto the blue, pulling and holding. The sudden, unexpected warmth that
followed was overwhelming. A rush incomparable. He could taste it; sweet and
fresh and intoxicating.
Morgana...he moaned and pushed through more, tangling with the knots as new
skin cells grew, flesh pink and raw and gradually lightening, bruises soothed.
A sickening snap slashed through the hum of magic as bands wrapped around
Harry's arm and the bone straightened itself, strengthening, melding. Ribs
cracked back into alignment, the walls of his lungs patching and the invasive
fluid vanishing.
The man staggered forward, collapsing on the bed, head swimming.
Cranial bruising and inflammation was soothed and tended; the sickening rectal
tearing stitched together in newly conjured flesh, scarring and closing until
the scars, too, faded.
                                     OOOO
The hum slowly softened into a lulling cadence that Voldemort could sense was
deceptive in its passivity as he came back to awareness. He didn't think he had
lost consciousness, per se; more like...became unaware for a moment.
He looked over the boy whom he was now sitting beside and released a breath.
The angles of his limbs looked natural now, but he was still covered in blood
and open cuts that would have to be healed by hand. A brief check on his core
and the Dark Lord could see that he had expanded too much energy for his still-
acclimating body.
He sighed and rubbed his index finger over his upper lip in thought.
He needed answers.
He did not know when the…the filth would be back.
If he left, he did not know what kind of state the boy would be in when he came
back.
Well...
He pointed his wand at the boys chest.
"Renervate."
                                        
===============================================================================
 
Harry jerked awake, nerves pinching and tingling. Breathe. Have to breathe. He
floundered for a moment, throat too tight. What felt like a stinging hex stung
him on his chest. He gasped...and air came in violent, shuddering coughs.
"Harry, breathe. That's it. Come on now. In and out...Good."
He knew that voice but...from where? He knew this room, that cloying feeling of
being trapped. He knew this bed, knew what had taken place and...oh god. Uncle.
Vernon. Belt. No, no, no stop -- nothing. Pain. Red-eyes. Safe.
His gasps turned into sobs and he distantly heard a groan.
Hands on his face had him flinching, anticipating the pain, the burn, but it
never came; where was the pain?
"Come on Harry, open your eyes, good boy, come on."
The voice was gentle but demanding, forceful. He wanted to listen but he
couldn't. Fabric rustled beside his head and, without thinking, he reached out,
fingers latching onto soft cotton. He buried his face into what he idly assumed
was likely some sort of coat and tried to get a hold of himself.
A hand awkwardly patted his shoulder as the body he held onto sucked in a
breath. Obviously, whoever this was was as unfamiliar with close contact as he.
Harry would undoubtedly feel embarrassed about this later, but right
now...right now he would stop caring about other people.
Just like they stopped caring about him.
Another hand, the confident one, he supposed, tentatively brushed through his
hair. He grimaced and tried to shy away.
"M'sorry," he mumbled into the fabric. He should open his eyes; see what colour
it was.
The chest shook with the barest hint of a chuckle. "Whatever for?"
"For'e blood."
"Child," the hands moved to his shoulders and began pushing him away. Harry bit
back the whimper and hung his head, knowing his hair would hide him. The voice
continued, "Blood is one of the few things that I do not find bothersome. Of
course, the cause of the blood is another matter entirely. Now...open your
eyes."
Harry remained motionless, curious as to why the man -- the voice was
unquestionably male -- hadn't moved away from him and sounded...amused? He
would contemplate this later.
Opening his eyes, he immediately shut them again as tears sprung unbidden and
he choked. The bloody hell was the light so bright?!
"Sorry. Right, lights out. Let's try again, shall we?"
...well, he had nothing to lose. Ending up blind would probably be an
advantage...meant he'd never have to look at Whale or Pig again...
Green eyes blinked open and confused green met red. And then confusion turned
to recognition, followed by remembrance and the boy groaned pitifully while the
man just smirked and really, Harry thought, this was just too much.
Voldemort peered down at him, leaning over him. Oddly, Harry was not bothered
by this. He knew he should be, of course. Not only was the man who had killed
his parents sitting in his bedroom -- but not on his bed, he noticed, feeling
unexplainably grateful -- but said man had also made regular, albeit
excessively dramatic, appearances in his life for the last four years. He was
also directly responsible -- because, let's face it: Wormtail is a mindless
drone and would likely have died from stagnation or something just as inane –
for he, Harry, being tied to a tombstone of all things only a few weeks ago and
being used in a potion. Who wanted to be used in a potion?
It very suddenly occurred to him that he had just been hugging the Dark Lord.
He choked on his own spit and blushed deeply as Voldemort smirked knowingly.
Feeling incredibly vulnerable had Harry clutching the edge of the thin blanket
and shifting more onto his side. While the movement relieved some of the
pressure on his back, it had also made him horrifically aware that he was naked
beneath the sheet; a state he was undoubtedly in before he was healed meaning
that Voldemort had seen him — him naked — Bloody Merlin! Because that didn't
make this any worse!
He coughed. Then the irony of the situation sunk in.
His eyes shut and he smiled and it hurts but he cannot stop because it's funny.
Ribs protesting, his arms wrap around them, screaming out in pain themselves
but he hardly notices because his family left him for dead and a man whom has
been trying to kill him saved him.
Too busy with his newly created mixture of hysterical laughter and agonised
sobs, Harry did not notice the pensive look that crossed Voldemort's face
before the Dark Lord sighed and hit him with a sobering charm.
Harry took a deep breath and huffed, a slightly hysterical smile still
twitching at his lips as he bent an elbow beneath his head and used it as a
pillow. The stiffness in his legs had him wincing internally but he shrugged it
off and pulled them up to his chest, curling into a ball. Only mildly aware
that the blanket had slid off him because the itching against his sensitive
skin had vanished, he decided that pulling it back up wasn't worth the effort.
He was too tired to care about modesty.
Voldemort frowned as he watched the boy. That cackling had not sounded very
sane. He would never admit it, but the light that had seeped into those eyes
had made his heart race in panic because it had been the same light had been
reflected back at him in every mirror he had passed for the past three decades.
It had been the look of a person toeing the line of sanity.
Potter did seem relatively lucid now, though. Perhaps now he could receive the
answers he wanted.
Voldemort rolled his eyes, the most expression Harry had ever seen the man
make. He did not consider death glares and sneering an extensive range. There
was something akin to exasperation in those ruby eyes and Voldemort held out a
glass of water that Harry supposed he must have conjured during his musings
over facial expressions.
Harry's half-lidded gaze zeroed in on the glass. His mind had barely processed
the necessary motions before he was gulping the liquid down and coughing but it
was so fresh and it was...being taken away?
Voldemort lifted an unimpressed eyebrow.
Ah. With an apologetic grimace, Harry reclaimed the glass and consumed the
water in careful sips.
Voldemort vanished the glass when it was empty. "When did you last have water?"
He sounded honestly curious.
Harry shrugged, counting the days in his head with a slight frown.
Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose — Harry belatedly realised that, yes,
'Voldemort' and 'nose' could now be used complimentarily in the same sentence —
and growled, mistaking the boys silence for an unwillingness to answer. "Tell
me, Harry. With words."
Oh. "I don't....don't know. I don't know how long I've been in here. A few
days, maybe?"
"Those wounds were fresh. Where are your relatives?"
Harry chewed on his lip as he sorted through the time between leaving Hogwarts
for the Summer and now. Ruby eyes locked onto the movement and Voldemort firmly
shot down the idea that he found it endearing.
"I think...yeah, I heard them say they were going on holiday. They, er...left
this morning."
Voldemort blinked. "You mean to say they have gone on vacation and left you in
this miserable state? For an indefinite period?"
"...I suppose "family issues' doesn't fully cover it, does it?" Harry snickered
softly. He observed the man from the corner of his eyes. He seemed to be
visibly restraining himself.
"Do you know where they, perhaps, went?" Voldemort asked casually, crossing his
right leg over his left.
"Oh no you don't. If I tell you, you'll kill them!"
There was something in Harry's tone, the way his expression sharpened, that
prevented Voldemort from outwardly sneering and demanding if the boys
Gryffindor tendency for forgiveness extended to rapists. "And?"
"Then where would be my revenge?! I want them to pay and I will be damned if
anybody else does it but me!" The teen hissed viciously, bolting up, trying to
assert his claim. The sudden twisting of his muscles made him cry out. Then
there were warm hands pushing him back down and Harry blinked.
"Um....if you don't mind me asking; why am I not dead?"
Crimson eyes shot up, the rapid change in the boy’s demeanour enough to give
the man whiplash. "Pardon?"
Harry blew a strand of air out of his eyes. "Well, it's just...obviously, I
remember being left here and I'm pretty sure that I was dying. I'm not, now,
and you're here. I mean, you're Lord Voldemort — the creepy guy who has been
trying to kill me for the past fourteen years and I'm not dead and apparently
you healed me...I really don't understand why."
Voldemort's eye twitched. "Do you want to be dead?" Then he frowned. "And did
you just call me creepy?"
Harry's mouth pursed as his gaze slid to the wall. "Not right now," he
murmured, "but if you ask me tomorrow...my answer is likely to change." The boy
grinned suddenly and his eyes lit up. "And yes I did. What are you going to do
about it? You, Mister Dark Lord, can't even deny it."
Voldemort's eyes widened, incredulous, then he huffed in amusement and laughed
softly. "Fine, brat." It had been so long since anybody had had the nerve to
speak to him like he was also a man, also human. The last time he recalled
being addressed as such was in his early twenties, the first time he had met
Fenrir Greyback. The alpha werewolf had adamantly refused to address him as 'my
Lord' until the alliance was definite. That relationship had suffered during
his insanity.
The Dark Lord considered the boys answer to his previous question, what did he
mean by 'tomorrow'? Perhaps he should clari —
Harry's smile sweetened, softening into familiarity. "There it is. Merlin, I
haven't heard you laugh like that in years, Tom."
Well, that pulled him up short. Stoically ignoring the warmth that lit in his
chest at that smile being directed at him, red eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What do you mean by that? That is the third time you have called me such a
name. Where did you learn of it?"
Fingers tightened on his wand and he glared as he waited expectantly. He knew
he had destroyed all those old school records, and Secrecy Charms had taken
care of his classmates memories. The only thing he hadn't been rid of was that
Award for School Service or some such, but it was impossible for that to be
traced back to him.
The boy looked at him thoughtfully, lurid green eyes piercing, completely
dismissing his glare which...left him a bit miffed, actually. "Sorry. It's
easier to tell you apart when you don't look alike, but now you just look older
so it's a bit, um, confusing."
The urge to use legilimency on him was strong. Voldemort made an annoyed sound.
"When did you first hear of that name?"
Harry closed his eyes, shifting yet again to relieve the pain pressing against
his side. The bed was...so...comfortable...
"Second year. Tho' you knew that. Tom was trapped in the diary —” Voldemort
froze. "— He was nice to me, promised tha' he wouldn't let the Dursley's hurt
me anymore..."
Harry trailed off, unaware that beside him, Voldemort was stewing in
contemplation.
Second year had not been kind to him. That summer had been worse that he had
ever experienced before. He had known, sitting on the Hogwarts Express, that
Petunia and Vernon would be outraged and would take it out on him, but he had
underestimated the extent they would go to. Dumbledore had refused to believe
him, insisting that it was natural for muggles to express their displeasure at
being taken by surprise.
Right. Because locking him in his room, refusing to feed him for days on end
and whipping him was natural.
Then the Chamber of Secrets had opened and he had had to deal with the entire
school shunning him for being Slytherin's Heir on top of trying to find some
sort of way to survive the next summer. If that treatment had been for one year
of Hogwarts, he was under no allusion that the punishments were going to get
worse.
Thankfully, becoming the social pariah of a place that spouted tolerance and
friendship ensured that absolutely nobody questioned the hours he spent in the
library, combing through shelves of potions books. Those were the only useful
books that held potentially helpful information as any potions he made would be
inactive and thus not classify as under-age magic.
And then he had found Tom. Washed up on the floor of the bathroom floor, the
tattered black diary had quickly become the one — person? — that would speak to
him. Harry wasn't an idiot. He knew the diary was covered in dark magic,
practically soaked in it. But he had felt safe when he held it, like the magic
of the diary was familiar, caressing his. So he had shelved the concerns he had
and written in it. Tom had been rather supercilious in the beginning. Harry
fondly recalled the night he had laughed himself silly in an alcove of an
abandoned corridor up on the ninth floor, watching as Tom had tried to hide his
distain and general haughtiness behind elegant swirls of ink and polite
wording. Harry had told him such, too, when the Slytherin had questioned why
the diary was shaking.
He hadn't responded for a week after that.
Even though Tom did not respond, Harry did not stop writing. He almost forgot
that the diary was sentient and eventually found himself writing about the
Dursley's and the smallest bedroom and his cupboard.
That had been the first time Tom appeared in his dreams.
It had been amusing to watch the older teen stand there awkwardly, then huff
and sit down without saying anything. Feeling rather vindictive, Harry had
ignored him, balancing his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs
and staring into the nothingness as he sat on the sofa he had found himself on.
Then Tom had moved and cautiously wrapped an arm around his shoulders and
pulled the young Gryffindor into his side.
There had been almost no barriers between them after that. Tom had told him
about the orphanage, describing what it had been like to be in London during
the Blitz, how every night sirens would blare and people would abandon their
homes to hide out in bunkers, never knowing what they would return to. Nightly
conversations had spanned over weeks, Tom showing him how the ward on the
Restricted Section could be deactivated and directing him to potions books that
contained Nutritive Potions and books on Ancient Runes that could help protect
small spaces.
Tom had been his best friend, and Harry had cried himself to sleep when...
Voldemort started when the silence of the room was broken by a rasping chuckle.
Crimson eyes snapped towards Potter, momentarily halting his thoughts on the
fate of the soul piece within the diary. The boy’s thin body shook with his
laughter even while his eyes remained firmly shut. "What is so amusing?"
"I was...just thinking that it's...ironic," Harry gasped out, biting his lip to
stifle his grin. "If it hadn't been for Tom I would have...died from anaemia
that year. Hah!"
Voldemort stared at the boy, incredulous. "I fail to see why that is humorous."
"N-no. That's not it. He saved my life only to set the basilisk on me! He —
haha — he tried to kill me! B-because he thought I wouldn't want to know him
when he told me he was Voldemort!" He choked off on a sob. "I did-didn't want
to h-hurt him..." Sniffing, Harry scrunched up his eyes and buried his head
beneath his arm. He didn't want to think any more.
Was this wraith of a boy seriously implying that he had managed to destroy his
diary and survive an encounter with a basilisk?
"Potter..." He fell silent.
The boy had fallen asleep.
Voldemort sighed. He begrudgingly acknowledged that his questions would have to
wait. The boy's body still had to recover not only from the injuries but also
from the influx of magic that had not doubt unsettled his magical core. Waking
him now would be cruel.
Damn his new found urge to care.
Standing, he smoothed down his robes and pulled out a pain potion, setting it
on the stained bedside table. Casting one last glance on the boy he turned but
hesitated in the doorway. Why, why did he have this urge to do more?
Groaning, grumbling about the absurdity of the situation, he flicked his wand
over the bed, transfiguring the threadbare mattress and blanket into something
thicker and softer, removing the bloodstains and bodily fluids with a very
thorough scourgify — which he repeated on the rest of the room.
Satisfied, Voldemort returned his wand to its holster and made his way out of
the house. The anti-apparition wards unfortunately would undoubtedly alert
Dumbledore to his presence if they were to fall.
He would come back tomorrow.
***** 2 *****
Date: 15th June, 1995
Location: No. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

 
Harry woke up confused.
Now, that alone was nothing new. He frequently woke up missing memories of the
hours before. That was until the slightest shift of his muscles alerted him to
recently broken ribs or new slashes on his legs and buckle-made welts on his
back. His confusion usually cleared up pretty quickly after that, although
there were the few occasions where it took being unable to see out of eyes that
were swollen shut from pus and blood and bruising to alert him to anything new.
Years of his relatives 'disciplining' – he scoffed. Honestly. It was abuse
plain and simple. At least have the decency to call it for what it was! – had
made him accustomed to the throbbing ache that perpetuated his every breath.
No, the reason why he was confused was that there was not pain. He didn't hurt.
He was stiff, yes, but that was easily brushed aside in the face of no spine-
wrenching ache, no burning from the nerves on his back.
It was sad how the first logical explanation that came to mind was that he had
died.
He wouldn't mind being dead. People always feared death; children danced around
the understanding that death was some make-believe place that could only be
reached by the select few when their time came, they grew up thinking that one
day, if they had lost loved ones, people that had been important to them once,
they could reach that place and see the people they had cherished smile once
more. Eventually, though, those children grew up enough to understand that
death could very likely be little more than total oblivion, a complete
cessation of awareness. It was then that those children became the adults that
told the stories because they were afraid of how they would end. Would it be
painful? Easy? Would anybody remember them? Or would they decay in the memories
of people they had known just as their body decayed where they lay in the
ground?
Harry wasn't afraid of death. He almost looked forward to it, actually, looked
forward to the time when the pain and the feeling of utter worthlessness would
end. He was by no means suicidal but he wasn't going to scream and cower away
when the end came, hoping that if he didn't acknowledge it then it could not be
true.
After all, how could he be afraid of the end of his life when he had never
lived?
He survived. That was all. Survived for tomorrow whe --
Oh. Like a dam had broken and decided to target him specifically, memories of
before he lost consciousness flooded his mind.
It was rather uncomfortable, in all honesty, but he digressed!
He remembered imitating a comatose patient as he waited for the wounds from his
relatives "going away present" – their words, not his, note the sneer and
bucket of sarcasm – to...well, he didn't actually know what he had been waiting
for. He supposed that his mind had been playing hooky and ignoring any function
signals his brain had been throwing at it. Wouldn't be the first time. He had
the unfortunate (depending on how one looked at it) tendency to just zone out
for a while, closing himself away inside his head where it was still safe.
Then there had been somebody in his room, and they had healed him. The stranger
had made him feel oddly safe – which he would review at a later point – and had
had familiar eyes. What were they? Bro ---no, blu -- red! That was it.
Harry had all of a moment to feel rather impressed with himself for remembering
that blatantly memorable detail. Then that moment crashed and burned when he
also remembered who it was that had red eyes.
With a miserable groan, Harry pulled the blanket over his head and suffered.
He suffered from that which every mortal teenager has experienced at one point
or another. He suffered the deep regret of poorly considered actions that had
been committed in a state of questionable awareness and wholly inopportune
times. He suffered from the need to find a very dark place, curl up in it –
preferably with a pillow – and furtively wish that time travel was a thing and
could be utilised. He was experiencing what many had termed The-Overwhelming-
Need-To-Invest-In-Apology-Cards-And-Send-One-To-Absolutely-Everybody-They-Knew.
In other words, and with far fewer hyphenations, he suffered from
embarrassment.
He had cried on the Dark Lord.
He had cried on the bloody Dark Lord!
He was also convinced that he even cackled at some point. He cringed. Cackled!
Who even did that anymore?
Sure, Voldemort was, technically, nothing but an older version of the Tom
Riddle he had grown to adore when he was twelve but that was entirely beside
the point! They were two very different people. One he knew and one he most
certainly did not.
Maybe before, he could have tentatively allowed that he knew the man enough to
know that he had a strange fixation with making his existence much more
difficult that it probably had to be and would kill him at the first
opportunity but now he could not even say that anymore because he had healed
him!
Oh lovely. He was whining.
...He should stop thinking about this now. He should stop questioning his
questionable state of sanity and get up. Out of bed.
He sighed morosely. If only it wasn't so far away...
Pushing aside the covers with a groan, Harry cautiously edged his way to the
side of his bed, leery of accidentally falling over the side for the sole
reason that he was distracted. Noticing that the blankets that he had been
burrowing beneath were not those that he had slept on every summer for four
years now and were most assuredly not sourced from a local tip disposal had him
pausing. A shaking hand slowly ran over the soft fabric, mint-green.
He swallowed as the thought that Voldemort – that anybody – had actually cared
enough about him to change his sheets was equal parts painful and
oddly...exhilarating. It made him feel...well, he didn't know what it made him
feel because nobody had ever done anything like that for him before; going out
of their way over a such a small detail to make him feel more comfortable.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, Harry realised that
Voldemort had also cleaned his room.
Remembering how fidgety Tom had gotten when things were out of place had him
biting back a grin. His face may no longer be swollen and disfigured but damn
did it hurt to smile. Frowning used forty-two muscles. He had no clue how many
were used to smile but he was acutely aware that every single one of them were
hurting.
Now that he was up, he could attend to his pressing needs. The problem was
deciding which needed to be done first: bathroom or food?
Knowing the Dursley's and how sadistic their enjoyment of his suffering could
be, on the off-chance that he had survived the blood loss and concussion; they
would have cleared out all the food in the kitchen. And he meant everything.
Petunia and her obsessive compulsive disorder would have even disinfected the
shelves.
Harry wasn't even going to be bothered venturing down the stairs to look
because it was an entire flight of stairs and he was sore.
Thankfully, and here Harry was going to unashamedly applaud his paranoia and
learned habit of squirreling away food, he had a small stockpile of non-
perishable foods beneath his floorboards. He had managed to cover the shallow
space in basic preservation charms during the summer after second year, making
use of the days he had spent locked up in the room. On the few days he had been
let out – for appearance sake – he had hastened to return to something started
when he was five.
Digging through trash cans.
It would never cease to amaze him what people through away, but he was not
about to complain because the blatant materialism of society meant that he had
untouched tins of food sitting snugly beneath a loose floorboard.
So he did not need to worry about food.
Bathroom it was then.
Standing was difficult. The entirety of his battered body expressed its extreme
displeasure at being forced to move. Crossing the length of his room, the
landing and entering the bathroom? No. Don't think so. Nuh uh. Absolutely not.
The spray of the shower head was mocking when he twisted it on and sat down on
the floor of the cubicle. Leaning against the glass, he let the warm water –
had the Dursley's truly forgotten to turn the power off? – relax the tension in
his muscles and blankly watched as the dried blood dyed the water pink. There
wounds on his back and across his legs that were still open. Whatever Voldemort
had done, it was apparent that he was no healer. If Harry had to guess, he
would say that the man had likely used raw magic in trying to heal him. While
doing it that way was fast, it was also unbelievably exhausting and meant that
the more superficial injuries were overlooked.
He would need to find bandages and close them up. He knew where the sheets were
kept if the First-Aid Kit had mysteriously disappeared.
Closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the downpour, Harry thought.
He could not stay here anymore. He couldn't...couldn't let himself be
worthless. He knew he was worth something. He...had to be.
Going to the Weasley's was out. They would tell Dumbledore then Harry would
find himself right back here.
He grabbed the soap bottle and poured a generous amount out onto his hand.
There was Sirius...maybe. Harry had heard nothing from his godfather since the
Third Task. There was the very real possibility that the man was lying dead in
some random cave. Harry almost hoped that was the case (maybe not dead but
very, very injured) because if he found out that all that had stopped Sirius
from contacting him was some verbal admonishment then he was liable to kill the
man himself.
He scrubbed the blood out of his hair, wincing as his fingers struck tender
areas. Sweet bloody Merlin, how bad had he been hurt? Ow.
So that left running away.
He could do it. Leave and go somewhere far away. Find a job somewhere and sneak
onto one the Channel Ferries. He had always wanted to go to France.
That would likely confuse anybody looking for him. People would expect him to
remain in England or go somewhere like Australia, like a proper convict. And he
probably would, if the country was not so hot, like summer had not gotten the
memo that it was only one season out of four. The constant heat would do
nothing but remind him of being imprisoned with the Dursley's every summer.
Gaining an education might be a bit difficult but he doubted it would be hard
to find a Wizarding District and Book Store. He had taught himself to read,
after all. Magical theory should not be much harder than that, and it helped
that all his hours cooped up in Hogwarts Library – ahem – hiding, meant that he
had already read all the course books for the next two years, even for classes
that he had not been taking.
Hermione had been the first to tell him, ever since first year, that he should
stop leaving his homework until the last minute. What she failed to realise was
that he had already done it and simply pretended to have forgotten it so that
Ron had not felt left out.
Several years of attending muggle school with Dudley had assured that he was
always ahead in the taught material. Doing worse than Dudley meant a lesser
punishment when the Score Cards came. It would be just his luck if he had
managed to do better than the Pig on a test by doing nothing but guessing the
incorrect answers.
Anyway, it was only three years until the Restriction on Under-age magic no
longer applied to him, then he could use his wand --
===============================================================================
"N-no, Uncle, ple-ease d-don't!"
"You fucking piece of trash! You dare tell me what to do?!" Vernon roared; face
a horrifying shade of purple.
He gripped his nephew's hair, almost ripping chunks out as he yanked him off
the floor and shook him. Harry did his best to remain limp, biting through his
lip he was trying so hard to hold back his cries.
"What are you worth boy?"
Dull, feverish green eyes squeezed shut as he was thrown into the wall. "W-
worth-l-less."
Vernon smiled cruelly. "That's right." Harry lifted his head, dreading that
pleasant tone. Green eyes locked onto the wand held between those meaty hands.
"And worthless freaks don't deserve anything. Do they, freak?"
Harry knew the answer. "N-n-no."
It hurt, the wood splintering viciously as the wand was snapped in half. Like
something physical had suddenly, violently disconnected.
But the pain paled in comparison when Vernon laughed and slammed his boot down
onto his knee, smashing the bone and laughed louder when Harry screamed.
And the pains of both were inconsequential as Vernon wrapped his hand around
his neck and forced him face down onto the bed. Harry heard a zipper moving —
===============================================================================
Harry washed the soap off.
It was unhealthy. He knew that. A therapist would tell him that he should talk
it out, confide in someone instead of keeping it bottled up inside, but he was
quite happy keeping those memories firmly shut away and ignoring them. It was
not as if they were crucial on his path to accepting that the way he was
treated was not right. He was abused. That was pretty obvious. Normal children
did not learn how to stave off hunger pains by the time they were four.
His Uncle was a pedophile. Yep. Knew that too. It was kind of hard to miss when
he was on the receiving end.
He had accepted all of these ages ago.
Perhaps, if Horse and Whale had actually used their one remaining brain cell —
truly, he had no idea how that shared that between them; was it on timeshare? —
then they likely would have realised that when they locked their nephew
outside, he was inevitably going to meet people and see that most children were
treated differently.
He turned the hot water up. He was not getting out anytime soon. If there was
any way he could make the Dursley's return more difficult and he could achieve
that by hitting them where it hurt — their wallets — and enjoy it at the same
time then by Merlin was he going to do it.
It was settled then. He would run. Disappear. The lack of a wand was annoying
but it had reminded him of Diagon Alley. He had money at Gringotts. Granted, it
was in a trust account and he had no idea how much he could withdraw at one
time, and he did not have his vault key, but every little bit would help.
All he had to do was catch the Knight Bus.
For now, though, he could feel how depleted his magical core felt — and yes, he
knew what that was. He needed food and sleep. Then he could go.

===============================================================================

Date: 16th June, 1995
Location: No.4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

Aparating to Mongolia Crescent, Voldemort thoroughly and creatively cursed the
sheer stupidity of his Death Eaters.
Two days. Two bloody days it had taken to clean up the mess that had become his
alliance with a Scottish Werewolf clan. He should just kill Pettigrew.
Apparently royally botching his Resurrection Potion was not bad enough, he had
to go and tell a pack of wild werewolves that their 'treats would be delayed'
instead of the message he had sent him with, written down and everything, of
'the treaty would be upheld and 'relayed'.
Werewolves went absolutely feral when they were likened to dogs. They were not
puppies, dammit!
As a punishment for his indescribable uselessness, and because Voldemort had
just spent hours obliviating a town of muggles alongside his few competent
followers — which amounted to a measly amount of three (he made a note to break
his more dedicated followers out of Azkaban as soon as possible) — he had
refused to repair the rat's silver arm and set Nagini on him.
He made his way down the street; the twilight sky casting long shadows across
the pavement, then walked up the drive of Number 4 and casually opened the
door. It was bizarrely domestic of him.
He had left Malfoy Manor at the earliest possible time. It had only been late
this afternoon when his house-elf had popped in with a plate of sandwiches and
threatened him with punishments both gruesome and severe if he did not eat
something, that he had realised he had not returned to check on Harry Potter
like he had meant to.
He knew he had left the boy in a rather unfortunate state. He suspected that
some of the wounds that had been slowly closing over likely would have re-
opened as he manually redirected their joined magic to focus on the more
crucial internal damage. He also did not know if the boy had access to any
food.
He remembered quite clearly what it had been like in the Orphanage, when the
older boys had beaten him up then locked him outside. It had been too difficult
to move so he had learned to go hungry on those occasions.
Nagini had happened upon him as he had attempted to discreetly put together
some supplies. It was not a 'care-package. Absolutely not. Various healing
potions and salves had been added to the pile while Voldemort ignored the way
Nagini trailed after him in amusement and hissed about how he was going soft.
The worst part about that experience was that there was the possibility she was
right had made her unreasonably happy.
The house was quite but did not feel as abandoned now as it had the other
night. Voldemort absently entertained the notion that the boy’s magic was
untameable. Now that it was no longer wholly focused on healing him, it was
leaking out into the air, giving the building a strange sort of life.
The chill was reminiscent of a graveyard. Cold and eerie, with only just enough
energy to remind those that ventured too close that danger would befall those
unwelcome.
He cast a grim glance at the cupboard as he ascended the short flight of stairs
and crossing the landing. The door to the boy's larger room was open.
The boy was on the bed, lying on his back, ankles crossed and arms folded
behind his head, dressed in tatty jeans and a scruffy shirt. His eyes were
closed. He looked as though he was sleeping.
"...You can come in. Don't just stand there, makes you look nervous..."
Not sleeping then.
Harry cracked an amused eye open. Now that he was awake and lucid, he could
feel the man's magic, felt him enter the house. Hell, he reckoned that if he
had cared to try, he could have felt him out on the street.
As the man twitched, left his post by the doorway and sat down on the same
chair he conjured during his previous visit, Harry wondered if it was normal to
so intently feel another's magic.
"I didn't think you would come back."
And that answers Voldemort's queries on if the boy would remember anything. It
was fortunate that he had. He would rather not deal with a pissed off and
screaming teenager
"I didn't think you would be awake."
"So you were going to take the stalker-ish route and sneak up on me when I was
sleeping? Nice of you."
"Honestly, I prefer to be called creepy. Stalker just makes me sound
obsessive."
Green eyes widened dramatically. "We can't have that!" Smirking, he pushed
himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "After all, we both
know that's not true."
Was he actually enjoying this? Bantering with the Boy-Who-Lived? Brat and bane
of his existence? Destroyer of his Expectations Supreme?
Apparently so.
This internal questioning was going to give him a headache. He knew it. Best to
stop now and just go with it.
"How are you feeling?" He crossed his legs, leaning back on the chair.
Harry's mouth twisted down. "Better. The bandages," he plucked at his shirt,
Voldemort catching a glimpse of what appeared to be ripped up sheets wrapped
around his torso, "are, well, I won't say they aren't working but I don't seem
to be healing very quickly."
The boy blushed and Voldemort remained silent, curious. "I, erm...thank you.
For healing me...And sorry for crying on you."
The Dark Lords eyebrow rose, smirking. "While I must admit that I am not in the
business of wandering around and healing people, I do not — unbelievably —
leave even my enemies to bleed out to death. Particularly when they have
something I want."
Harry matched his smirk slowly, head tilting to the side in a way that had
chills racing up the Dark Lord's spine, those half-lidded eyes teasing. "And
what would it be that you want?"
"That, I will get to in a minute. Firstly, have you eaten? I see that you have
managed to at least leave the room."
Harry scowled. "I was injured, not rendered incapable. I am not unfamiliar with
pain."
"Yes, I gathered as much." Dipping a hand into his coat, he pulled out a
shrunken briefcase, enlarged it, and placed it on the floor. "I brought this in
ca— what?"
Harry eyed the suitcase in astonishment. "It's...so muggle."
"And?"
"I though you didn't like muggles. Magical all the way and all that."
"Farmers don't like rabbits yet they use them for shooting practice."
"...Well, that has to be the oddest analogical explanation I have ever heard."
Voldemort clucked his tongue, wine-coloured eyes amused. "Even vermin have
their purposes, childe."
Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the dig at his age. This unfairly attractive
man may look like he was barely thirty but Harry knew he was pushing seventy.
"Lovely."
"Indeed." Opening the briefcase while Harry hummed in response, Voldemort dug
around and pulled out a small ceramic pot, a box of sandwiches and various
potions. He set the sandwiches between them and handed the other items to the
boy. "Healing salve and potions to help with pain, swelling, potential
infection and Magical Core replenishment," he explained upon Harry's very
confused look.
Harry quirked an eyebrow. "And the sandwiches?"
Voldemort chuckled and picked one up — cucumber, his favourite. "To wash down
the potions."
Oh. Harry chose one at random, uncorked it and shut his eyes. He was not going
to enjoy this. He choked it back and did his best not to gag.
                                     OOOO
Having eaten his fill of the never-emptying box of sandwiches — Morgana bless
the consideration of his house-elves, Voldemort cleared his throat. They needed
to talk.
"Look Potter—"
Harry paused from when he had just been about to take a bite out of the
delicious cucumber sandwich. After two days of cold tinned soup, it tasted like
heaven. "Please don't call me that."
"...Pardon?"
"Potter. Don't call me that, please. I just...it's brought nothing but pain my
entire life. I'd prefer not to have to hear it right now."
"Alright...Harry." Voldemort conceded with a nod of his head, then his twisted
mouth twisted sourly. "I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling me
'Tom'."
Harry eyed him thoughtfully. "I'm not calling you Voldemort. You don't look
like a snake-faced bastard — don't even try to deny it, you looked terrible —
so you need something else". He hummed, biting his lip as he considered
potential names.
He quickly concluded that his appellative abilities were woefully lacking. He
would stick with what he knew. "How's Marvolo?"
The Dark Lord sighed. "Of course you would know my middle name." Harry merely
blinked owlishly at him. "That is acceptable."
"Brilliant...Marvolo." He grinned impishly. The audacity —
"Are you going to emphasise my name every time you say it?"
"No, Marvolo. There. Last time. I swear." Harry shrugged. "It's a nice name."
There was something suspicious at the warmth that flared in his chest at
hearing that. Volde-Marvolo determinedly stomped that down and made a mental
not to check the side-effects his Restructuring Potion. Surely he had not had
so many emotions when he was a teenager so that dismissed his abundance in soul
being at fault. Clearly, something had gone wrong.
"Look, Harry," he cleared his throat and shifted on the chair. "I came here to
kill you the other night, but, honestly, a lot of things did not line up and I
detest lacking information. Annoyingly enough, the only available source of the
information I desire is you. So I am going to ask and you are going to answer.”
Now it was Harry's turn to just look at him, head tilted. He practically oozed
amusement.
"Demanding, aren't you?" Harry sat up straighter. "Alright fine. I'll
answer...But," he stressed when Marvolo opened his mouth. "But I also have
questions. Will you answer mind if I answer yours?"
Vold--Marvolo considered it. There was no foreseeable harm in humouring the
boy. Maybe...he could use this opportunity to influence the boy away from
Dumbledore and the Light. He smirked, not noticing how his magic flicked at
Harry's in excitement or how he unintentionally leaned closer. At the very
least, it ensured the boy answered.
"How do I know you will be truthful? After all, very few have received the
opportunity to questioned Lord Voldemort."
Harry gaped, eyes widening. "You're serio— oh for the love of Merlin's sock
draw! Fine! You insufferable prat!" He threw his hands up in the air as
Voldemort blinked dumbly at being so blatantly insulted, and fisted one hand
over his heart. "I, Harry James Potter, hereby declare that for the duration of
the following conversation, I will answer all of Marvolo's questions—" he
narrowed his eyes at the man pointedly. He was not willing to be interrogated
by Lord Voldemort. "— as honestly as possible, should it be within my ability
to do so. So mote it be."
Harry crossed his arms and waited. When Marvolo made no indication of moving,
Harry nudged him with his foot. "Now you do it."
The man scoffed. "What could I possibly have to gain from lying to you?"
Honestly, the nerve...seeing Harry's glare and the way the room chilled
instantly had him backing up.
"Oh, I see how it is. You think, that just because you’re a Dark Lord and oh so
important, you think I'm just going to automatically trust you to answer my
questions because there is no way they might be just as important as yours."
His mouth turned down mockingly. "Well by all means, see if I'll answer you
now."
Marvolo suspected the boy was serious. Dammit. What was it with this boy and
his complete disregard for following the socially acceptable norm of buckling
under the pure fear he instilled in people?
It would have made this so much easier.
Scowling, and most assuredly not pouting, he held up his hand and repeated the
Vow.
"How did you even know about that Vow? All of my sources say that you are
academically stunted."
Humming with satisfaction and sinking further into the pillow, Harry rolled his
eyes. "That counts as your first question." Marvolo rubbed the bridge of his
nose. Out-Slytherined by a Gryffindor. Salazar would be turning in his grave.
"So, in answer, I'm going to take a wild guess and say that your 'sources'," he
made the quotation marks in the air, "extends to Snape. The man hates me and
will happily remain oblivious if it means he doesn't have to admit that I am
not as incompetent as my father.
"Just because I don't wave my hand about for every question in class or go
around regurgitating pointless facts and keep my marks quiet does not mean I am
academically stunted. The only class I'm not in the top five of is Divination."
He flapped his hand dismissively. "But nobody cares about that, really...And
besides, having spent so much time in the library, it would be rather odd if I
was failing the classes. Despite what Snape has probably told you, I can
actually read.
"Right, my turn: can you put this on my back?"
Marvolo looked down at the proffered pot of healing salve blankly. Harry stared
at him expectantly. "That’s it? That's your question?" He had been made to
swear an oath of honesty for this?
Harry blinked at him, like it was obvious. "Yeah. And because I'm so kind, I
won't classify that as your second question."
"Oh, yes, how kind of you," He grumbled, sneering, but even he knew it lacked
acidity. Harry bit back his smirk as the man huffed, gestured for him to open
the jar while he dug through the bag he had set beside him and produced a glass
vial, knowing that the application of the salve was going to hurt.
Eyeing the vial warily, Harry pulled out the stopper and knocked back the
disgusting sludge of the pain potion. He frowned as he lowered the vial, not
noticing how the expression was mirrored on Marvolo's face. His hands were
shaking violently.
Marvolo reached out and held the smaller hands up to narrowed scarlet eyes.
"Nerve damage." Morgana above! "You should see a healer as soon as possible."
"How?! I can't get out of this fucking house!" Harry shut his eyes bitterly. He
hated being trapped.
Marvolo was inordinately pleased that the boy did not remove his hands from his
hold. Yep, the potion had definitely been impaired. Also, he had no idea what
the boy meant by being unable to leave.
"You could just walk out the door,” he drawled.
Harry laughed but there was no kindness in it, shook his head. "Dumbledore put
wards up on this place. I can't get any further than the front lawn unless one
of the Dursley's allows me to."
What?! Who would....why....did...Marvolo gaped, speechless. His brows creased
in concentration as he stretched his magic out.
He raised an eyebrow. "It would appear that that ward has been broken."
"How?!"
"Extreme fluxes in the surrounding ambient magic tend to disrupt the
operational efficacy of weaker wards. Wards that prohibit a certain range of
movement over a relatively large area but have exceptions built into them are
typically on the weaker side of things."
"So I can leave?" Harry breathed, the beginnings of excitement shining in his
eyes, ignoring how that explanation sounded outright copied from a text-book.
Tom had been like that when he had been explaining things.
"There is nobody watching the house, nothing stopping you. You can walk out
whenever you like." Marvolo pursed his lips critically, adding, "Though I
suggest you take the Knight Bus to Saint Mungos."
Harry hummed. "Is that like a hospital?"
"It is a hospital." Marvolo frowned. "You don't know much about the Wizarding
World, do you?"
Harry's shoulders curled inwards, a habitual defensive position, and he hissed
in unexpected pain as dried blood stuck his makeshift bandages to the wall and
consequently tugged sharply at the cuts on his back. Whimpering in annoyance,
he shook his head. "When I can count the number of weeks I've spent in the
Wizarding Community outside of school on one hand, I'm sure you can imagine it
is rather difficult to learn much."
"...Yes, I can imagine that." He dropped the boy’s hands, picking up the
healing cream and waving a hand. "Come here and turn around."
Eyeing the man and viciously shoving aside thoughts of a much fatter man, Harry
warily shuffled closer and turned around. His fingers plucked at the bandages
nervously as he tried to calm down. He really did not like having people behind
him.
Marvolo held still. It was understandable for the boy to be hesitant.
Cautiously, the man unwound the bandages that the boy had fastened on, cursing
the fact that he had been unable to return sooner.
The boy’s back was a bruised network of inflamed red lines, raised welts and
jagged cuts. Despite the disinfectant cream the boy appeared to have used,
Marvolo could see the beginnings of an infection setting in.
The boy’s magic must have been more depleted that he had assumed.
Light fingers brushed over his shoulder blades and scarred hands fisted
savagely into the blankets. "I will have to apply this twice."
Harry nodded his head stiffly. It was difficult not to get caught up in
memories right now. He tried counting backwards from one hundred to keep calm."
Ninety-two...eighty-seven......seventy-three...
Marvolo paused when Harry's breath hitched as he touched his lower back.
"What's wrong?"
"N-nothing...I just...I don't like having people behind me." He ducked his
head. "Sorry. I know it's stupid..."
Marvolo moved his hand back up to his shoulder. The boy seemed more comfortable
with that position. "It's not stupid, Harry. It is understandable. But I'm not
going to hurt you."
The boy nodded again. It was better than nothing. Harry needed to understand in
his own time.
Harry sat silently, contemplating the man's words. For some reason, and he
would be damned if he knew why, he trusted him. He almost felt as if he would
know if the man had been lying. There was a part of him, and he suspected that
part was being heavily influenced by his memories of Tom, that seemed to have
already decided that this man was safe. He went back to counti-- oh, damn. Lost
his place. What else...?
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question came suddenly. Why was he being so nice to the boy? If he knew the
answer, it was deeply hidden and likely was not going to surface anytime soon.
So the Dark Lord smirked. His face was going to hurt tomorrow. When was the
last time he displayed so many emotions? "I believe it was my turn."
"Smug bastard," Harry muttered. "Fine. Ask your question."
"...Explain why you 'keep quiet' about your marks. Most people would be quite
proud of their accomplishments."
"You know that's not a question..."
"If that was supposed to be a diversion tactic, it was pitiful."
"I'm not diverting my answers merely...prolonging it; but I would be more than
happy to—“
"Harry."
Green eyes dulled as Harry sighed, staring at the wall. The hand on his back
stilled as Marvolo waited.
"The Dursley's, my fam— the people I stay with, they don't like anything
freakish". Ashy magic fizzled under his skin. "Dudley, their son, is perfectly
normal...I was six when I came back from school one day with my score-card. I
remember it was high. I didn't always have time to complete the homework so I
wasn't at the top of the class, but I was pretty close...
"Anyway. I gave Petunia my score-card. I was so proud and I hoped that they
would be pleased. Maybe even enough that I would get food that night. I...I
didn't know how Dudley had done but I assumed he had done well because they
were so happy with him."
Harry sniffed and laughed humourlessly. "I was locked in my cupboard for three
days. I was used to not eating for a few days — it had been years since I
realised that they weren't simply forgetting to feed me — and I realised pretty
quickly that they were not, in fact, pleased...The day they let me out was the
first time Vernon used his belt. I was six."
His voice was dead. "It was one lash for every A because 'freaks don't get
A's'. I only had A's. I was six and I didn't understand. What child would
understand that they were being hurt for being good at something? I just...I
didn't..." Voice cracking, Harry wiped his eyes and swallowed. "After that it
just became a habit to not speak about it. I didn't want to be hurt for that
again but I didn't want to be stupid and I actually liked learning. So, so I
would steal the score-cards, then burn them when I could. Magic was actually
quite handy for that. In the end. And they only ever asked after Dudley when
they had meetings with the teachers, so they never found out."
He fell silent, tried to focus on the warmth and lulling movements of the
hands.
Marvolo, on the other hand, was beating back the urge to hunt down these
muggles with an Unforgivable. Images of his own childhood flashed through his
head. Freak. Worthless. Oh how he detested those words with every fibre of his
being.
At sixteen, when he was steadily on the path to achieving the stepping stones
of his plans for world domination, he had entertained the idea of completely
eradicating those words from the English Language. Unfortunately, that would
have required hunting down every publishing house and locating every existing
dictionary. Frankly, he had had better things to do.
These surging emotions were confusing. What was this? Empathy?
Why did he want to protect this boy? Wrap him up and hide him from a world that
would rather see him broken on the floor and begging?
He was a Dark Lord! He was a killer, feared so much that people could not even
say his pseudonym! He was a man that had grown to shun physical contact because
he had been afraid of how much he had desired it. But even then he had never
been able to dismiss it entirely, and had often turned to Nagini, the one
certainty in his life that would have never mocked him or belittled him.
And here he was, caring for a boy that he been trying to kill day's previously
.
There was something very wrong here and he did not care how much like a broken
recorded he sounded!
What was it about this boy that made him feel so human?!
And why, oh why did he not mind?
He swallowed. "Slytherin of you," he murmured. More salve was wiped onto the
boy's back.
Harry laughed, genuinely amused. "From the Heir himself? I'll take that as a
compliment."
"You should. I doubt it will happen again." He nudged him playfully.
"Gryffindor."
"Uh huh, whatever you say. So...why are you being so nice to me?"
"I don't...like, I suppose, seeing children in abusive environments.
Particularly magical children. And when the perpetrators are muggles, I find
that I am able to put aside the identity of the brat in question. Why do you
ask?"
"...Nobody's ever been this nice to me. Madam Pomphrey is always distracted.
She just kind of shoves potions down my throat, tells me to sleep it off. She
can't get me out of the hospital wing fast enough, really.
"Mrs Weasley is nice up but it doesn't...I don't know. I guess the best way to
describe it is personal. Most of the time, I think she's just confused me for
one of her kids. But I'm not her kid. I barely know her so she comes across
more smothering than comforting. Ron is just a jealous prat who seems to
operate under the vague belief that I actually enjoy being worshipped for the
night my parents, my family died — the Twins come close, actually. They sent me
food last summer and snuck me into some abandoned potions classrooms they had
found. Then there’s Hermione. Hermione is so bubble wrapped by her parents that
she believes child abuse is a myth that adults tell their children when they
misbehave. That all those bruises at the start of term are from 'playing rough
with my cousin'. I don't have anybody else, so it's...strange. Nice. But
strange."
"Why do you come back here, then?"
"Dumbledore —"
Marvolo growled, his fingers involuntarily curled inwards harshly. He hurriedly
retracted his hands when Harry gasped and hissed and tried to get his emotions
under control. "I apologise."
"S'fine. Just...punch the wall or something." Harry smirked sardonically. "My
back is a bit tender."
"Why are you so nonchalant about this?" Marvolo hissed, dragging the 's' in his
anger. "Dumbledore sends you back to be abused! Does he even know—"
Twisting sharply, much faster than Marvolo thought him capable, Harry clamped a
hand over Marvolo's mouth and glared at him.
Marvolo yanked his head away. "If you are operating under some naive delusion
that Dumbledore is ignorant o—
Poisonous green eyes flashed dangerously. Magic slipped out and Marvolo felt
his jaw clamp shut.
"Do. Not. Assume." Neither male noticed the slip into parseltongue. "That I
care for that man. I have told him, time and again, how they treat me here. I
have even told him about how my uncle rapes me. Every time he has dismissed me
without even taking the time to look at a full medical report that I have.
Never. Had. So do not dare, Tomas Marvolo Riddle, suggest that I hold some sort
of affectionate attachment for that man. I hate him. He left me here. I loathe
him. He sends me back here. I will destroy him and I will enjoy every minute of
it so do. Not. Dare."
They were so close, breathing the same air. The green eyes were like glass,
sharp and glistening. His voice dropped, slipping back into English. "I come
back here because I have nowhere else to go. I come back and every time Vernon
touches me, every time Petunia spits at me and Dudley hits me, every time,
Dumblefuck loses his precious Saviour a little bit more...So please, Marvolo.
Do not think I do not care. I am indifferent because there was nothing to do. I
fought back and it got worse."
Hands curled around his wrists and lowered his hands. Not constricting. Just
there.
The red eyes wide intense, flicking between vulnerable jade. "Runaway. Leave
Harry. What is there to mourn leaving behind? There is no life for you here.
You will always be the Boy-Who-Lived. You know that the Light will never let
you be if you stay."
Yes. He was severely aware of that. Dumbledore wanted to make him into his
weapon, a perfect little Golden Gryffindor who defeated the Dark Lord all
because he was the Boy-Who-Li...
Why was he the Boy-Who-Lived?
Marvolo slowly released the boy as he felt the magic sharpen as it licked
through the air. It made him irrationally uneasy.
Green eyes blinked but were unfocused, looking at something else. "There's
something I never understood...why did you come after my parents that night?"
He imagined that this question was the equivalent to your 'special other'
saying they wanted to 'talk'. It never ended well and typically concluded in
screaming. Harry was not going to like this.
"I wasn't...after your parents." There. Break it to him slowly.
Although...Dumbledore should have already told him.
"...Then why...?
"I was after you."
"Me!" Okay. So far so good. The boy wasn't screaming. Yet.
"There was a prophecy made —" he gasped, breaking off, wincing as icy tendrils
of ashy green poison manifested, slashing outwards from the frail boy. Ripping,
tearing, tainting everything it could reach.
Harry blinked sluggishly, eyes turned to the mould ridden wall across the room.
He knew where this was going. He just didn't want to believe it, didn't want to
hear it...
He doubled over. His chest was on fire. Thin hands clutched at his chest,
panting. He couldn't...it was...
Oh god. He was hyperventilating. Knowing that and doing something about it,
however, were two very different things. His magic lashed out excitedly, like
it had been waiting forever to be let loose and now refused to be reigned back
in. Paint flaked and drifted to the ground as ash and brick crumbled under the
lashing streams.
He — his parents had died for...for him...were in the wrong place...
Can't breathe.
Then a warm hand was wrapping around him and pulling him back into a warm
chest. So warm. Not alone. Safe.
"Sh-Sh. Calm down, little one." Marvolo was not about to tell the boy that if
he didn't, it was highly possible he would bring the house down around them.
"Listen to my voice. Focus."
Marvolo rocked the teenager in his arms, marvelling at how warm he was despite
the frigid temperature, the ice cracking the glass. He ran his fingers through
the shadowy feather of hair. Something, something in his chest glowing when the
wraith leaned into his touch and ash hesitantly stopped dripping from the
walls.
Minutes passed and eventually the torrent of icy savagery tapered off, the body
sagging against his own. Out of breath with clean marks trekking through the
grime on his face.
His voice, when he spoke, was hollow. "A prophecy ruined my life?"
"Yes."
Marvolo's quiet answer seemed to settle the last strands of poisonous power,
but he could not shake the feeling that it simply decided to return to dormancy
grudgingly.
Harry was silent. Making no move to leave the safety of the arms around him.
"What did it...” He swallowed. "What did it say?"
"...I only heard half."
He sucked in a sharp breath and Marvolo could see the way now violet strands
tenses in preparation but were held back by the green. If he were not so
preoccupied, he would have stopped and wondered at the bizarre phenomenon. It
was off Harry's magic had split asunder and gained independent sentience,
operating apart from the whole. It was in this moment that Marvolo found
himself wishing that the boy was yelling as he emotionlessly repeated his
question. He didn't want to see him closed off...he...bloody damn it all to
Arcane...he liked seeing the boy show anything more than this blank mask.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...Born to those
that have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."
"...Is there more to it?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Who, um, who else knows about this? Who spoke the prophecy? How did you even
hear about it?"
Maybe it was because of what he knew he had to say. Maybe it was because he
himself had been mulling over the idiocy of his actions regarding the prophecy.
Either way, Marvolo's arms tightened around Harry and pulled him closer.
"Sibyll Trelawney spoke the Prophecy. Severus Snape relayed the lines." He
sighed, grim. "Dumbledore heard it in its entirety."
Jade eyes closed, and when he spoke, it sounded damning. "So my Divination
Professor foretold an equality in power. Snape sentenced my parents to death.
You overreacted and this is what Dumbledore insists I will understand better
when I'm older and the timing is right. This is what you're saying?"
When he said it like that....
"...Yes."
"Okay...okay." Blowing out a shallow breath, Harry turned around in the circle
of his arms, resting his hands on broad chest and, Dark Lord or no, Marvolo was
fiercely gripped with the need to cower away from the intensity in those green
eyes. "Why did you ask my mother to stand aside?"
He had not been expecting that. Marvolo frowned, crimson eyes flickering
between poison; looking for something. "How do you know about that?"
Harry's head tilted to the side as a broken smile appeared. "Dementors." He
said shortly, then rolled his eyes. "They love me."
Mordred..."I wanted you. Your parents were strong. Worthy of magic, you might
say. To desecrate that was not my intention that night. But the urge to negate
any potential threat paired poorly with my instability at the time and I acted
brashly."
He so clearly remembered that night. The final moments before his soul was cast
violently out of his body. Remembered the way the light of the point blank
Killing Curse had reflected the same shade back at him in those confused
eyes...
"Before I went to Godrics Hollow Severus had requested that I spare your
mother. My own mother died in childbirth. Those deaths...are not ones I openly
seek out. I believe sentiment is responsible for that, but that is beside the
point. I gave her the option to stand aside, to live, but she would not. For
you."
Harry blinked against the tears in his eyes, biting down on his lower lip as it
trembled.
Before Marvolo could fully comprehend what was happening, arms were wrapping
around his neck. Had the boy snapped? Was he going to kill him via muggle
strangulation? Before he could decide between letting the boy exact his revenge
or pushing him (ahem) fine, shoving him away, a face was being pressed into his
shoulder and a hard form was pressing against his own.
He blinked. "Are you...hugging me?" This was utterly unbelievable.
The muffled reply of "yes" was spoken into the fabric.
Oh, of course, because it was perfectly natural for them to be hugging.
"You are aware that you are hugging the Dark Lord whom killed you parents and
sentenced you to this life of hell?"
Harry pulled back, just enough to stare at the man. "Are you feeling guilty?"
He asked incredulously.
"Foolish childe. I'm trying to understand."
Harry scowled. "Don't call me that. I've never been a child." He poked the man
on the chest, inwardly congratulating himself when Marvolo gaped. "And
Dumbledore left me here. I know for a fact that there were loads of families
that would've happily taken me in. But he chose here. As for you...I won't
forget what you did but..." He chewed his lip pensively. "It was war and you
saw a threat...people die in war so I can...I don't know. Understand, I
suppose."
"They were your parents, Harry!"
"Yep, delightfully of aware of that, thanks."
"That's not what I meant," he said softly.
Harry looked away. He knew that but... "I never knew them. I miss the concept
of them. I mourn the loss of parents, of people who are supposed to care; not
the people themselves." His mouth twisted, tightening. "I cannot grieve for an
idea I have never understood, Marvolo."
There was nothing more to say. Apologies would be empty. He could never take
back what he had done.
So, with nothing left to lose, the Dark Lord, a man oft believed incapable of
even the basics of human emotion, pulled the wraith-like shell of the Boy-Who-
Lived closer and breathed in his scent as the boy easily leaned into him. Some
kind of sage, he thought. Sharp and sweet. Earthy. Like freshly turned dirt
after a light rain.
And even as he buried his nose a little deeper into the dark hair, he failed to
deny how much he enjoyed the contact. Failed to deny how comforting it was, how
good it was to feel again.
***** 3 *****
Date: 16th June, 1995
Location: Little Whinging, Surrey
 
There must be something wrong with him, Harry decided, to be so comfortable in
the arms of a murderer. He knew this, intellectually. But when physically
applied, the theory seemed to crumble with any resolve he had, burning down
with how pleasant it felt to be held.
He turned his head to the window, nontransparent hole in the wall that it was.
Resting his cheek on the shoulder beneath him, he allowed time to slip by, in
no rush to disturb this quiet, night stolen moment.
Marvolo made no move to stop it either. Harry suspected the man was in the
throes of an internal breakdown...or maybe it was a personal epiphany.
Honestly? He could never tell the difference.
Could he do this? Run and never look back? He didn't...didn't want to lose
contact with this man. He knew, knew they were different but the mere idea had
him feeling like he would be losing Tom all over again.
He...couldn't do that.
But he would not stay.
Pen pals....Ugh. That sounded so juvenile.
But it was an option. He would take what he could get right now. When he didn't
appear at Hogwarts for the start of term, Hedwig would know to leave and come
find him. So it might take a few weeks — actually, he could buy another owl.
Hedwig had begun giving him very pointed looks when little birds had flown past
when they were together.
It could not be more obvious that she was nearing 'broodiness' if she learned
English, painted a giant sign and slammed his face into it.
So they could write. Letters. Stay in contact that way.
Become...correspondents.
He needed a dictionary. There had to be another word for this. Wherever she
was, Rowena Ravenclaw was no doubt nodding her head sagely and fixing him with
an insulted glare.
"Marvolo?"
Marvolo blinked, snapping out of mild internal meltdown — or epiphany! Let's
not forget the epiphany! — and focused on Harry. The boy had his face turned
away from him, but he could feel the tension in the body that was sitting...on
his lap?
"Mm?"
The distracted murmur vibrated against his shoulder, where Marvolo had placed
his chin.
Harry sat up only to blink in confusion. Wha...The bloody hell was he doing
sitting on the man's lap? How did he even end up in this position? Was this
just another one of those wholly unexplainable and ridiculously unlikely things
that he was going to accept and move on from?
He sighed. Might as well be. He didn't have the energy to bother understanding
this right now. Conveniently ignoring the fact that he made no move — none what
so ever — to remove himself from his position, Harry met Marvolo's intrigued
gaze.
"This is probably going to sound really odd, but...can we..."
Twin cracks sounded outside on the pavement.
Both heads snapped in that direction. The movement was more instinctual than
anything because there was no seeing out that window.
There was no mistaking that sound for anything but apparition. That meant
wizards. Wizards outside his house. With a very much wanted Dark Lord sitting
in his bedroom. Dear Merlin. Was Fate purposefully screwing with him, chuckling
and nibbling on....well, whatever it was that primordial and transcendent
beings snacked on, while she tossed needlessly complicated and wholly
unnecessary things his way?
Yes. That had to be it. He refused to believe that these kinds of things just
'happened'.
He quirked an eyebrow at Marvolo. "One of yours?"
Quickly thanking Salazar that Harry was not the sort to jump to incriminating
accusations, Marvolo considered the query. How plausible a notion was it that
his followers had managed to amass their combined intellect and finally uncover
where it was the boy resided? He supposed it was ever so slightly possible...
Oh, who was he kidding? If they couldn't do it for thirteen years, they weren't
going to do it now. Even if they were magical.
"Somehow, I think not."
They held very still for a moment. Inside and outside the room, silence
reigned. Then Harry swore and scrambled off of Marvolo, pulling the man with
him as he crawled to the window. Pressing his back into the wall, not even
registering the twinges sparking along the nerves as he agitated the sensitive
wounds. He looked across at Marvolo.
"Is there any way for you to find out who they are?"
Marvolo glanced out onto the street. Technically, he only saw the wall he was
currently nose to brick with, but the intention was there. Looking back at the
boy, he noted the worry that was hiding in those darkened eyes, saw the way
fingers dug in harshly against the faded paint.
Cautiously moving when Marvolo nodded and closed his eyes, Harry raised his
head to a chip in the corner of the glass, listening carefully.
Voices drifted up from the street, distorted by the distance. Whoever it was,
subtlety was a foreign concept that was applied to toast in France. That's to
say, they kicked over a garbage bin, sending glass bottles clanking onto the
concrete of the pathway, must have stumbled back in the startled surprise one
experiences when they are aiming for stealth and yelped loudly as they fell
into the rosebushes. Harry was also convinced they managed to step on one of
the neighbourhood strays because there was no way that howling was natural.
It wasn't funny....truly!...It was...just...too...much!
Snickering, Harry bowed his head, biting his lip. When that didn't work, Harry
bit onto the side of his hand to stop from outright laughing.
Feeling the body pressed against his own shaking in restrained mirth, Marvolo's
mouth twitched in amusement.
Assured that he had enough control of his magic to render it undetectable, he
pushed a thin strand out, passing through the wall like the immaterial mass
that it was and washing over the front lawn below.
Pulling himself together in record time — he deserved an award for such valiant
efforts — Harry focused on the voices. There was muffled yelling now. Though
how one could be muffled and yelling was beyond him. The words were
indistinguishable, but he was able to separate the speakers.
Slurring, gruff, possibly speaking a different language.
Pitchy, like they had just been kicked in a sensitive area. Could be a vocal
double for Fudge.
Harry knew these voices. Had branded the last one in particular in to his
memory.
He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead on the wall. Merlin damn it.
"Mundungus Fletcher and Doge...I can never remember his first name."
Marvolo nodded, having just confirmed that himself. He retracted his magic,
moving closer to Harry. "Know them?"
He knew them well enough to imagine burning them alive when he was feeling
particularly vindictive after one of Vernon's beatings. "Dumbledore sends Doge
to check the wards every few weeks. Dung hangs around whenever the Dursley's
leave me here alone." Merlin only knew
Feeling the poisonous magic spiking, Marvolo settled a hand on the boy’s knee.
"They never...?"
"Never," Harry spat, green glowing hatefully. "They never did anything to help.
Not even when they knew I would go days without eating, locked up in here. I
could have been in front of them, screaming, and they would have done nothing."
Marvolo wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into his side,
almost grinning at how easily the boy complied. "You know..." He began
casually, as if they were not currently hiding behind a wall. "I am a Dark
Lord...I could have them killed for you."
Harry choked, slapping a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing
hysterically. "I-I think do-ing that n-now would," he gasped, "rai-raise too
many questions, d-don't you think?"
Marvolo hummed. disappointed. "Yes. Can't have Dumbledore wondering why his men
turned up dead after visiting you. He might get suspicious." Oh well.
...But that did not mean he couldn't hunt down those vile excuses of flesh
later though. He suspected a...training exercise for Nagini was in order.
Harry sighed in exasperation at the decidedly wicked smirk that was working its
way onto Marvolo's mouth, at the way those eyes lit up scarlet. Was the man
even aware that they changed colour depending on his mood?
"Whatever you do, make sure they hurt."
Wide eyes were guilty when they stopped plotting evil schemes involving a very
much territorial female snake and a big room — Nagini liked the chase, after
all.
"Whatever gives you the idea I was planning something?"
Harry shot him an unimpressed look. "You forget, I knew you when you were
sixteen. I doubt you have an expression I don't know."
Bugger. It was...disturbing to have someone knowing him so well, like they had
known him forever. Although, if anybody was going to be so intimately familiar
with him, he preferred that it was Har —
Right, moving on!
"Why would Dumbledore not send Moody, though? Doge, I understand. But
Fletcher?"
"And risk Mad-Eye seeing in here with that magical eye of his and doing
something about it? I think not...Thanks for Barty, by the way. He was a great
professor."
Marvolo shrugged. Genuine gratitude sent his way was a new occurrence. "He
enjoyed it. He actually wanted to be a professor before he wound up in
Azkaban."
"Well, tell him he would have made an excellent one when you next see him."
Marvolo blinked. How did...
"The Ministry declared him dead." He said slowly.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh sure, because a lack of body was not suspicious at
all and I didn't see him running through the tunnel to Honeydukes." He flapped
his hand dismissively. "Relax. Nobody else knows." Then muttered under his
breath. "Honestly..."
Unbelievable. How did this boy continue to remain one step ahead of him?
Sensing that the man had no response — Harry supposed it was shocking to come
upon the information that his brilliant plan to rely on the Ministry's
ineptness to fake the death of a spy was rather shocking — Harry leaned back
against the wall.
Then sat up straight again.
"They're still here."
"Yes." Marvolo was not pouting.
"No, no. They shouldn't still be here! They should have gone already!" Damn
window, absolutely useless. "What are they doing?!"
Marvolo contemplated this, tapping his upper lip with his index finger.
"Checking the wards I assume." He made to shrug but froze, blood chilling.
"Oh..."
They would find the perimeter ward down.
The ward that prevented Harry from leaving.
...Down...
Harry's heart lurched, blood burning. They had to leave.
"Fuck! Get up, get up! We have to go!"
He lurched away from the wall, scrambling up, tripping over himself. Shutting
down the way his body cried out in pain at the movements, he snatched up his
shirt, yanking it over his head. It was probably on backwards but he had for
more critical concerns than worrying about if he was dressed properly!
Falling to his knees in the centre of the room, blunt nails scrabbled at a
loose-floorboard, mottled in blood stains. Oh god, he had to get it open!
Just....open...dammit!
Large hands batted his hands away softly, prised open the floor-board. Marvolo
looked worriedly at the gasping teenager, chestnut hair falling into his eyes
as he revealed...an empty space.
...That was evidently not empty because Harry quickly extracted something, then
stood and pulled him up with him, kicking the floorboard down and hiding the
space away again.
They both felt the change in air pressure as there was an indignant grumble
outside and a ward began to rise.
Marvolo grabbed Harry's hand, the boy tucking whatever it was he held under his
arm. Tugged him out the room. They ran across the landing, skipping steps as
they rushed down the stairs.
He ran ahead, a few steps in front, and skidded to a stop outside of the
cupboard under the stairs. Ripping open the door, he yanked Harry's trunk out
into the entryway. Harry jumped the last step as he lifted it — by Morgana, had
they always been that bloody heavy? —
Harry pulled him to a stop, gasping out "Wait."
He turned, frowning in confusion, an expression that deepened when Harry pushed
the trunk down and opened the lid. Tossing his invisible bundle inside, he shut
it again.
Marvolo was just about to take the trunk from him when he paused.
Purple-tinted magic raced, covering the wood as Harry tapped the lid quickly
and stood, pulling a shrinking trunk up with him and tucking it into the pocket
of his jeans.
The man blinked at the flippant display of wandless magic.
Ignoring the stunned expression on Marvolo's face, Harry gripped his cloak,
hauling him into the kitchen — the front door was out of the question. The
people Dumbledore sent always forgot about the back door, though. Maybe it was
a wizard thi—
"You can do wandless magic?"
Harry glanced at the man over his should incredulously, coming up to the back
door. "Yes, because this is such a great time to be asking me that!" The door
was unlocked. He slid it open. Huh, maybe it was just a general thing.
Fair point. His questioning on just what it was the boy new and been hiding
from the world could wait.
They rushed out, feet hitting the lawn — bare feet, in Harry's case. He forgot
shoes...meh, too late for them now. Even with a sun set hours ago, heat clung
to the air, and it was anybody’s guess where anything was in the garden. No
lights were on, being the back garden and all, and the moon hung at a
thoroughly unhelpful angle.
Hitting into what Marvolo assumed was the back fence, they paused for less than
a second, just enough for him to pull out his wand and throw up a light. A
small patch of darkness cleared, giving Harry's silhouette a ghostly
appearance. The ward climbed higher, nearing the top, golden strands of magic
perceptible.
Harry smiled. Breathless. Looked up then across to Marvolo, eyes alight,
adrenaline momentarily overriding the fear. "So, Mister Dark Lord." The casual
tone sparked something nervous and anticipatory in said Dark Lord.
"...When was the last time you climbed a fence?"
And with that the boy took a few steps back, slipping out of the light, and
dashed forward, a blur of shadow, jumped up, catching the top of the fence that
he was really too short for. Giving a small grunt of exertion, Harry moved with
the momentum, pulling up, swinging a leg over the top and leaping over.
Marvolo knew he was gaping. And he also knew that the ward was almost closed.
And that the ward only applied to Harry, who was now over the fence and thus
negated the surge of urgency they had experienced.
But all of this was ignored for gaping at the fence.
Grunt work?!
Unbelievable. He could not believe he became a Dark Lord and still had to do
grunt work.
Scowling and just knowing that somehow this was not going to end well, he
backed up and jumped. Just as the ward came down.
                                     OOOO
"Oh come on. It wasn't that bad!"
"..."
"Okay, fine. You did fall off the fence but it's not a big deal!"
Marvolo looked at the boy incredulously, now on the other side of the fence
with Harry trying to convince him to repeat the experience and climb another.
"Not a big deal?"
Harry crossed his arms in exasperation. He was dealing with a petulant Dark
Lord for god’s sake. "You know what? Fine. If you want to mope about an
experience that was not, in any way, traumatising," jade eyes narrowed
condescendingly, "then, by all means, be my guest. While you are doing that,
I'm going to go and find some park that I can camp out in and then get as far
away from this place as possible."
And with that he turned, headed towards the next fence — whilst keeping
strictly to the shadows because this house had garden lights on — and bit his
lip to keep from smirking as he mentally counted down.
Five....four....three...two...o....
Arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him up short. Really, the man would be
horrified if he knew how predictable he was. It wasn't only expressions he knew
because of Tom, after all. It was also rather sad how he couldn't hold out for
longer than five seconds. He hated being dismissed with a vengeance.
"I don't think so," Marvolo murmured dangerously, his mouth unexpectedly close
to his ear.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"I know a hotel in London...I'm guessing you do not want to come with me to
Malfoy Manor?"
"You know that park I mentioned? Well, it also has a dumpster...."
"Resounding ‘yes’, then. In that case, I know a hotel in London I can take you
to. You are physically stable enough for apparition.”
Harry turned around — again, hated having people behind him — planting his
hands on Marvolo's chest, brushing aside the devious jab to his potential
mental instability. Frankly, Harry was inclined to agree with the man.
Otherwise, he would have to seriously consider why he was happily not moving
out of the arms around him whilst standing barefoot in his neighbour’s
backyard. In the middle of the night. With a man that had healed him.
His head tilted in consideration. "We're still going to have to jump the
fence."
"...I am failing to see how you arrived at that conclusion."
Harry rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his nose. Bloody Merlin was
the man determined. "Say Dumbles and his gaggle of birds —" and didn't that
just sound so wrong? "— realise I'm gone and your magical signature is all over
the place? What then?"
"They would think that I finally succeeded in vanquishing you, despair for a
little while, regret their actions — which they would recall with startling
clarity — erect some sort of grandiose memorial then wander off and find some
other saviour to praise."
Harry blinked. "Well, that was startlingly detailed. You really thought my
death through, didn't you?" He smirked impishly. "I'm touched. Really."
Marvolo waved his hand, as if to say 'of course'.
"But you're forgetting something. They would find your signature. And yes, they
would think that you did it, kudos to you," he flapped his hand negligently
whilst the Dark Lord preened. "That's the problem. They would think that you
did it — as in you were here. Ergo, you exist and Dumbledore wasn't lying. He
would be validated."
He paused to allow their twin shudders of horrified disgust. The thought alone
was enough to make any one run away screaming, arms flapping behind them in
their haste.
He met those familiar red eyes that were surprisingly close...you know, if one
ignored the full head and a half of difference in height. He refused to call it
two.
"You have the entirety of the Ministry of Magic's insurmountable stupidity at
your disposal. Don't go wasting it just because you were afraid of a fence. I
mean, look at it." He gestured vaguely in its direction. "It's not even that
tall. If I can climb it, then there is nothing stopping you."
"You, little wraith, made it look deceptively easy. I am not going to so
readily believe that when I'm covered in dirt and grass."
"....yeah...honestly didn't know they kept a mulch pile there. But that's
beside the point! It's mind over matter, Marvolo!" He kept his face straight
for long enough to take a breath, then he snickered. "It's...literally...hah!
Mind — mind over matter!"
He buried his face in Marvolo's cloak, shoulders shaking.
Marvolo merely stood dumbfounded at the fact that not only was he being pep-
talked into physical activity his encourager was now in hysterics. Then he
sighed glumly and patted the dark head of hair.
"Are you quite done?" He drawled.
Harry pulled away, wiping his eyes and fighting the twitching of his lips.
"Yeah."
Slipping his hand into Marvolo's, he pulled him towards the fence. "Come on,
I'll show you how...okay, now, the idea is to actually stop when you jump up,
so when you swing and —"
Five fences, two streets and one very pissed off dog later, a peculiar pair
were seen running down Main Street. One was barefoot, a silly grin on his face
as dark hair fanned out in shadows behind him, feet slapping the pavement. The
other was a step in front, hand firmly caught in the others as he pulled him
along, his longer legs allowing him to match the speed of the wraith, feeling
like he was seventeen again.
Both of them were laughing, breathless in the rush and their excitement.
Both of them feeling alive for the first time in fourteen years.
Deciding that they had run far enough, the man grinned and turned, swung the
wraith into his chest and apparated as he stepped back.

===============================================================================

Shaking off that unbelievably nauseating feeling of apparition that effected
only those that were new to the act — and the perpetually unlucky enough to
suffer from the accursed motion-sickness — and still laughing, Harry pulled
away from Marvolo slightly, just enough to look around.
Night-time traffic rambled down the street, car lights luminous, rushing by in
the darkness from where they stood in a small pool of light beneath a lamp-
post, blurred by London's haze. Late night stragglers sauntered down the side-
walks, heading home from...doing things.
He raised an eyebrow, looking at Marvolo. "Bond Street?"
"Yes. Though I wonder how you know that."
"Please. I've lost count of how many times the Dursley's have tried to ditch me
in London. Never worked though," he added thoughtfully. "Dumbledore no doubt
had something to do with it."
Marvolo hummed in agreement, running his eyes over the boy. The old fool had
something to do with everything—
"Harry, where are your shoes?"
Harry blinked, pausing his mental list of what he knew what on Bond Street.
"Er...."
"Did you run that entire way barefoot?!" Closing his eyes, he rubbed the bridge
of his nose. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"You are certain?"
Harry flapped his hand, biting back his smile. If only people saw the Dark Lord
now. The thought was enough to keep his Patronus going for a year. "Pfft. Like
concrete could hurt me...oh Merlin no."
Marvolo bent down, looking for two aesthetically pleasing pebbles. "What's
wrong?"
Harry crouched down, the better to be heard. "Claridge's?!" He hissed
incredulously. "That's the hotel you 'know'?"
Locating the pebbles, Marvolo stood, Harry following him up. Pulling out his
wand, he transfigured them into a pair of plain boots then handed them to
Harry.
Grumbling under his breath about stupid Dark Lords and their infuriating habit
of leaving out very important details — like fact that the hotel was not just
some hotel! — he pulled the boots on, vanishing the dirt on his feet and
holding onto Marvolo's arm so as not to lose his balance as he wobbled on one
foot.
Looking up when he heard the man make a surprised noise, he fixed him with a
blank expression. "What?"
Marvolo's eyes flicked between his newly-booted feet, his hands and then his
eyes. He was most certainly not gaping...okay fine, maybe he was. "Wandless
magic. And now that we are not running for our lives, you can afford an
explanation. First a shrinking charm, now a scourgify; what else can you do?"
"Actually, that was a vanishing charm. My scourgify's tend to...burn things.
Even with a wand. And that's it — wait, I can also do a basic unlocking spell.
I can't do anything else yet."
"You do realise wandless magic is rather difficult to do? Not many can."
Harry hummed. It was one of the few things he felt proud to be able to do, the
one thing that made him special, set him apart for the mass. It was a talent
that he had earned through hard work, not something that had been thrust upon
him and by Merlin did it feel good to know he had a small advantage, would not
be rendered completely useless without a wand.
"Did somebody teach you? And why did you not use this to help you at that
house?"
"Yo—sorry, Tom taught me. Said it would be good to know. And when I'm injured,
my magic goes a bit...haywire. I can't use it when it's like that...But don't
you dare change the topic!"
He could hardly refute the intelligence of his younger self. It would be
counter-productive. Not to mention insulting. And it was flattering — well, he
could admit that it was flattering now — that his equal was powerful. He lifted
a quizzical eyebrow at the boy.
"Why are you so against the place? It's a lovely establishment."
He considered the man in dismay. He really didn't...? Harry huffed. "Fine. Take
me to some ridiculously expensive and prestigious hotel. See if I care."
Crossing his arms, he turned away from the man, glaring at a water-hydrant.
Unbelievable.
Marvolo stared at the boy, wholly nonplussed. What was he missing? It was just
a hotel! Sure, its patrons were typically quite wealthy. And famous. And the
place itself was renowned for its splendour but why was the boy getting
so...upset...
Oh.
He moved around the boy, standing in front of him. Harry refused to look up and
continued staring at the water-hydrant, even though his view of the thing was
now blocked. Technicalities!
"Tell me Harry."
Poison green eyes lifted, studying the man. "I —" don't deserve to go someplace
like that. He swallowed. "I've never been anywhere like that before."
Marvolo knew what went unsaid. He cupped the boy's cheek, ensuring those eyes
stayed on his, leaning close. "You are more than what they said you are, Harry.
You are worth so much more. There is nothing good in this world that you do not
deserve."
He sounded so certain. So sure. Harry sniffed. What was it about this man that
prevented him from shutting everything away? "I know," he whispered, then, more
firmly, "I know!"
Marvolo smiled, seeing conviction replace vulnerability.
"Good."
And without further ado, Marvolo grabbed Harry's hand and began leading him
down the sidewalk. Once out of the puddle of light, his wand became a blur of
movement; flicking cleaning charms over the both of them, cleaning off the
leaves and dirt from their impromptu escape, repairing any tears on the
clothing, then transfiguring his robes and Harry's jeans into more appropriate
attire.
Harry watched in amusement, feeling the darkness of the man's magic washing
over him, watching as the man dragged a hand through his hair to smooth it
down. Harry left his alone; it was untameable anyway. By the time they arrived
at the entrance, they could have just been another couple of late night goers.
Nodding at the concierge, Marvolo pulled Harry in behind him, effectively over-
riding the hesitation that had seized him.
Harry's breath caught as he looked around the foyer of Claridge's. Polished
marble of black and white checkers tiled the floor, leading up to pillars and
towering arches, soft gold lighting shining down from the chandeliers —yes,
plural! — diffusing the open space in an ethereal luminescence. By Merlin...
Catching sight of the attendant behind the desk, Marvolo directed Harry over to
a waiting chair.
"Wait here, I will go and check out a room."
Harry blinked at him. He had no problem with waiting there, he would rather not
partake in the sorting out the finer details — and hearing the price of the
room. "Are you going to confund her?" Because surely a place like this did not
stay vacant.
He hadn't been planning on it, but if he had to..."Don't tell me you’re getting
all muggle loving on me."
"What? No! Plausible deniability here!"
Marvolo scoffed, amused and light-hearted. "Glad to see you care so much about
the well-being of the unfortunate innocents."
"...You do realise that you just contradicted yourself there."
Waving his hand dismissively, Marvolo left and moved up to the desk, purposeful
steps quietened in the vaunted silence. Dropping the smirk, he quickly
rearranged it into a smile that, if he was remembering correctly — before his,
ahem, thoroughly unrecommended exploits into Black Magic rendered his features
very much not charming — could charm the pants off a statue of a tree. That had
happened once. It was the first and last time he smiled at a magical statue.
Harry watched him walk away, guessing that he was probably putting up his
Charming Smile #5. He wondered distractedly if he could get the story behind
that one. Tom had coughed, said something about a tree and pants and left it at
that.
He bit back a scowl when the hag — er, pretty, young, blonde super-model behind
the desk blushed and fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously.
Strange. Maybe he was seeing things.
Crossing his arms and staring at his shoes, Harry stood next to the armchair,
trying not to listen in on the murmured conversation that was taking place.
Unfortunately, being so quiet, that was a wasted effort and he choked on his
spit when he heard:
"For you and your son?"
The blonde attendant smiled up at him. Was that hope he heard?
Marvolo frowned at her; as though the answer ought to have been so obvious he
had no idea why she even bothered asking the question. "No."
"Oh. Excuse me. Single room for two, then." And she returned to busily typing
away at the keyboard.
Harry looked up when Marvolo approached him, room keys dangling off a finger
even as he threw a wary look at the chipper blonde.
"Something wrong?" He asked innocently.
Marvolo scowled — yay, guess the lady upset him...what a horrible thing to
think. "Not at all." He followed that up by muttering under his breath.
"Thought you were my son...muggles must be delusional....I do not look that
old."
"Alright." Harry shrugged, up crossing his arms. "Though, if it's any
consolation, I have no idea how she made that connection either."
He groaned. The conversation had witnesses! He decided to ignore it and move
on.
He cleared his throat. "That happened. And we are not going to mention it." He
held up the key, the metal catching the light. "I got a room and managed to
talk her out of getting somebody direct us."
Pivoting on his heel, he made towards the elevator, Harry trailing along behind
him with a faint smile, falling into step beside him. "Do you come here often?"
The doors slid shut. He pressed a button. "Not so much, anymore. It may be a
muggle founded hotel, but it is quite...not notorious, precisely, but well-
known is a bit mild. During the 1950's, after Dumbledore's defeat of
Grindelwald in 1945, the border restrictions lessened, meaning that foreign
magicals could once again travel to Britain. They came here."
Harry pushed off of the golden handrail as the doors pinged open. "Why?"
"Alliance, mostly. The world had to recover from Grindelwald. I looked up to
the man, but exposure to muggles was the one point I always disagreed on.
People looked to Britain as a refuge; while the rest of Europe and America were
hit hard, we stood untouched. Mostly. They wanted to capitalise on that." He
smirked wickedly. "A few well-placed social visits, beneficial negotiations and
I had alliances with some of the most powerful foreign magicals of our
society."
"...And those alliances now?"
They walked further down the corridor, Harry's eyes wide in amazement at the
luxury of the finishing’s, the small details. "They...suffered. I am working on
repairing them."
"Just magicals? Or creatures as well?"
"The Vampires enjoy playing hard to get. They will decide only when it suits
them, but I know they favour my cause. The same applies to the Merfolk, though
they will be quick to decide, at least. Allying with the Werewolves, however,
is proving to be difficult. Because they are roaming creatures, the packs
are...infuriatingly difficult to locate but...we are getting through. The
goblins are out of the question. They do not care about the concerns of humans.
Harry hummed thoughtfully as they came to a stop outside of a door. It was...he
was glad Marvolo was telling him this, divulging what was no doubt highly
sensitive information. It showed a trust that nobody had showed him before.
"Did you know Dumbledore and Grindelwald used to be friends?"
Marvolo paused, the key in the lock, and blinked. "Pardon?"
"Mm, yes, when they were younger."
"How on earth do you know that?"
Harry smiled sharply. "Ghosts like to talk...and the Bloody Baron enjoys
reading people's letters."
"Of course he does." And of course this wraithlike manifestation would go
talking to Hogwarts ghosts. Frankly, the notion was ingenious.
He twisted the key, pocketed it and swung the door open. "In you go."
Snickering at the dramatic sweep of the arm and mocking bow, Harry sidled past
him, and stopped just inside the doorway.
He felt Marvolo come up beside him, closing the door, but he was too
preoccupied with gaping at the room. The very big room. The very nice, no doubt
expensive and nothing like anything he had ever stayed in before, room. If it
could even be called that.
"Wow," he breathed.
Marvolo smiled, eyeing Harry, storing away the intoxicating satisfaction he
felt at rendering the boy near-speechless.
The room was quite beautiful. Done up in dove-grey furnishings with royal blue
throws and pillows, edged in silver accenting, all clean lines and smooth
corners. Curtains were closed over what he knew were picture-frame windows,
endowing the ambience with a peaceful quality.
Harry stepped further into the sitting room. Yes, sitting room. The bedroom —
the room he had assumed people typically went to hotels for — was through an
open doorway.
"It's just...uh." Lovely, Harry. Wonderful use of your vocabulary.
Marvolo chuckled, moving over to the coffee table and picking up the leather-
bound Guest Directory. He pressed it into Harry's hands.
"This has everything you need to know: number of the front desk, room service
and all that. I booked the room for three days Harry. Enjoy it."
Wha...? Even his mind didn't want to formulate proper words.
Bemoaning the lack of cerebral function currently taking place, Harry blinked,
took the book, and smiled at the man. The smile was genuine, happy, grateful,
lacking his sharp edges and bitter angles.
"Thank you...but…you didn't have to do this. I mean, a motel would have been
more that fine."
Marvolo waved his hand. "It's my pleasure. Besides, people don't always do what
they do because they have to Harry. This made you happy. Sometimes, people like
doing things just to see that."
And...back online, yes! Harry flapped his hand haphazardly. "It's too late to
be profound. It's like..." He flicked his wrist, intending to check the time
only to find that he had no watch. "What is the time?"
The Dark Lord twitched his wrist, throwing up a tempus. Gold numbering wrote
itself into the air, already fading away, reading 23:32.
They both groaned, one wanting to go and thoroughly acquaint himself with that
lovely, soft, very big bed and one just knowing that Nagini was going to be
insufferable over him missing her feeding time. Again.
"I should go."
"What?"
Marvolo smirked at Harry's astounded expression. "You did not think I would be
staying, did you?"
Well...nope, apparently he hadn't thought that far yet.
Harry followed behind the man, disregarding the odd feeling in is chest as
supreme exhaustion of an unprecedented level. He was not...he was fine.
Opening the door, Marvolo paused when a pale hand wrapped around his arm,
turning him around.
Harry rocked back, deliberating. "I just..." He took a deep breath. It was just
goodbye. "Bye Marvolo." And before he could stop himself and have a serious
discussion about impulses, he stood on his toes and kissed the man's cheek.
Then slowly pulled away, blinking blankly. "I don't know why I did that."
Marvolo, himself, was also rather stunned. Feeling the heat spreading outwards
across his cheek.
Before he could also have a discussion with his self-control —maybe they should
start a self-help group — he leant in and kissed the boys cheek.
Then without another word, or poorly considered action, he turned and walked
away.
The teenager watched him go, leaning against the doorframe.
Was he blushing? Surely not. At all. In the slightest. Nope, nuh uh. What a
ludicrous suggestion...
He closed the door.
...Maybe a little bit.
***** 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Date: 16th June, 1995
Location: Claridge's, Corner of Brook and Davies Street, London.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, moving away front the door and biting
back a silly grin, figuring that the blush would die down in its own.
Currently, the part of his brain that wasn't going into overdrive in dissecting
why he was feeling fuzzy inside was wholly focused on one thing, filling the
entire space with one very simple yet absurdly drawn out word: sleeeeep!
Sparing no more than a glance for the rest of the hotel room, he made a beeline
for the bed. The room was just...too much. And he knew that if he thought about
it for too long – tried to analyse why Marvolo had done this – he would
undoubtedly arrive at conclusions that he did not want to think about.
He didn't want to think about what Marvolo could be wanting in return, what the
man might be trying to get out of it. Didn't want to let the ingrained mistrust
in people in general and his overall paranoia get the better of him, ruin
whatever it was that was happening between himself and...What was Marvolo? A
friend? Could he call him that?
No, he didn't want to think about any of that. He just wanted to enjoy the
utterly preposterous direction his usual crappy summer had taken.
He was in a five-star hotel. In London. Away from Privet Drive. Closer to
freedom. In a room that had a very big bed that he was most definitely going to
make thorough use of —
Hmm.
Wearing a severe expression of extreme consternation, Harry frowned at the bed.
Chewing on his lip, he frowned some more.
Then he looked down at himself, and frowned back at the bed.
He was in a five-star hotel.
Yes, yes, he had just acknowledged that but it was only now setting in...along
with the quickly proliferating feeling of intense discomfort. He was so
obviously out of place it was laughable.
Here he was, having come from jumping fences and running away from an
outrageously pissed of dog. There was no way under Avalon that he could climb
into the bed as he was: itchy from the cleaning charms Marvolo had thrown at
him and in dirty clothes.
Face-palming — there was nobody around! He could make immature expressions if
he wanted to! — he closed his eyes and whined.
He. Just. Wanted. To. Sleep dammit!
"Fine!" He threw his hands up into the air, surrendering. He glared viciously
at the bed. "Do not think I am done with you! I will be back!" Backing away,
eyeing the bed suspiciously — because there was no way a bed could look that
tempting — and making the universal gesture for 'I've got my eye on you’; he
trudged into the bathroom and flicked on the light.
Blinking at the marble — really, what did he expect? — he dismissed the bath
and sighed happily when he spotted the shower. Okay, maybe a shower was a good
idea. Maybe. He was not yet ready to admit that.
Shrugging out of his clothes, leaving them on the floor by the basin, he hopped
into the shower, twisting the taps and adjusting the water to the perfect
temperature of too-warm. Sitting down, he pulled his legs up to his chest,
propping his chin on his knees, and let that water rain down, washing his hair
into his eyes.
He could have this. A fresh start. A life away from pain and abuse, away from
the people he had thought he could trust...trust to keep him safe. He had
already taken the first step. Dumbledore would no doubt loose his lemon drops
when he realised Harry was no longer at the Dursley's.
The thought brought a small smile to his face: Dumbledore, sitting on his
throne — oh, sorry, chair —smiling benignly, eyes twinkling, then choking on
his lemon drop. The scene would no doubt give the portraits something to gossip
about for ages.
Harry doubted the old man would realise he was missing until he was well and
truly gone, though. He had the incurable habit of forgetting about him for
unexplainably long periods of time. But that would work in his favour right
now. He had time to heal. Make plans. Get himself together.
Live.
The steam slowly wafted out, condensing the air, making it difficult to breath,
snapping Harry out of the reverie the water had lulled him into too.
Quickly scrubbing down and blinking heavily, he shut off the water. Wrapped a
fluffy white towel around his waist.
Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror as he went to pick up his
clothes, he paused and turned. Planting his hands on the marble top, he stared
into the mirror, poison green eyes considering.
His chest was littered in faded scars, raised faintly above skin that had paled
from restricted exposure to sunlight. But they had closed over. And that was
enough to have him grinning sharply, running a hand over a particularly nasty
scar that cut across the side of his ribs.
He didn't remember where that came from.
Nevertheless, it appeared that the healing salve had been more effective than
To-Marvolo had anticipated it being. The thought almost had him pouting. He
rather...liked, he supposed, having Marvolo touching him like that, like he was
cared for.
He pressed his hand against the glass, touching that of the reflection,
narrowing his eyes in annoyance as his fingers shook.
Concentrating, Harry reached out for his magic. He had seen Marvolo do it, back
at the house, and he knew the theory behind the practice. Biting his lip
against the rush of euphoria he felt, the inexplicable need to giggle — because
he did not giggle, he chuckled. He was reserved like that — he directed an ashy
lime-coloured strand down to his hands, feeling the snapping cold burning down
his arms.
Releasing a pleased sigh when the feeling faded, he held up his hands to
narrowed eyes, straightening out the fingers and holding his palms flat.
No shaking.
Brilliant. One less thing to worry about.
Marvolo wouldn't be able to coerce him into going to a hospital now. Not that
he would have been able to, anyway. If there was one thing Harry knew about
hospitals — considering his glaring unfamiliarity with the institutions — they
kept records. And contact details. There was no reason why a magical hospital
should be any different. He checked in and Bam! Dumbles is striding down the
hallway and hauling him back to Privet Drive.
Yeah...not happening.
Fixing his reflection with a hard look, his mouth twisted in determination. The
day he returned to his old life would be the day Hell froze over and magicals
learned the definition of common sense. The likelihood of both of those
occurring at the same time was incredibly unlikely. He felt justified in
assuming it was never going to happen.
"New place, new start," he promised, feeling his magic spike in anticipation.
He turned away. "New memories."
Scooping up his clothes and padding out to the bedroom, he fished out his
shrunken trunk, placed it on the side-table and folded his clothes, setting the
lot on the floor for now.
Unshrinking his trunk with a tap, he knelt; opening the lid and bypassing the
protection charms he had had Dobby put on it. Pulling out the top layer of
school robes and books, he dug down to the bottom corner and pulled up a lumpy
package wrapped in brown paper.
Peeling back the paper revealed a neatly folded pile of clothes he had
collected and stored away. Extracting a clean pair of jeans, he pawed through
the jumpers, choosing one in particular.
Re-wrapping the bundle and placing it back in at the bottom of the trunk, Harry
began packing everything away. Having forgotten that his Invisibility Cloak had
been at the top of the trunk, and so now was at the bottom of the pile,
distracted fingers slid past it.
Standing up to retrieve the dirty clothing he had set aside, he tripped over
the Cloak, kicking it open.
Landing harshly on his wrist at the unexpected movement, he swore and twisted
around, trying to figure out what in the bloody hell he had fallen over.
Blinking at the silvery material — bloody typical it would be visible now — he
rolled his eyes in exasperation, and went to pack it away.
Now undone, the objects he had hidden beneath the floor-board showed. The photo
album of his parents was in there, along with notes the Twins had given him on
their conjectured Joke Shop. But that wasn't what his gaze immediately
flickered to.
No, his primary concern was a certain Diary; one that had once belonged to a
very particular Slytherin and one that he had filched — ahem, reappropriated —
from Dumbledore's office under the watchful, and admittedly uncaring gaze of
his Phoenix, Fawkes.
There was nothing quite like accomplishing something decidedly illicit within
the Headmaster's Office whilst being cheered on by Phineas Nigellus Black — a
previous Headmaster himself — as he swigged a butter-beer and froze the other
portraits.
Fingering the fraying edges of leather around the gaping tooth-mark in the
centre of the diary, he carefully settled it in the confining protection of his
Cloak once more before tucking the pile back into the trunk.
It was as he was closing the lid, ignorant of the throbbing in his wrist — high
pain-thresholds were not always a good thing to have – he thanked Merlin he
tripped over it. It would have been heart-breaking to have left it behind in
the hotel room just because the damned thing was invisible.
Shrinking the trunk once more so that, in the event of a panicked exit he would
not have to worry about that, he buttoned up the jeans and pulled the Weasley
jumper over his head.
Done in the quintessential maroon wool, a large, slightly wonky 'G' was
stitched onto the front in emerald green. The thought of Fred and George and
how they had approached him before the First Task, dragged him off to a
decidedly questionable alcove, stared at him blankly then thrust two jumpers
into his hands for good luck and rushed off to continue collecting bets had him
smiling fondly.
He may not know why he had not heard from them, but he knew they, at least,
would have tried, and that effectively took them off his Glare-At-Murderously-
If-Encountered list.
Right, well, now that he was clean and absolutely nothing was preventing him
from sleep — success! — he bit his lip and once again frowned at the bed.
It was just so...well made.
Ack! He refused to be prevented from achieving his goal again!
Huffing at his internal reluctance to disturb anything, he eased back a section
of the covers and cautiously slid between the sheets, almost melting at how
soft everything was.
Overlooking any qualms he had about disordering such an expensive room, he
buried his head into the pillow and sighed.
Merlin but had it been a long day.

===============================================================================

Date: 17th January 1995
Location: Claridge's, Corner of Brook and Davies Street, London.

The perfunctory sound of knocking upon the door could be heard throughout the —
until that point — blissfully quiet room. If he ignored it maybe...maybe it
would go away! Yes, that was a brilliant, fool proof pla—
The knocking came again.
Well, there goes that.
A groan came from the nest of blankets atop the bed, arms throwing the covers
back as a head emerged and blearily stumbled out of the bed.
"M'comin' you damn door, jeez." Rubbing his eyes, Harry tripped his way to the
door, blinking against the bright — very bright! — light that was streaming
through, blinding even behind the curtains. He paused halfway across the
sitting room, head swivelling in a sleepy mockery of a double-take. There,
resting innocently on a low table in the corner of the beautiful room was a
large square box. A television set. He could use a television!
Grinning, a certain peppiness leaving a bounce in his step, he flipped the
locks on the door and pulled it open to reveal...a room servicing waiter and a
cart?
Er. Right, because this was perfectly natural and he was not expecting someone
else at the door, not at all. It wasn't that he was disappointed...or anything.
He warily stepped aside, blinking in supreme confusion as he received a rather
bland incline of the head and the waiter trundled past him. Why on earth was
there a young man and a trolley in his room and why was he setting the table?
Wha?
Silverware was routinely laid out in meticulous order; gleaming plates
carefully lined up in exact positions and gloved hands nudging glasses into
place.
Ooh, the guy's looking at him. Should he tip him or something? Does he tip him?
Do people still tip? He thought they did...wasn't it really big in America?
Surely...Ugh, it was too bloody early for this!
When the servicing waiter merely straightened up, smiled pleasantly and left,
he sagged in relief because he did not know how to ask that question out loud.
His moment of relief was momentary, however, as a chuckle behind him had him
whirling, heart racing at the unexpected sound.
Seeing the lean figure of an incredibly smug Dark Lord leaning against the
wall, arms crossed and mouth smirking, Harry groaned miserably and buried his
head in his hands. Flapping one hand in his vague direction, he muttered,
"Should have known you'd be behind this."
Marvolo's smirk broadened as he appraised the sleep mussed figure of the
slender boy. Dark hair drifted around his head in wild strands, still wearing
the clothing he had evidently slept in and barefoot. If he were to take a
guess, he would say that the boy had something against shoes with how little he
appeared to wear them.
The jumper he wore looked hand-made and…not…his…
Catching sight of the enlarged letter 'G' caused a strange sort of
possessiveness to seep through him. A tightness in his chest that set him on
edge. Determinedly stomping that back before it gained ground and aggregated
into something wholly irrational, Marvolo pushed off the wall, stalking towards
the boy.
Harry sighed, surrendering — for now — to the infuriating machinations of Dark
Lords, and looked up just in time to see the decidedly predatory flash in
Marvolo's eyes as he moved towards him.
Swallowing, his head tilted further back the closer Marvolo got, stepping well
past the bounds of propriety. Not that either one of them had ever cared about
that. It was…strange, actually, how easily they both neglected their
instinctual needs to maintain personal space with other people, but never with
each other.
He stood his ground though, refusing to give in to the man that far. It was bad
enough he was so much smaller.
Marvolo stopped when he was so close they were almost touching, watching with
interest the way the boy swallowed. His mouth twitched in amusement as the boy
refused to step back, standing still.
"Back again?" And why did he sound so breathless? He had better control than
this. Now was not the time for it to desert him! Mentally wrenching his wayward
control back into line, he smirked. "And in the morning this time. My my. You
do know a habit takes three weeks to break, right?
Marvolo huffed, amused, and moved away, passing the boy. "I could not seem to
stay away."
Snagging the 'Do Not Disturb' sign from the hook, tying it around the handle,
Harry shut the door behind him, biting back the silly grin that wanted to break
out at hearing that. "So, what brings you by?"
Ruby eyes watched the boy bounce over to the small circular table and pull open
the curtains, angling his head away from the brightness, before perching on the
chair, elbow on the table and chin in his palm.
He shrugged out of his coat, laying it across the back of the armchair, and
took the other seat. Narrowed eyes noted how Harry made no move to touch
anything on the table, green eyes trained on him instead. He sighed. Another
habit trained since infancy, he assumed.
"You can eat, Harry."
Lurid eyes blinked and Harry shook his head slightly, distracted by the way the
man removed his coat. Now that he had no pressing concerns weighing him down,
no wrenching agony clouding his mind, he was only just beginning to wonder how
alike Marvolo and Tom truly were. The man's mannerisms had not changed since
his youth – that much was for certain. Even Tom had made the unconscious
drumming of his fingers when he set things down.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I know." He looked at the cloche covered dishes blankly. "Er.
What do I do with these?"
Because he could not be bothered getting up, Marvolo flicked his wand and
banished the bell-shaped bowls of metal back to the unassuming trolley
positioned by the wall.
Harry huffed, amused. "That certainly took care of that." And looked down.
Wide-eyes stared incredulously at the spread of food on such a small table.
Steaming eggs sat beside toast and cold meats, separated from the extensively
varied range of fruits by pitchers of orange juice and milk and a stack of
crepes. Oh by Merlins knapsack, he was so hungry.
He waited for Marvolo to begin plating up — painfully learned proclivities were
not so easily ceded — then began picking out a little bit of the fruit, eggs
and crepes, nabbing the syrup as he went. He was not in the mood for the meats,
no matter how mouth-watering they smelled.
Marvolo frowned, seeing the tiny portion the boy had amassed. "You need to eat
more than that, Harry."
Harry paused, an egg-laden fork halfway to his mouth. Lowering the fork, he
shifted, clearing his throat and looking down. "I can't."
Ruby eyes slowly bled crimson, their neutral colour, in concern. "What do you
mean by 'you can't'?"
Harry dragged a hand through his hair, furthering the effect that some dark
deity had tossed shadows at his head, contemplated him and said 'Yep, that's
works'. Marvolo's tone was tilting stable ground. He was used to pestering, the
constant reprimand to eat more, fill out, you're so thin, Harry.
He wasn't used to genuine concern. He had a feeling that, with Marvolo around,
he ought to get used to it. For a Dark Lord, he seemed to have an unusual
capacity for interest in his well-being.
Perhaps, he mused wryly, his obsession with killing him had morphed
into...mothering? In his bizarre, twisted, forceful sort of way.
"I physically cannot eat any more than what you currently see. If I do, I get
sick."
Crimson eyes flared scarlet before the man closed them and took a fortifying
breath.
"They starved you." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Right. Because locking him up, beating him and raping the boy wouldn't be
enough. They had to deprive him of absolutely everything as well —
Marvolo stood, prompting Harry to look up at him with a strange mixture of
worry and surprise.
"You okay?"
Marvolo nodded. "I'll be right back." And with that wonderful elucidation, the
man disaparated. Harry counted twenty-nine seconds before he was back and
handing him blue vial. "Nutrient Potion," Marvolo explained, seeing Harry's
questioning look.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Harry knocked back the potion, then
took a gulp of the orange juice. Oh, that was disgusting. "Thank you."
"What did you eat after I healed you?"
Harry bit down on a grape and swallowed, spearing another. "I had some tinned
soups under a floorboard. I would have been fine, but, as you obviously saw, I
couldn't exactly move very far..."
He trailed off, unsure of how to end that. He chewed the next grape
thoughtfully. "You didn't answer my question. Not that I'm adverse to it but,
what brings you by?"
Marvolo shelved his current thought processes that were heading in the
direction of thoroughly unchartered territory: self-blame. He should have
remembered Harry sooner. Sensing that the boy desired to speak on the matter no
further, he smirked slightly, rolling up a crepe and slicing into it.
"Is it so unbelievable that I desire and enjoy your company?"
Harry lifted a sardonic eyebrow. Bantering. Lovely.
"So it has absolutely nothing to do with the minions you call Death Eaters?"
"...I hate it when you’re right. They are utterly useless. Their table manners
are appalling."
"They are minions," he stressed the word, trying not to smile. It would
completely ruin the effect! "They're disposable. That's why they don't come
with capitalisations. Makes it easier to exchange them."
Marvolo's mouth twitched, lips trying to press together, before it broke out in
a grin. He chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, unaware that he
was imitating the inherent actions of his younger self implicitly.
Snickering — and inwardly congratulating himself — Harry scooped up another
forkful of eggs, humming a halcyon tune lowly.
"What's the time?" He asked quietly after a while.
Marvolo blinked, coming out of the lulling enjoyment of breakfasting with
Harry, how peaceful it felt. How normal. A casual tempus solved the query.
"Eight thirty."
"Hmm."
If Marvolo were any less of a Dark Lord than he — let's face it — already was,
he would be blushing at how eager he must seem to have accosted the boy so
early in the morning. He himself had never actively started seeking out people
until well past nine. And even then, they were only ever spoken to before ten
if they were extremely important.
He leaned back in the chair, shooting a glance at the trolley, seeing the pot
and silver dispenser.
"Would you like anything to drink?"
"Tea, if there is. No sugar."
Nodding in affirmation, Marvolo twitched his wand at the trolley, levitating
over the desired objects.
Harry rubbed his eyes, internally counting out the hours he had slept. If he
went to bed after twelve, been up for...Marvolo arrived at eight, which gave
around eight hours. He hadn't slept that long — he didn't count being
unconscious — since —
"I meant to ask, what happened to your spectacles?"
He blinked, looking up and gave a tired smile. Those had been the first thing
to be shattered this summer. "Horrid things, weren't they?"
Marvolo sipped his tea. "Rather." He smirked. "Although, they guaranteed I had
an advantage on the battleground.”
Harry rolled his eyes, not even surprised that the man would look at a physical
short-coming as a personal advantage. "Yes, well, the Weasley Twins might have
snuck me out of Hogwarts during third year and—," he coughed, "—apparated me to
Diagon Alley and gotten my eyes fixed."
Marvolo raised an eyebrow, intrigued at the light blush on Harry's neck. "Why
is that so unspeakable?"
"Well...they were fifteen—"
"And they were aparating?"
"Their older brothers are a Curse Breaker and a Dragon Trainer. Things like
licenses are needless complications." He flapped his hand before drawing his
teacup closer and pouring in a little milk. "Of course,” Harry said lightly,
recalling the occasion, "they weren't saying that after we got chased down
Diagon by several Auror's when they demanded to see their licenses." He sipped
the tea. "We lost them in Ollivander’s. Nice guy, that. Not much for rules,
either."
Noting the way Harry plucked at the jumper as he spoke, distractedly, Marvolo
concluded that it must have belonged to one of the mentioned Weasley Twins.
"What does the 'G' represent?" Not that he cared who it was that had given the
boy something he was so obviously fond of. No, he was merely...curious.
"George. Fred gave me one as well, for good luck during the Tournament. They're
good friends."
There was no satisfied feeling at the clarification of 'friends'. Absolutely
none. He was a Dark Lord, Morgana be damned. And until he had more than the
already conclusive proof he had managed to conjure during the few hours he had
been away from the boy that there was no impairment with the Restructuring
Potion, he refused to admit that he had always had so many emotions.
Harry gazed out the window while Marvolo continued eating. Morning traffic was
slowly crawling by, city-dwellers eager to commence their daily activities. The
buzz of activity was enjoyable to watch. It would be easy to get lost in a
crowd like that.
"Are you finished?"
He hummed in affirmation and rolled his eyes when the man once again flicked
his wand, clearing the table and banishing the trolley outside of the room. The
CCTV Camera Security guards were going to be so confused. "Honestly, you are so
lazy."
Marvolo smirked, pleased. "None of that now, wraith." He brandished a small
ceramic pot that Harry was certain had not been there a second ago....and there
was no wand movement...the man was showing off!
"Impressive." He flicked his eyes over to Marvolo, whom just smirked slightly,
drawling, "Glad you think so."
Intrigued jade eyes locked onto Marvolo as he stood, moved around the table and
crouched before him."
Harry blinked in bewilderment. The man was as good as kneeling!
"What are you doing?"
"Applying the healing salve. Was that not obvious?"
"No, I meant what are you doing down there?"
The man huffed, very much aware of the position he was in. "There was no need
for you to move," he muttered, and opened the jar.
Well, okay then.
"Who are you and what have you done with my favourite Dark Lord?"
"I am the only Dark Lord."
"Actually,” Harry peeled off his jumper, folding it and placing it in his lap
when Marvolo motioned for its removal.
Seeing that Harry was distracted, he tapped the chair with his wand, making the
boy yelp in surprise as the chair spun and morphed into a stool, leaving him
facing the window with Marvolo behind him. He laughed breathlessly, swaying
slightly in the aftermath of the sudden movement.
He continued talking, feeling the cool cream on his spine, aware the he was
babbling slightly. "There is this guy that lives a street over, on Mongolia
Crescent. Stevie, I think his name is. He has this brilliant costume that he
pulls out every fifth Sunday — don't ask me why, I have no idea. Anyway, nobody
can look him in the eye for two weeks after that. The kids drew a line of a
salt around his house once. If anyone is a Dark Lord, it's him. Even if he is a
bit reclusive."
Against his judgement, and before he could prevent it, Marvolo grinned. "And
what would this costume be?"
"Why on earth would I tell you that? Say you see him on one of his Sunday's. If
you already knew what about the costume, you wouldn't react in sheer terror and
he would be crushed!"
"If you say so. Though I cannot imagine I would have much competition with a
Dark Lord Stevie." Harry snickered and held still as Marvolo smeared the cream
across the faded scars that vaguely made out words. Hopefully the cream would
fade them down to illegibility. "You truly do attract trouble, don't you?"
Sighing dramatically, Harry looked away. "It follows me. Like a bloodhound. I
should invest in Cologne."
"Don't. I like the way you smell, it's calming," Marvolo replied distractedly,
leaving Harry blushing, and grateful that he was facing away because it was red
heat. Later, he would wonder where, exactly, his verbalistic control had gone.
Satisfied that Harry's back was done, he once again tapped the chair, steadying
the boy as he wobbled. "Chin up now; I need to apply the salve to your neck."
Harry obediently tilted his chin, staring at the ceiling. Light fingers rubbed
over faint purple bruises, leaving tingling in their wake. Why was it that he
didn't feel the urge to shy away from the man? Actually enjoyed his touch?
He lowered his head as those fingers moved to his chest, moving the cream over
the deeper burns that the first application of the salve had not been potent
enough against. Curios green eyes watched focused crimson.
Why did his life have to be so hard? Why was he, a teenager, being forced into
the middle of a war against a man that had cared for him — healed him...saved
him? If anything, getting involved would just be poor recompense. Not to
mention he had no bloody idea what the war was even about. Tom had been
infuriatingly tight lipped about it.
Harry had suspected that he merely hadn't wanted to admit that he was just as
clueless as he.
But throwing his lot in with Marvolo, in with the Dark, because he did not want
to fight for the Light by default screamed very poor thought processes. Surely
there had to be another way...
"I don't want to fight you anymore." He said abruptly.
Warm hands paused. "Pardon?"
"I don't want to fight. Not you. Not for them. I never wanted to be a part of
this war, Marvolo. I don't even know what anybody is fighting for. Hogwarts
library doesn't have anything and nobody will tell me, so...I'm done. I quit.
"Harry..."
"No, Marvolo. I mean it. I don't want to be used as some kind of weapon. Say,
hypothetically, that I did —Merlin knows how — manage to defeat you? What would
they do to me? I would've killed someone. They would imprison me, lock me up in
Azkaban. Maybe just flat out kill me! No." He shook his head. "I'm done. I'm
not fighting you. I'm not going to raise my wand against you with the intent to
harm if I don't have to."
Marvolo gazed at the boy pensively, still kneeling. What he was doing...
He swallowed. "Do you have any idea what you are doing?"
Harry's smile was remarkably pleased. "Handing you the Wizarding World. Why
would I want it? Bunch of bloody hypocrites, never deciding if they like me or
think I've gone completely mental — do not say a word," he warned when
Marvolo's mouth twitched. "I'm going neutral. Grey all the way...never did look
good in white, actually."
"Black would suit you better..." Marvolo commented off-handedly.
"Oh no you don't. Nuh uh. With how much I've listened to you complain about
your Death Eaters, you'll be lucky if I ever come near a meeting with you and
your minions with a ten-foot pole, moron repellent and am not under the
influence of some sort of Compulsion."
"...I notice you did not rule out the complete possibility of such an
occurrence."
Harry sighed forlornly. "I'm neutral now. I think I'm legally obligated not
to."
Chuckling, Marvolo considered the wraith before him.
Who would have thought that going to kill the boy all those nights ago would
have been so conducive? He certainly had not. If he had, he would have tried
this years ago. Oh...wait...he did...
Quite a few times, as well.
Well, if the boy was going to aver his political stance in a pseudo-vow, the
least he could do was reciprocate.
Swallowing around the tastes of conceding — for the first time in his life — to
someone else, around the thought of having someone he wanted to protect,
Marvolo looked at Harry intently.
"I, Tomas Marvolo Riddle hereby swear that, for so long as Harry James Potter,"
poison green eyes, that held confusion, slowly widened, realising what the man
was doing, "upholds his vow, I will rescind all threats on his life," of
course, Marvolo had intended to do that anyway, but including it in the vow
would undoubtedly reassure Harry, "nor will I raise my wand against him with
the attempt to harm. Should I purposefully or inadvertently attempt to impair
my sanity — as it stands — I ask Mother Magic to prevent such actions to ensure
my continued clarity of mind. So mote it be."
They were mere inches apart, magic thickening through the air as bonds of teal
light snapped around their left wrists, branding the skin before fading away,
leaving behind the weight of the vows.
"Why...?" Harry asked, not understanding why the man would make such a
concession.
"Magic is intent based, you may not have spoken the words for the vow, but the
strength of your intent to uphold it was there."
"No." Harry could not look away, eyes flickering between soft ruby. He licked
his lip. "No, why did you make that vow?"
Marvolo studied the boy, seeing the confusion in those green eyes that surely
must be a poison all on their own, piercing into what remained of his soul.
"Because..." He paused, brows creasing slightly as he found himself at a loss
for words in a very long time.
"…Because you disarm me, Harry Potter."
Harry's breath hitched. T-Tom had said that, so many times. How could he
continue telling them apart when they were so alike? How was he supposed to
continue denying the need he felt to just give up and forget and get as close
as possible to the comfort Tom had always offered and Marvolo was continuing?
He...couldn't.
And maybe that was way he leaned in, hesitantly, green eyes flicking between
unmoving red, indecisive and also resolute, and pressed his mouth to Marvolo's
Because he wanted to remember and he wanted to forget.
His blood ran cold when he realised what he was doing, realised that Marvolo
was not responding. Oh god, the man must think he was some bloody psycho that
just went around kissing people! There was no way he would want to talk to him
now. Mordred damn it all under Avalon, he had ruined everything because he was
impulsive and —
Marvolo stilled, stunned as Harry kissed him, blasted cerebral functioning
shutting down as those sin-inducing lips pressed against his and warmth shot
through him.
But then he heard the panicked increase in breath, felt the boy pull away. And
he found that he...did not want him to.
A warm hand cupped his cheek, so unlike his perpetually cold ones, pulling
Harry closer. He made a surprised sound at that. Wasn't the man mad? He had
completely overstepped whatever tentative line they had been exploratively
tapping along. Hadn't he?
Marvolo pulled the wraith closer, brushings his thumb across the cheekbone when
he heard the surprised sound, moving his lips against the teenagers. The boy
tasted of syrup and sage, sweet and enticing.
Tasting tea leaves as Marvolo ran the tip of his tongue against his lower lip,
Harry hummed, moving closer to the edge of the chair, gaining a tiny bit of
height in the movement. Marvolo tilted his head back as Harry moved, aware that
the seeking of that position would have been more unconscious than anything as
Harry instinctively sought out a safe position. Slender fingers wound into his
hair, and he smiled when Harry tried taking a breath without separating.
He pulled away, Harry panting slightly as he sucked in a breath.
Harry opened his eyes, not even knowing when he had shut them, feeling his
heart racing. He swallowed nervously. "S-sor—mn!"
Marvolo briefly kissed him again, cutting him off, knowing what Harry had been
intending to say, and then leaned his forehead against his. "Don't want to hear
it," he murmured.
They held that position for several seconds, enough time for them both to sort
out their heightened respiratory systems and post a Figure-Out-Later post-it
note on what they had just done.
"Did you have any plans for today?" Harry asked quietly, breaking the
comfortable silence.
"...No, it's Saturday. Had you intended to do something?"
Harry bit his lip in thought. There had been something earlier...
"Oh!" Harry sat up straight and grinned at Marvolo. "There's a television set!"
Marvolo merely blinked in the face of his excitement. The term was familiar.
Wasn't it a box? With a screen?
Harry nudged the man back enough for him to jump up, heading towards the side
table and looking for the remote control. "I've never had the chance to use one
before. Aha!" He whipped around, remote held triumphantly in his hand. He
peered at the buttons curiously, holding the thing up to narrowed eyes. "Will
you watch it with me? If left alone, I'm liable to blow the thing up by
pressing too many buttons."
Marvolo raised a dubious eyebrow. Muggles were putting such things in rooms
now? Surely not..."I doubt that is possible to accomplish, even for you."
"But you don't know that for a certainty, do you?" Harry levelled the remote at
him. "Are you willing to take that chance?"
Evidently not. Catching the lightness of the excitement in those eyes sent a
thrill through him, urging him to nod his head with a fond roll of his eyes and
stand.
Seeing the affirmation, Harry cheered and made to flop on the sofa when he
remembered where he was, which pulled him up abruptly, lurching him forward as
he rocked on his heels in deliberation. He haltingly took a careful seat on the
edge of the sofa-pillow, back straight, and went back to examining the remote.
There were so many buttons! So many! What did they even do?
It was only in seeing the manner in which Harry sat that Marvolo realised the
boy's careful positions were stemming from an uncertainty with which he could
use the room. Withholding his sigh — he could tell him to use the room however
he wanted but he knew Harry would never do that — he moved over to the sitting
area. Now it was his turn to be indecisive. Armchair? Or sofa?
Harry would no doubt —
Harry patted the seat beside him, catching the almost unnoticeable twitch of
the eye the man got when he was indecisive over something, and pressed the
large red button at the top of the control.
The screen flickered, crackling to life. There was a pause, and then images
flooded the screen, showing what appeared to be some sort of news panel.
"Yes, got it! Hah, you aren't so har — oh wait." So. Many. Buttons.
Marvolo took a seat, toeing off his shoes as he eyed the moving-picture box
warily. By Morgana, had the muggles figured out how to take Wizarding pictures?
This could have so many problems. If they were capable of puzzling that out,
what else could they achieve? If —
Harry huffed. "Stop thinking so hard. Honestly, this isn't magic, despite how
much it may appear so. I think it has something to do with pixels...or light or
something."
He had no idea what pixels were. Had he truly become so out of touch with the
muggle world? Apparently so.
Deciding to take Harry's word for it — he suspected going off and researching
the functioning behind this 'television' was not the appropriate time for it —
he propped his elbow on the armrest, crossing his legs and leaning his temple
against his palm.
Looking across, he smirked, amused, as the boy trailed a questioning finger
over the buttons, lightly biting his lip.
"Oh Merlin, I give up! Why don't the buttons come with labels? How does anybody
know what they are supposed to do?" He side-eyed Marvolo thoughtfully.
Scooting over, leaning into Marvolo's personal space — very much surprising the
man because he had assumed that the boy would try to keep as much distance
between them as possible, even if he had wanted him close — and offered the
remote control. "How do you think we change the Chanel?"
Cautiously swinging an arm onto the back of the sofa — he was not cuddling! —
he glanced at the proffered remote. Truly how hard could it b....
So many buttons!
===============================================================================
George: Enter!
Edmund: Dr. Johnson, Your Highness.
G: Ah, Dr. Johnson! Damn cold day!
Johnson: Indeed it is, sir, but a very fine one, for I celebrated last night
the encyclopaedic implementation of my pre-meditated orchestration of demotic
Anglo-Saxon.
G: (nods, grinning, then speaks) Nope -- didn't catch any of that.
J: Well, I simply observed, sir, that I'm felicitous, since, during the course
of the penultimate solar sojourn, I terminated my uninterrupted categorisation
of the vocabulary of our post-Norman tongue.
G: Well, I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds damn saucy, you
lucky thing! I know some fairly liberal-minded girls, but I've never
penultimated any of them in a solar sojourn, or, for that matter, been given
any Norman tongue!
E: I believe, sir, that the Doctor is trying to tell you that he is happy
because he has finished his book. It has, apparently, taken him ten years.
G: Yes, well, I'm a slow reader myself...
J: (places two manuscripts on the table, but picks up the top one) Here it is,
sir: the very cornerstone of English scholarship. This book, sir, contains
every word in our beloved language.
G: Hmm.
E: Every single one, sir?
J: (confidently) Every single word, sir!
E: (to Prince) Oh, well, in that case, sir, I hope you will not object if I
also offer the Doctor my most enthusiastic contrafribularities.
J: What?
E: `Contrafribularites', sir? It is a common word down our way...
J: Damn! (writes in the book)
E: Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm anispeptic, frasmotic, even compunctuous to have
caused you such pericombobulation.
J: What? What? WHAT?
G: What are you on about, Blackadder? This is all beginning to sound a bit like
dago talk to me.
E: I'm sorry, sir. I merely wished to congratulate the Doctor on not having
left out a single word. (J sneers) Shall I fetch the tea, Your Highness?
G: Yes, yes! And get that damned fire up here, will you?
E: Certainly, sir. I shall return interfrastically. (exits) (J writes some
more)
Long fingers carded though the dark hair spread across his lap. They were
watching what the television had declared was a 'Blackadder Marathon'. It had
taken three episodes for Harry to supply that a marathon appeared to refer to
back-to-back episodes of the same feature.
It was rather confusing.
Somewhere through the second episode, the boy had started fidgeting, prompting
Marvolo to raise an amused eyebrow and give him an odd look before Harry huffed
and laid down, wriggling around until he had his head propped on the man's
knee. At that point, Marvolo had realised what the wraith wanted and lengthened
the sofa.
Ah, magic. Completely and unrepentantly defying both reason and logic.
They were on the fourth episode now, the credits proclaiming the episode as
'Ink and Incapability', Harry snickering away at the antics of the actors and
Marvolo could honestly say that it was the most bizarrely surreal manner in
which he had ever passed a Saturday.
When the show cut off for an advertisement break, Harry rolled onto his back,
looking up at Marvolo. His legs dangled over the side of the sofa. Marvolo
looked down, intrigued, and curious jade eyes observed him in silent
contemplation.
"What is it you fight for?" Why the war? What was it that made the Light detest
the Dark so much?
Those fingers in his hair paused for a minute as red eyes darkened, then picked
up the distracted motion again as Marvolo sighed.
"When I...started, I wanted power. Of course, I enjoyed the adoration I
received, but all I wanted was power. Power meant change, it always will. There
will be no changing that, ever.” Yes. Harry was intimately aware of that fact.
“In the onset, my aim was to separate the muggle and Wizarding worlds. Too many
magical children were being raised by muggles, were falling through the system.
The Statute of Secrecy has never worked so well to begin with, Harry, but sixty
years ago? The Statute was failing."
Crimson eyes stared out at nothing, recalling his youth.
"Grindelwald was uncontrollable, waging war across the continents as Hitler
marched forward. The magicals knew about the muggle threat and fought against
the magical but the divide was never so clean. I lived in an orphanage in
London while the Blitz tore about stone and history. Even as Reapers —
Grindelwald’s followers — captured anyone dressed as a muggle near Wizarding
areas. It was..." Indescribable. "It was a nightmare, Harry. And I and so many
others were caught in the middle.
"I did not want to see that repeated. I knew the only way to ensure that was
total separation, no more parading around alongside muggles, believing we would
never be discovered. That almost happened in America. 1926. It’s only thanks to
Newt Scamander and one of his beasts that we did not find ourselves being
hunted down once more. At any rate, next thing I know, my Pureblood friends —"
Harry coughed disbelievingly. Marvolo rolled his eyes.
"Fine, wraith, followers, were introducing me to Wizarding customs and
traditions, beliefs that were once widespread that were slowly being sectioned
off like some kind of uncontrollable animal. Arcane Magic, as it is known now.
Magicals’ way of giving thanks to Mother Magic, ensuring the continuation of
such a gift.
"For every handful of muggleborns that were introduced to our world, another
piece of magic was prohibited. Banned. Magic is a living, breathing wonder and
the muggle lovers were tying her down in legislation."
As if in response, dark magic spiked sharply, agitated, ash rising too soothe
it.
"So..." Marvolo frowned. "So those that fought against the rulings were vicious
in their desperation. They were branded as extremists, were accused of being
practitioners of the Black Arts."
"What are the Black Arts?" Harry asked quietly, hesitant to disturb the
entrapping fog of Marvolo's voice when he entered what Harry had long ago
termed ‘Lecture Mode’. The show flicked back on, but he covertly pressed the
mute button — and yes, they had found that one!
"The Light would have everyone believe that it is wrong, freakish, an
abomination of nature that is best condemned, and then refuse to explain
themselves any further. Those that remember what it once was — what it still
should be — they agree that that magic should not be touched, but only because
it is dangerous to those not suited for it. To use the Black Arts, you have to
have been born into it. Your soul,” Harry wondered if Marvolo was aware of the
way his hand moved over to his heart when he said that, "Your core, your mind,
must already be able to wield that kind of magic. Those that try to use it and
cannot, are not suited, are punished by Magic herself and are, quite frankly,
better off dead in the end.
"Necromancy is the Darkest and rarest of the Black Arts, closely followed by
Soul and Blood Magic. Actually," he looked down, finding Harry still watching
him. He tapped his finger thoughtfully. "The Potter Vaults might have some
texts on more extensive clarifications. The Blood Ward Dumbledore was so
boastful about was Blood Magic, after all. Lily Potter would have needed to
have learned it somewhere."
Harry blinked. Vaults? As in, plural? Yeah, alright. He'll just go and add that
to the shelf of things to ask about later.
"Anyway, most of the olde families, when they heard what they were being
accused of, labelled, were so busy scoffing and correcting the Light fools that
they did not notice as their practices — their traditions — were being
slandered and disparaged within the schools; wreaking havoc on the beliefs of
the inheriting generations.
"By that time, it was clear to any who looked that Magic was weakening. Aside
from a few, the strongest magicals of the incoming generations were barely on
par — power wise — with their grandfathers. Inbreeding did not help, of course.
But once again, the Light appear to neglect mentioning that almost every family
— aside from the truly fanatic — are linked to numerous foreign families dating
back generations in their pamphlets...Squibs decreased in rarity, less magical
children were born. Magic was dying and...I had the means. The power, the
people."
Marvolo paused, frowning, and unconsciously pulled Harry closer, mulling over
his memories of that time, those years, even as Harry mentally reminded himself
to get a few books on Pureblood history.
"Dumbledore blocked me at every turn. Progress took too long. He was a powerful
wizard, there is no doubt about that, and his political position was solidified
with the defeat of Grindelwald; was in favour. You can imagine it was akin to
climbing an ever-heightening mountain when it came to trying to achieve any
change in the political battleground."
Marvolo looked down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb in small circles
in an attempt to order his thoughts. "My childhood was not far behind me at
this point. The latent fear of failure, of dying before I could achieve my
goals, haunted me at night. I went looking for a solution. I found references
of a crude off-cast of Soul Magic." He chuckled bitterly, Harry's hand
squeezing his briefly. It was...unfamiliar ground for the both of them.
"If I knew then what I do now, I would have never gone through with it. But I
was naive, so incredibly foolish and nobody, nobody, explained the risks of
that kind of Magic. There were no books, no sources of information. So...I did
the ritual. Achieved my immortality. And everything was fine, until...it was
not. The fear lingered, turning into paranoia, I suppose, so I pushed further;
another ritual, another piece of accursed magic.
"I lost sight of my goals. I was always a charismatic speaker, Harry, even as a
boy. Encouraging a more violent and uncouth approach really was not overly
difficult. The Purebloods embraced this new regime easily, having lost so many
family members to the muggles — entire lines were wiped out in the Witch
Burnings and the Hunts that came after. They hated the muggles, and thus the
muggleborns.
"The violence, the...the utter fear was not something I ever intended. I had
already lived through two wars, Harry; I had no desire to witness another."
Jade-coloured eyes flicked between dimmed wine, seeing the regret, the
knowledge that he had failed so profoundly through no other fault but his own.
"So what are you going to do now, Marvolo?"
The man released a heavy breath. "I honestly don't know. The problem is so much
more drastic, unutterably far-reaching. All Lord Voldemort achieved during his
reign was strengthening the support for the Light."
Harry hummed, lost in thought.
He shifted, sitting up, angled towards Marvolo. A sly, wicked smirk teased his
mouth. "Well..." he drawled slowly. "Nobody believes that Lord Voldemort is
back. Everybody is quite happy to go on believing that he died almost fourteen
years ago. So...start over. Achieve your agenda the way you should have the
first time." He poked the man in the arm. "Your followers are adults now. They
have power and influence. Take over the ministry from the shadows, there'll be
less opposition that way. Just no more stupid rituals, yeah?"
"Believe me," Marvolo huffed, "I am not doing that again."
"Then what's stopping you?"
"...Absolutely nothing."
Harry smiled, eyes alight. "Then do it. Start again. This can be a new start
for the both of us, Marvolo. You have your sanity back. Make the most of it."
The Dark Lord contemplated the wraithlike figure — overlooking the fact that he
had just been given a strategic talking-to by a teenager. The suggestion was
invaluable, the rest was merely semantics!
"I would like that, I think...but what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You need closure, Harry. I know from experience that leaving issues unsolved
encourages them to come back with a vengeance in the end."
"Oh, believe me,” Harry smiled, all sharp lines and bared teeth. There was a
flitting moment in which the air felt thick, poisonous, an unseen breeze
picking up and lifting Harry's hair so that it had never looked more like pure-
night, dark and unforgiving.
"They will get what's coming to them. I have had more than enough time to
imagine over the years exactly what I will do to Dursley's. Throwing Dumbledore
into the mix will seriously be no trouble. They both fear the same thing, after
all."
"And what would that be?" Ruby eyes locked onto green, delighting in the way
Harry's magic brushed against his in anticipation.
Harry smirked, eyes half-lidded. "Exposure."
Marvolo raised an intrigued eyebrow. There were only so many ways one could be
exposed, after all. And he admitted that the boy had narrowed down Dumbledore's
most susceptible yet insurmountable pressure-point with startling accuracy. He
wondered, if he asked, what Harry would say his was. He dared not find out.
"What have you planned, wraith?"
Laughing, Harry shook his head. "Oh no, I'm not telling you anything yet. It'll
ruin the surprise."
Marvolo leaned forward dangerously. "Is that so?"
Leery green eyes flickered down to his mouth, then back up again.
Moving slowly — he did not want to push too far — he raised his hand and
brushed it against Harry cheek, watching as the boy instinctively leaned into
the touch. "I could convince you."
Harry licked his lips. "I would like to see you try. I'm told I can be quite
stubborn."
Oh, he really should not have made it into a challenge.
Smirking, Marvolo closed the distance, making the barest contact with Harry's
lips. Ruby eyes watching as long-lashes fluttered shut. He pressed closer, a
hand sliding around to cup the back of Harry's neck, feeling hands on his
chest. He could not believe Harry was letting him do this, letting him so close
and not shying away.
Feeling Marvolo's mouth moving against his, Harry let his mind go blank, all
those inane questions that had been pestering him earlier going unasked as he
enjoyed the closeness. There was a soft moan, which he distantly noted must
have come from him as he tilted his head. Pushed up on his knees so that
Marvolo was not twisting so oddly.
It was Harry that pulled away this time, chest clenching in pleasure when
Marvolo made no move to press for more. Cursing the fact that air was necessary
for conscious, he smiled as he took a deep breath. Then he pecked Marvolo's
cheek, a breathless laugh when the man blinked, and laid back down, resuming
the position he had been in previously.
"Still not convinced," he remarked, biting his lip to hold back the grin when
Marvolo made an incredulous sound. He snagged the remote control up from where
he had placed it by the armrest.
Marvolo blinked. Had he just....Unbelievable!
Harry un-pressed — was that the right term? — the mute button, sound flooding
the quiet room as Blackadder gaped at Baldric in a new episode.
"I love this show." He decided. And Marvolo nodded along with him in
confirmation. It was rather ingenious.
Chapter End Notes
     For any who are interested, the extract is from Black Adder the
     Third, Episode 'Ink and Incapability'. The transcript for the the
     full episode can be found at www.ulrikchristensen.dk/scripts/
     blackadder/blackadder_3_2.htm
     ...That is a real website but I have no idea how to supply a
     hyperlink.
     Also, since this is here...
     Thank you to all my readers, commenters and kudo(ers?)!
     Honestly thought I would post this, leave it, come back in ten years,
     blink incredulously, blink some more, then jump around singing "I got
     five readers!".
     My expectations...where did they go?...
***** 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Apologies for the delay in updates. Ever sat and thought to yourself:
     damn, what's the name of that thing that just will not go away and
     let me write fanfiction? Ooh! I know! Life. Such a nuisance.
     Warning: Warnings apply to this chapter.
     Alert:
                                Flamers to be,
                                  I warn ye.
     ...I currently have a sofa in my garage that is awaiting the next
     bonfire. All flames shall be directed that'a'way. (Points somewhere
     over my shoulder.)
     =====================================================================
     =====================================================================
Date: 1&th June, 1995.
Location: An Undisclosed Hotel Room, Claridge’s, London.
No, no. NO! Uncle! Please d-don't n-n-mnf!
Harry bolted upright in the bed, choking on a scream. Hands were held around
his throat, trying to keep the sound in. Never let it out. Out. Have to get
out. Frantic legs kicked off the covers in the dark, becoming twisted and
tangled in the lengths of the sheets, in the nest of knots he had created. He
was sobbing in his desperation, shaking hands tugged at the sheets with
urgency, loosening them enough for him to free his legs. Tipping backward at
the loss of resistance, he fell out of the bed, hitting the floor hard and
hardly caring.
Heavy panting shattered the pre-dawn silence, fear laced and terror driven, as
Harry scrambled across the floor, caught up in the remnants of nightmare. Above
him, the blurry outline of a giant man — no, not man. Monster. The monster
loomed, an old, well-used belt looped in its meaty hand, a malicious smile
raising its mousta—
Harry hit his head against the leg of a chair, snapping back into a broken
reality with a resounding crack. For a moment, he was held under
disorientation; unmoving. Then he was gasping, blinking rapidly to clear his
vision and looking at the faint outlines of the bedroom.
Not there.
He felt around in the darkness, standing and slowly edging his way along the
wall. He should have never closed the curtains. He knew why he had, anything to
further close in the small pocket of safety. But maybe he should have left on a
light. He moved further and further away from the desk, feeling that he had
missed what he was looking for, until he fell through an open doorway, caught
himself and flicked on the light.
Hotel room. Safe. Not there. Not with Him. Can't touch me.
Weak legs gave out beneath him, sliding down the wall where he curled up in the
doorway of the bathroom. Unseeing eyes gazed at the bed as a hand covered his
mouth, knees hugged tightly to his chest. I'm safe.
He barely felt the tears on his cheeks, that uncomfortable warmth that stung
the eyes, drying in streaks. His hand clawed at his chest, trying to ease the
crushing weight that his heart was beating so violently against. Trying to
release the air that he was choking on.
Oh god, breathe. Breathe you're safe.
...How far would he have to go for that to truly sink in?
He sniffed, gulping down air and rubbing his eyes. His lungs burned but it was
welcomed. It hurt in a real way. He could tell it apart from sleeping.
He screwed his eyes shut, pushing the heels of his fists against them. Just a
dream. A horrible, terrifying nightmare that was more memory than creation, but
a dream nonetheless.
The Whale would never touch him again.
Red-rimmed eyes glanced at the small digital clock on the bedside-table. The
glowing numerals displayed 0319.
His head fell back against the doorway, tiredly rolling to the side. Despite
the ungodly hour, he was too worked to try going back to sleep. He needed to do
something...he eyed the bath thoughtfully.
Getting up, a hand holding steady against the wall, he moved across the cold
tiles and sat on the side of the bath, twisting open the taps. As the bath
began to fill with hot water, green eyes sought out the bottles of soap,
landing upon one that looked as though it held potential. A trembling hand
picked it up, turning it over to reveal the label.
Bubble Bath?
Harry lifted an eyebrow, considering it.
Eh, why not. A generous dollop was added to the water before the lid was closed
and the bottle replaced. Being perved on by a ghost kind of ruined his first
ever bubble-bath experience at Hogwarts. He might as well make use of the
blissfully ghost-free quality of the hotel. They tended to flock to him when he
was alone — and always when he was moody — so he was taking no chances, trying
to release a 'So Not In The Mood' vibe in his magical aura. That ought to keep
them away.
Grabbing the loofa from the cabinetry, he stripped, climbed in, soaped up and
began scrubbing vigorously. He needed to get rid of the feeling of Him.
His skin turned a painful pink, raw, as he lost himself in the methodical
motion of sterilisation, letting his mind focus entirely on the action.
Eventually though, the water cooled, bubbles drifting away and he could no
longer convince himself that scrubbing his body down thrice was a recognisable
display of a healthy state of mind. If anything, it might give people the
impression the he was a germophobe. Though, they would actually have to see him
scrubbing himself raw first, and that was never going to happen, so he likely
did not have to worry.
Rinsing out the loofa and leaving it on the side of the tub, he opened the hot
water valve to warm up the bath. Less than a second of contemplation was all it
took for him to suck in a breath and submerge his head, hair fanning out around
him as hair is prone to doing when it finds itself weightless.
He held his breath.
How did people do it? How could they continue with their lives, go about
routines, acting, pretending, that nothing was amiss? Perfectly fine, they say.
Never better. How did they not blurt out how very much not fine they truly
were? How broken, how...dirty.
Warm water rushed into his ears, distorting the sound of his heart into a
resonating murmur. He wished it would wash away those memories. Clean them.
Change them. Take them and distort th—
He surged upwards, breaking the still surface, coughing and slightly out of
breath but he gave such insignificant details no heed. He had it. He had the
solution. All he needed to do was distort those memories. Obliviates were out.
Nobody was playing with his mind. His sanity was questionable enough as it was.
Intentionally going and fiddling with it would just show very poor judgment.
Permanent damage was almost guaranteed at this point no need to expediate the
psychological trauma of his childhood.
No, what he needed was to override those memories. Make completely new ones,
ones of a better experience that he could use to compare. Get His hands off
him.
Drown and begin again in the overflow.
Of course, the only way to create those memories would be to sleep with
someone.
He pulled his legs up, burying his legs between his knees as he tugged at his
hair in frustration. So…sex…yeah. Get a grip Harry! It was just sex, dammit!
People did it all the time; it was a core function that the continuation of
humanity depended on! There had to be something good about it...right? Surely,
surely it was not like…it was not about dominance and violation...or else it
would not be done…would it?
"Gah! This is completely bloody mental!" Lovely. Talking to himself. Maybe he
should start keeping a record of his sanity, keep a track of when the lack of
it became official.
Because there was no reason why people would sleep together if there was
something wrong with it. The Twins themselves said it felt good — although,
they only had second hand experience from Bill and Charlie, so really they
could have misheard and messed up the translation and…he was overthinking this.
Stop it.
Honestly, how hard could it be? Yes, he had issues with people touching him,
and he was carrying around a cauldron of lead worth of emotional and
psychological baggage which was undoubtedly liable to get lost in shipping
because there was so much of it, and he was used and dirty and w—
He scowled, mentally slapping himself out of it.
"You are not what they made you," he snarled at the water. Yanking on his hair
viciously for emphasis.
He only needed to find somebody he trusted and —
That pulled him up short, he was vaguely aware the he was leaving quite a few
sentences unfinished but he brushed that thought aside, labelling it as
inconsequential. He had just stumbled upon a critical component of the plan. In
fact, it was the very thing upon which everything balanced. Rather
precariously, he might add.
Someone he trusted. Someone that would not hurt him.
He didn't trust anyone to not bloody well hurt him!
Harry blinked at the water, nibbling on his lip, his determined efforts to
uproot his hair desisting.
There was one person – one person he could trust like that out of every single
bloody puppet that had paraded by, flaunting cheap facades of familiarity. One
person that had long ago ceased putting on airs around him, that he could say
truly cared. Marvolo. Marvolo may not have the memories of his Diary self, but
there was enough of the boy Harry had once trusted wholly to enable him to feel
that some sense of security. He may never truly understand what went wrong that
day in the Chamber, but he was not about to allow an erroneous moment of
misjudgement dampen the hours they had spent together.
So, Marvolo. The man was a serious option. He had vowed – vowed – to not harm
him, giving ample reason to put his faith in him. Had healed him when he could
have easily left him for dead. Even as Voldemort, when he too deeply entrenched
in the suffocating miasma of insanity, the man had never lied to him
Oh by Merlins Cursing Hat, he was trying to talk himself into having sex with
Voldemort! If he did not already know what was wrong with him, he would
seriously have to begin questioning himself...a....while ago.
Despite his best efforts, he felt the blush heating up his cheeks as he thought
of kissing the man. On that note, as he had very much liked snogging him, it
would just be ridiculous to try and deny any attraction because by Magic was
the man attractive.
Harry climbed out of the bath, towelling off, dressing in the same jeans he had
worn the day before. He pulled on Fred's old jumper and padded over to the
window as he vigorously rubbed his hair dry. Pulling the curtains open, he
folded down beside the glass.
Not yet five. The morning traffic had yet to start in earnest, but a few cars
crawled along below, lamplight casting golden shadows across their silhouettes.
He should not overthink this. If he did, he would merely get all worked up and
that never ended well for anybody. No, it was best if it just happened.
He leaned his head against the glass, breath fogging slightly, heart-rate
having settled down to a steady beat a while ago. He knew what he wanted.
Needed. That would have to be enough.
For now, though, he refused to go back to sleep. He had no interest in
replaying those memories. He was satisfied, soothed even, with watching the
time go by.

===============================================================================

With precise movements, Marvolo twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the
door, avoiding the knowingly amused look the Servicing Waiter shot him as he
trundled past.
So he was wary about waking Harry up at what he had been told – courtesy of
Nagini – was an excessively early time. Sue him. He may be a Dark Lord but he
was first and foremost a Slytherin. Self-preservation was a high priority.
He looked around while the waiter deposited the breakfast trolley by the wall,
unsurprised to find that Harry appeared to still be sleeping. He stepped into
the bedroom when the waiter left.
The curtains were open, flooding the room in an odd sort of golden light, the
noise of London's streets drifting up from below. He frowned when he realised
Harry was not in the bed, the covers made and looking as though they had not
been touched, nor was he in the bathroom.
Not admitting that he was, actually, rather worried — because he was, but Dark
Lords did not give in to their worry. They overcame it. Dramatically. — he
turned around and pulled up short. And no, the breath he released was not one
of relief. It was a coincidence.
He wasn't even fooling himself. This was a tragic time for him.
Anyway, now that he could admit that he had been worried, he was relieved to
find the boy curled up asleep in front of the window.
Marvolo crouched next to him and shook him gently, wondering at the odd
position.
Blurry green eyes blinked up at him in confusion. Then Harry groaned as he
realised where he was and rubbed his face. Unbelievable. He fell asleep in
front of a window. "Hi."
Marvolo raised an eyebrow, pulling the boy up with him. "Hello to you, too.
Dare I ask?"
Harry tugged on his jumper; Marvolo noting the 'F' with a poorly repressed
scowl that went unnoticed. "Bad dream."
Mentally shaking himself, Harry screwed his eyes shut for a second, then smiled
brightly. "Did you bring breakfast again?"
Understanding that Harry wished to not speak about his night, Marvolo smirked
and led him to the table. "Of course. Think of it as my way of excusing the
early hour."
Harry rolled his eyes, grabbing the teapot as he passed the trolley and
flapping his free hand dismissively at Marvolo. "Pfft. Like I care what time it
is. You brought food. I'll forgive you anything."
He sat, pouring the beautiful, godly, life-giving, closest-muggles-were-ever-
going-to-get-to-magical elixir — commonly known as tea — into two cups. He
quirked an eyebrow once he had taken a sip. "Although, you do realise the
phrase 'hunting and gathering' only applies when something is actually hunted
and, well, gathered." He gestured to the layout on the small table. "I don't
think room-service counts."
Marvolo's mouth twitched, amused. "It's all about intent, little one." He dug
into his pocket and produced a vial of nutrient potion. Harry took it without
even batting an eyelash and knocked it back with a pained grimace, swallowing
the rest of his tea. Horrid, horrid stuff.
"How so?"
"I had no intention of hunting or gathering. Instead, I aimed for providing.
Completely different notion."
"Ah, so, because you didn't actually intend to do one, you cannot have failed
to achieve it."
"Precisely."
"You are unbelievable." Harry bit into his croissant.
"You wouldn't have me any other way."
Harry cast a slow, considering gaze over the man, and hummed. Unhurried, a
wicked smirk crept over his face. Not for the first time, Marvolo was left
desperately wondering what exactly went on inside that mind of his. Truthfully,
he was not so sure he wanted to know.
His sleep-fogged brain chose that moment to remind him of the conclusion he had
arrived at only a few hours earlier, momentarily clenching his heart in
anxiety. He mentally attempted to shake it off but had to settle for ignoring
the feeling. Harry swallowed the bite of pastry. "No, I don't think I would."
The boy looked down so Marvolo busied himself with eating.
Barely five minutes had gone by before he became aware of the nervous energy
exuding from his dining partner.
Unsettled despite himself, Marvolo studied the boy, crimson eyes revealing
nothing. Fidgeting fingers had plucked apart the French pastry, half of it
uneaten on the plate, while his knee bounced to an unheard rhythm, poison green
eyes fixated on the table cloth where he straightened his unused cutlery into
perfect lines.
Yes...something was definitely wrong.
"Something the matter?"
Startled jade eyes flicked up to his. Harry swallowed, eyes darting away. His
heart was in his throat. Was that normal? No…no, something told him his heart
should still be in his chest so what on earth was that large, lumpy thing that
was making it difficult to speak?
Thin fingers tapped against his leg nervously. He could just ask. It wouldn't
be that hard, right? Think about what he wanted to say, open his mouth,
neurones firing from his brain to his vocal cords, something absurdly
scientific and utterly unexplainable producing sound. Wait for an answer. Easy.
Red eyes narrowed in concern. "Harry?"
Taking a deep breath that was not calming in the slightest bust ensured he did
not pass out from lack of oxygen, Harry looked at Marvolo. He opened his mouth
and floundered helplessly. Wonderful. Right, let's try a different approach.
Pushing his chair out — shoving aside every alarm currently screaming in his
head — Harry stood and slowly moved over to Marvolo.
Brows creased, Marvolo frowned up at Harry, pushing his chair out slightly,
wondering what the boy was doing.
Licking his lips, Harry solemnly regarded the man that had saved his life.
Well, nothing for it, really.
Grasping the remnants of his Gryffindor courage, Marvolo barely saw the boy
move before lips were pressing against his, hesitant and soft but determined.
When Marvolo made no move to pull away, Harry hummed and proceeded to thread
his fingers through the neat hair.
Still thoroughly nonplussed, Marvolo was unmoving for a second, but when those
fingers tugged lightly, he shrugged off his concerns and pulled the wraith
closer.
Oh good. He's responding. Thank Merlin for that.
Harry's magic spiked, distractedly banishing the empty plates back to the
trolley. He jumped up onto the edge of the table, drawing his legs up and
settling his feet on either side of Marvolo's lap. Marvolo licked at his bottom
lip, sliding his hands along Harry's thighs.
Eventually, Harry pulled away and took a moment to regain his breath. Never
looking away from those ruby eyes, he cleared his throat. He could do this. No
big deal.
"I want to ask of you a favour."
Marvolo frowned. Of all things, he had not expected that. Harry was eerily
still, seemingly defying every requirement of motion.
"Anything, little one."
"I need..." Harry paused. "No, that's not…Merlin, this is difficult." He
exhaled sharply. "Marvolo. I, um…willyousleepwithme?"
Did he just...? "Excuse me?"
Harry whimpered. Gods above was this embarrassing. "Will you please sleep with
me?"
Marvolo leaned back. So he had not misheard. "Do you know what you are
requesting?"
Harry laughed shakily. "Trust me; I am perfectly clear on what I am asking.
Frankly, I don't think there is anything I have ever been clearer on."
"...Why?"
Mouth twisting, Harry looked down.
Seeing the shoulders curl inwards, Marvolo stroked a thumb across the pale
cheek, urging the boy to look up. "Harry, I'm not…saying no. I just don't
understand."
Green eyes closed. "I don't want to only know pain, Marvolo. But I have no one,
no one, else I trust. I leave tomorrow. I don't…" He laughed bitterly,
brokenly. "I don't exactly have the time to develop a proper relationship right
now. You…you make me feel safe. I trust you. I'm comfortable with you. I don't
want those nightmares anymore."
Marvolo swallowed. "You're fourteen, Harry."
Harry glared at him. "If I'm old enough to fight in a war I'm old enough to
give my consent. I'm not some child that has no idea what he's getting into."
Marvolo sighed. "I know that."
"....Please, Marvolo."
Hesitant crimson eyes flickered between intense poison. He nodded sharply and
exhaled. "Alright."
The Dark Lord stood. Harry hesitated, and then hopped off the table. No going
back now.
He followed Marvolo into the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed.
Clasping his hands together, lime green eye tracking the slow movements of the
older man.
Marvolo slowly toed off his shoes, mind frantically scrambling to figure out
how he was going to do this.
Harry lifted an eyebrow when the most feared Dark Lord of the century appeared
to freeze in the centre of the room, many feet away from the bed, and just
fixed him with a blank stare.
At that moment, they were both thinking one thing. This was so awkward.
Avalon curse it all. Mustering his dwindling supply of courage, boosting it
with the determination known only to a few, Harry stood, crossed the distance,
hands clutching the dark fabric of Marvolo's shirt, and proceeded to drag the
man over to the bed, pushing him down and sitting beside him.
"I think this would be easier if you kissed me." Harry deadpanned. Honestly, he
had no idea what he was doing! Why wasn't the man doing anything? Jeez.
Marvolo glared at him, but it was halfhearted at best.
The man opened his mouth, then seemed to rethink it, and closed it again. Jade
eyes narrowed. Licking his bottom lip and grabbing whatever determination he
possessed, Harry shifted toward Marvolo before the man could try and talk him
out of this.
Whatever the Dark Lord had been about to say was cut off as soft lips pressed
against his own, a hand reaching up to cup his cheekbone while another pressed
against his shoulder. For a moment, wine-red eyes were wide. Then the wraith
pressed up against him, humming, running soft fingers into his hair. A light
body settled itself on his lap; legs straddling his waist and his inhibitions
went up in fiendfyre.
Hands pulled Harry closer, gentle and warm and there on his neck, in his hair.
Marvolo groaned, moving his lips against his, deepening the kiss as he tilted
Harry's head to the side for better access. And Harry hummed; pleased, pulling
back to brush whispers of kisses on the corner of Marvolo's mouth and up across
his jawline before the man's grip was tightening and dragging Harry back. A
tongue licked across his bottom lip and he was so warm that he could only
oblige the silent request, opening his mouth with a sigh.
His tongue licked at Harry's, sage teasing in its flavour and he could feel the
wraiths determination to keep up in the hesitant strokes. Then Harry bit down
on his bottom lip, teeth softly nipping and he growled, pulling away to place
heated kisses to the boy’s neck, his jaw, sucking and nipping at his ear.
Harry's breath hitched and he somehow pressed closer, hands in hair moving and
tightening until Marvolo was gasping, placing open mouthed kisses on the
frantic pulse-point. He licked and sucked, biting down then soothing with his
tongue, laying claim. Harry moaned, eye-lashes fluttering, something
unidentifiable tingling along his veins. This moment, he did not want to
forget. He needed to guarantee that the man would not stop.
"M-Marvolo." Pale hands tugged at hair and Marvolo looked up, dilated ruby eyes
meeting darkened green. Harry kissed him quickly, breath coming in soft pants.
"P-please. I don't want to remember. I don't want His hands on me. T-this is a
new start. New memories. You are the one I want to make them with."
Marvolo looked at him; really looked, seeing the emotions that he knew tried to
Harry keep buried. Saw the pain and desperation, the determination and the…the
affection.
"Are you certain, Harry?"
Harry shivered, eyes darkening at the husky tone, before he grinned.
"Positive." He pressed a kiss onto the man. "Just...go slow, yeah?"
Marvolo smirked, hands sliding under fabric and onto skin, fingers trailing
upwards, the jumper rucking up. "Of course, little one. But I'm promising you,"
Harry's arms rose willingly, his shirt being pulled over his head, thrown
carelessly to the side. Marvolo leant in and whispered darkly into his ear,
"I'll have you begging me to go faster before we're done."
The moan Harry gave when he once again turned his attention to the already
developing mark on the boy's neck was enough to send a burn racing through his
abdomen, flaring in anticipation when the boy gasped out, "Oh, Merlin, I'm
holding you — uh — you to that."
Marvolo hummed, bit down lightly, and groaned when Harry arched and brushed
against his arousal.
Warm hands travelled down over a scarred torso, a mouth not far behind and all
Harry wanted was for him to come closer and oh—
Harry's breath stuttered as teeth closed lightly over his nipple, rolling it
and tugging tenderly. Marvolo looked up at him, smirking. Heat rushed through
him, his head falling to the side as the man returned to his task, teasing the
sensitive flesh until it was flushed, darkened, the pleasure almost painful
before moving to the other one. Harry was panting now, but he still had enough
presence of mind to realise that there was something incredibly unfair
happening.
He shoved the Dark Lord back, and bit his lip at the almost outraged but mostly
confused expression he received.
"You're wearing too many clothes."
At this, Marvolo’s confusion cleared, only to be replaced by something
decidedly predatory. Delighting in the way the green of the boys eyes almost
entirely disappeared and magic seemed to hang in the air, suspended, he leaned
forward, never looking away. "Then perhaps you should do something about that,
my lovely wraith."
Groaning at the possessive tone, fingers eagerly rose to take off his shirt.
But he was pulled up short. His quest thwarted. There were just…how was he…why
were there so many buttons?! Was it really so much to ask to just get the damn
shirt off? Refusing to pout in his despair, he fumbled at the first button with
shaking fingers, and seriously contemplated how upset Marvolo would be if he
just ripped it. His pondering did not last for long before the fabric vanished
beneath his fingertips. He blinked, momentarily stumped. Then he shrugged.
"I have no idea where that went," he muttered and leaned forward to lay kisses
on the man's neck.
He quickly realised that his soon-to-be lover had stopped moving, tensing,
dropping a lead weight in his stomach. Crimson eyes were fixed on him with an
unreadable expression. His hand slid to the man's cheek in concern.
"What?" What did I do? What's the matter?"
No answer came, Marvolo's mouth tightening slightly. Worried green eyes
flickered around; trying to determine what had set the man off. When his gaze
landed on the man's shoulders, he understood immediately what was wrong.
It would appear he took off more than the shirt. Who knew accidental magic
worked so well on glamours?
Fingers slowly traced over the long scars that peeked above the tips of
Marvolo's shoulders, long scars that Harry knew travelled across his back in
orderly disarray. Scars from the orphanage beltings.
He brushed a kiss over the one closest. "'M sorry."
Marvolo's mouth twisted. He was utterly unable to name, never mind conjure the
face of, the last person to have seen his scars. The parselmagic glamour that
Harry had so easily ripped down was a long-time friend. "I don't want your
pity," he snapped.
Harry's eyes narrowed as he pulled back slightly. "It's not pity, you prat."
Marvolo looked at him. "It's care. Your scars mean little to me. I care that
you had to go through that. Now stop being an idiot!"
Admittedly, Marvolo was quite amused to find that he was unbothered by the
command. "You...do not seem surprised to see them."
Harry's eye twitched. He was pretty damn sure it was not a good idea to mention
other boys when trying to get into bed with someone. Although, they were,
technically – on a semantic level – the same person, so…
He'd just say it. While eyeing the man warily. "Tom showed me."
Ah. Marvolo was unsurprised to find he expected that. It certainly explained
Harry's reaction. Besides, they were talking about his soul, here. He could
hardly go and become uncomfortable about it. That simply oozed narcissistic
undertones. He raised an eyebrow when a thought occurred to him. "What was your
relationship with my younger self?"
Ooh, not good territory. Very much not good. "Best friend." First crush…Slight
untruth it was, then.
Marvolo hummed, mouth tugging upwards knowingly. How could a sound be so
damning? Or maybe Harry was just overthinking it — "You truly do not mind
them?"
Harry fixed what was supposed to be one of the most intelligent students to
have ever graced the halls of Hogwarts with an impressively deadpan stare. "I
have worse, Marvolo."
The insensitive Dark Lord winced. "Yes..." He said slowly, and then he smirked
and yanked the boy closer. "’Though on you, yours are rather beautiful."
Harry bit his lip, blushing. When Marvolo chuckled, pleased, Harry cleared his
throat, trying to get back on track. He was doing something before this…ah…
"Yes, well, I can't get your trousers off!"
The smirk returned and Harry scooted backwards as Marvolo shimmied out of the
dark fabric, kicking the pile to the floor. His own went next. Taking control
of the situation, now that he realised Harry truly was unbothered, Marvolo
motioned for the wraith to undo them himself before tauntingly pulling them
down his legs.
"Lay down," he urged softly. Seeing the flash of fear, he clarified, "on your
back."
Drawing a deep breath, Harry lay back, watching as Marvolo ran large hands up
his calves, leaving fire in their wake, along the insides of his thighs, slowly
climbing.
Merlin, his blood was singing, burning, craving. A mouth was trailing over his
skin, red eyes half-lidded, jade unable to look away.
Pressure on the insides of his thighs had him tentatively spreading his legs,
shivering at the hum that echoed along his bones. A pale chest heaved, every
breath a struggle as all his mind wanted to do was shut down and —
He cried out, hands clenching bedsheets as a tongue licked up the vein that was
now throbbing along his length.
"Mar-Marvo-oh!-lo!" Hips stuttered forward and knuckles turned white even as
knees bent and legs spread wider.
"Sh-Sh, just enjoy it." Marvolo laid a hand across Harry's hip to keep him
still even as he reached up and flicked across a nipple. His mouth closed over
the head of his wraiths member at the same time as another cry turned into a
broken moan. Sucking, teasing, and slowly, slowly, Harry became a gasping mess
below him.
Finding himself unprepared for the direction the day had taken, the man
whispered a lubricant spell that went unheard amidst the moans but Harry froze,
feeling the slight widening and sliding inside of him.
"Harry? Look at me, Harry, can you do that?" Marvolo's voice was low, soothing.
Feeling the man stop, hearing the concern in his voice, was reassuring. Harry
opened his eyes, wondering when he closed them.
"Do you want to continue, Harry?"
Did he?
He'll hurt you. He did. Why is he different?
A hand brushed through his hair, spreading it over the pillow as another body
slowly moved over his; skin barely touching. Up this close, Harry could see all
the tiny flecks of colour in Marvolo's eyes, felt his breath mixing with his.
Slow kisses and closing eyes, travelling hands over shoulders and down waists.
"Tell me Harry." Swollen lips moving. "Do you want…”
Hips rolled slowly down, dragging, then rocking forward and up. Green eyes flew
open even as his back arched, wanting more, more...
Lips at his ear. "More?"
Yes, yes. What the hell kind of question was that?
"Words, Harry." Teasing now, soft. "Use them."
Soft gasps as the motion was repeated. "Y-yes. Ple-please."
"What is it you want?"
"M-mo-ore Marvolo! Plea-ease, yes."
"Then relax." His voice caressed the word, like it was something both valuable
and unspeakable. Dark eyes locked with his, catching Harry's breath in their
sincerity. "I will not hurt you Harry. I swear." Another roll of the hips.
Harry sucked in a breath, exhaled and nodded.
Lips attached, tongue moving against his as a hand reached out and snatched up
a pillow. Raised his hips. Gentle. Safe. I'm safe.
Marvolo moved back down, leaning back on his heels as he looked at this vision
incomparable beneath him. Pale skin shone with the thin sheen of sweat, scars
layering over the flesh in silver. A scarlet blush was spreading across
cheekbones, down a purple decorated neck; panting for breath even as
he swallowed and large poisonous eyes gazed up at him. There was trust in those
eyes, in the way the boy made no move to cover himself, allowing this. It was
in this moment that Marvolo abandoned shutting down the spreading warmth, that
fondness, that desire to touch and hold. Instead, he resigned himself to
letting it fester and coil; knowing that sooner or later, he would be left
wandering what kind of poison it was he had chosen.
Right now, though, all he knew was that this ethereal creature, his wraith, was
his.
"Don't tease me Marvolo."
Amused, he quirked an eyebrow, a smug smile twitching at his mouth. "Would
never dream of it, darling. I'm just deciding where to start."
Hands pulled him down and closer. "Bloody Slytherin's. Always planning
something…just get on with i-ah!"
Muscles clenched around the finger that had unexpectedly slid in to him. But
there was no pain. That alone was enough to keep him from flinching away.
Marvolo looked down with his damningly lecherous smirk. "You were saying?"
The boy just glared up at him. Twitched his hips.
"Good?"
Fingers squeezed his shoulders. Deciding to take that as 'yes, go ahead,' he
slid his finger slowly out and in again.
The finger crooked, wiggling, then pressed down on the bundle of nerves and
Harry was panting and arching. "There it is," Marvolo exhaled onto his neck,
sending shivers down his spine.
Harry did not even bother questioning what it was because the finger was
pressing again, brushing, he was so lost in the pleasurable buzz that was
curling his toes that he did not notice the second finger, or the third, nor
the fourth. Marvolo took his time stretching him, dark eyes watching Harry for
any sign of pain or discomfort. All Harry knew was that when Marvolo retracted
his hand and pulled away he was left whining and twitching and when did his leg
get up there?
Marvolo chuckled at the dismayed look he received. Moving quickly lest Harry's
cognitive functions decide now was an appropriate time to kick in; he slicked
up his length with another lubrication charm, lined up and carefully pushed in.
By Mordred, it was so hot and tight—
Whatever breath Harry had froze in his chest then shattered out as nails dug
deeply, leaving bloody crescent moons in their wake. Marvolo's face was pressed
into his shoulder, panting, arms trembling in his effort to hold as still as
possible while Harry adjusted. And Harry appreciated this gesture so much
because it was more than he had ever received. His legs wrapped around
Marvolo's waist, easing the discomfort.
He was breaking in half; broken — no, wanted, and filled, whole...
"You can move now," he breathed. Marvolo groaned, rolled his hips, hitting it,
then slipped out and thrust back in again. Hot, sweat slicked skin drifted
across his own as fingertips mapped out every shift, every alteration of the
taught muscles.
Soft murmurs on lips or in the air. Stuttered hisses pressed into a neck. In.
Out. In. Trembling muscles and the smooth glide of heat. Harry's hand ghosted
over a shoulder and down an arm, clenching rhythmically as he attempted to
match his lovers pace and succeeded in shifting into a position that ensured
Marvolo hit his prostate every time he rocked forward. His hand lingered around
a wrist, and then continued down, pulling up Marvolo's hand and lacing fingers
together. Bringing it up to his head and resting against the pillow as he
arched with a breathless gasp and threw his head back.
In, roll. Eyes locked, ice melting beneath the fire, unwanted, blemished
memories slowly drowning. Out, pause.
Threading his fingers through the shorter hair, Harry pulled Marvolo down,
kissing him deeply. Pulling back when air became a fundamental necessity, he
moved to Marvolo's ear, a wry smile stretching his lips, tears at the corners
of his eyes. "Thank you Marvolo.”
It was those words that struck deeply, red thrusting in and shattering because
he could feel the weight behind those words, feel the breaking, trembling,
twitching as Harry shuddered and arched sharply, hands tightening in pleasure
as the tight coil that had been steadily building snapped.
Heat seeped inside him as Marvolo rocked against him, groaning and biting down
onto his shoulder. But Harry did not mind breaking because he no longer felt
broken.
When the rush eased in its intensity, he smiled wearily, leaning up to kiss
Marvolo as he pulled out with a groan and fell to the side. He laughed
breathlessly as Marvolo's arms wrapped around his waist, tugging him close and
tucking his head under his chin, feeling the orgasmic spasms trembling along
his nerves. Harry settled himself down into the man's side, legs tangled and
sheets twisted.
"That was amazing." He peeked up. "And you look unbelievably smug right now."
Marvolo took a deep breath, heart racing. "Yet I hear no complaints."
"Yeah, like I could complain about that."
"Mm."
"Can we just lay here for a bit? I don't think I could walk right now."
Marvolo chuckled, felling rightfully pleased, and pulled the sheets up around
their waists. "Anything for you, little one."
Harry grinned and relaxed completely, enjoying the beams of late morning light
through the sheer curtains on his skin.

===============================================================================

"What now?" Fingers trailed over Marvolo's chest, lazily following the cracked
light of midday.
The man didn't answer immediately. Harry rolled slightly, propping himself up
in his elbow and repurposing the others body as a pillow; chin balanced on his
palm.
"You could join me. I have an elf, Gilsey. Every Tuesday, for an undetermined
reason, she bakes cookies. I tell you now, I have never seen grown men — and
Death Eaters at that — act more like sugar-high children than when she opens
the kitchens."
The boy laughed and then choked in astonishment as he met the affronted
expression in the other’s eyes. "Wait, you're serious?!" Harry gasped. "Are you
seriously telling me that you, Mister Dark Lord of the Dark Side have cookies?"
Said Dark Lord nodded in confusion. Harry could only gape then fall onto
Marvolo's chest, curling into his side, giggling hysterically. "Oh, by Merlin!
Too much, it's too much!"
Marvolo sighed, figuring that whatever was so amusing likely pertained to some
sort of muggle reference. Rolling his eyes, he tugged the boy closer and
resigned himself to waiting it out. He would, of course, later try to convince
himself that he was not enjoying the contact, the thoughtless manner in which
the smaller body lay alongside his. He was a lost cause.
When movement was no longer sluggish, and sleep had given up trying to yank
them under, Marvolo shifted and poked Harry in his side.
Making an annoyed sound, Harry cracked a narrowed eye open. He was comfortable,
dammit!
Without bothering to give an explanation, Marvolo rolled out of bed, tossing
back the covers. Harry grumbled at the sudden influx of cool air against his
heated skin and sulkily pulled the sheets up to his chin. His lethargic mood
quickly brightened as green eyes trailed shamelessly over the delicious curves
of toned muscles, pulling a pillow over his head to hide the recalcitrant blush
as Marvolo walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and the sound of the
shower could be heard.
It seemed to be only seconds later that Marvolo was once again poking Harry
awake. This time, however, Harry was conflicted to find he was wearing pants.
Seeing that he had indeed managed to wake the dozing boy, Marvolo gave a slow,
dangerous smirk before leaning over, trapping the boy within the confines of
his arms.
Harry gulped.
"Lovely wraith," Marvolo drawled. Ooh, this was bad. "I don't suppose you know
what happened to my shirt, now, would you?"
"Er...no?"
Amused crimson eyes lit up, a smile threatening to break out. "Thought not."
Really, Harry should have seen it coming. One second, he was lying peacefully
on the soft mattress, attempting plausible deniability – rather successfully,
he thought. The next, hands were wrapping around his ankles and he was being
dragged out of bed.
He yelped in surprise, laughing even as he gripped the sheet closer and pulled
it along with him.
He stumbled when Marvolo set him on his feet, huffing and narrowing his eyes,
unable to repress the grin. "Prat."
"Handsome prat."
Harry groaned in defeat. "I hate that I cannot deny that."
"Don't fret, little one." Dark hair was brushed behind an ear. "You make quite
a desirable sight yourself."
Harry smirked, hefting the sheet up higher, snickering when Marvolo looked away
sadly. Quickly pecking the man on the cheek — a move that, unfortunately,
required tiptoes and a very tiny jump — Harry turned around and waddled over to
his trunk.
Going through the required motions, he was quickly digging around for his
package of wearable clothes, pulling out a jumper and whirling around.
It turned out that moving this quickly was a very bad idea. Giving a small
scream and clutching at his racing heart, Harry gaped accusingly at the Dark
Lord that had been standing directly behind him.
Marvolo merely raised an eyebrow.
"The hell were you doing standing so close behind me?! For that matter, how did
you move so quietly?!"
"Trick of the trade, love. I'm contractually unable to reveal any and all
secrets."
Harry huffed. Unbelievable. Well, saved him the walk back, at least. Hesitating
briefly, Harry shifted then thrust the jumper he was holding into Marvolo's
hands. Marvolo regarded it in confusion.
Made entirely of a garish maroon thread that was broken only by a wonky gold
'H' on the front, it was easily recognisable as a brother to the jumpers Harry
had taken to wearing.
"It's a Weasley jumper. My favourite, actually…I, um…I want you to have it for,
you know…when you, er, I dunno…really want to curse that annoying Gryffindor or
something…”
Harry's smile was small and uncertain; the lump in the other’s throat
unreasonably difficult to swallow around.
"I…Thank you, Harry."
Harry's answering smile was blinding.
The jumper was pulled on, Marvolo concluding that there must have been a re-
sizing charm on it. Pushing down that indescribable feeling, Marvolo pointed
his wand at the jumper and looked questioningly at Harry. "Do you mind if I put
a glamour over it?” There was no way he was willingly about to transfigure
something that had just been doused in sentimentality.
"No...?"
Flicking his wand and erecting a quick transient glamour, the jumper became a
dark blue stylish dress shirt.
"Going somewhere?"
It was with a devious glint in those scarlet eyes that Marvolo steered Harry
towards the bathroom. "High Tea is practically an institution here at
Claridge's, didn't you know?"
"Well, I do now. What's it to do with us?" Harry had a bad feeling about this.
In his mind, he was picturing old ladies shuffling up close to him, scone in
one hand and knitting needles in the other. Clichéd? Maybe. But it made the
prospect no less terrifying.
"I decided to take you there. I already made the booking."
Of course he had. Bloody organised Dark Lord. Really, why was he surprised?
***** 6 *****
Date: 18th June, 1995.
Location: An Undisclosed Hotel Room, Claridge’s, London.
 
"I am serious, Harry. You would make a truly wonderful addition to the Dark
Sect. The Death Eaters would no know what cursed them."
Harry rolled his eyes, slicing off a proper piece of his chocolate tart. "They
would, they just wouldn't say it of your face."
Marvolo huffed, amused, knowing that the boy was correct. His Death Eaters
truly were pathetic. He took a bite of the Earl Grey Cheesecake, succumbing to
the morose contemplation shared amongst those with truly moronic minions.
The silence was soft, familiar. The Tea Room of Claridge's was a large space,
open and light with white-linen covered circular tables.
Harry had been beyond relieved when there were not, in fact, any old ladies
with knitting needles lying in wait for them, and was left thanking absolutely
everything magical when Marvolo had directed him into the room — very much not
touching. Never before had he been as acutely aware of their obvious age
difference— and he had seen the smartly dressed patrons gathered in small,
glamorous groups around other tables, adhering to a secret silence that was
routinely interrupted by the clinking of fine china.
The dragon-hide boots that he had owl ordered as per Charlie's suggestion
before the First Task for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, faded jeans and Fred's
jumper had become dark slacks and a deep violet dress shirt that was similar in
style to Marvolo's, with a parselmagic glamour concealing his neck.
Yes, magic was just awesome like that.
So, now they were sitting at a quaint little table, discrete privacy wards up,
with jade and ivory striped tea-ware, leisurely making their way through the
incredible array of carefully prepared cakes and desserts.
Harry could admit that the whole thing was not as detestable as he had thought
it would be. In fact, he would go say far as to say he was actually enjoying
himself. And no, he had not missed the way Marvolo almost preened when he
admitted that. Or the way the eye of every woman had locked onto his striking
form with an almost inhuman hunger. Even with their husbands and boyfriends
sitting beside them. As it was, Harry doubted their ‘special other’ even
noticed their distraction as they were in the same glazed-eyed-and-drooling
boat. The only thing that prevented him from scowling had been the fact that
Marvolo had not even spared a glance their direction.
Now, he hummed, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. Setting the teacup down
carefully, he levelled the man with a look that almost had Marvolo shifting
under its intensity.
"I won't be a Death Eater." A tapping finger straightened his spoon. "I won't —
I can't — bow down to another subjugator, master, whatever. If that's what you
want, then I cannot give it to you, I will not bow down to you."
He released a harsh breath, grateful that Marvolo remained silent. "Besides,"
he began, carefully skirting around the potentially mood-destroying topic.
"Mouldy houses, nosy old caretakers and creepy toddlermorts —"
Marvolo blinked, astounded, choked a little, then covered his face and groaned,
muttering "Do not remind me."
"—I can handle. But pompous blondes and albino peacocks? Nope. Sorry. You're on
your own."
The Dark Lord stared at the imp before him, an amused huff in their bubble of
silence
"Really? You would throw away greatness and power at the mere mention of
Malfoy's?"
"Well, yes, obviously...It’s called self-preservation."
"Why are you not in Slytherin?"
"Mm. I asked the Hat not to go there."
Marvolo groaned, rolling his eyes. "Of course you did. Only you would argue
with a centuries-old relic."
Harry snickered, looking away, glad that the atmosphere was no longer so tense.
He started in surprise when he felt a hand cover his, jade eyes flicking
nervously to ascertain that there were no witnesses, despite the wards.
"I am not asking you to become a follower, Harry. You are much too good for
that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"Like it or not, Harry, you are the figure head of this war."
Harry made a disgruntled sound, waving his free hand. "But I don't even want to
be a part of this war, Marvolo. As I said yesterday, I quit. I've just been
tossed in, told what to do, who to fight, when to turn. Freedom is something
that I could only ever dream about and now I can have it; it's possible. I
won't give that up. Not now, not to just be some sort of symbolic idol, on
object."
"Believe me, Harry; I knew full well what you have been through. But you are
crucial. The public will not care for a Saviour that refuses to become involved
in the affairs of the Wizarding World. It will be your support that determines
the victor."
Harry hated how he knew Marvolo was right. He would never be left alone, never
be allowed to rest and live his life until this war was resolved. It wasn't
that he was reluctant to help. Merlin knew how much he wanted to take
Dumbledore down and have a good laugh while doing it, but he would prefer to
not be in the country and be, well, very far away while doing so.
"How…involved would I have to be?" He asked slowly, a tentative, albeit
absurdly brilliant plan forming in the depths of his mind.
Quirking an eyebrow, Marvolo selected a small cube of professionally styled
carrot cake while he thought. The cream cheese frosting stuck up in a soft
tuft, a slice of candied carrot adorning it. "It depends. Magic wise, you are
very powerful. Obviously, you still need training, but give it a few years and
you would truly be a sight worth witnessing on any battlefield. However,
should I succeed, the only battles taking place shall be in the Wizengamot,
behind closed doors and in official plum robes…What are you suggesting?"
Taking a moment to organise his thoughts, Harry picked up a delicate-looking
strawberry shortcake. "If I were to say I have irrefutable access to the Daily
Prophet, what would you do?"
The Dark Lord blinked. "That…would actually be incredibly helpful." Then he
narrowed his eyes in thought, swallowed the last of the carrot cake and
smirked. "I don't suppose this would have anything to do with your 'exposure'
of Albus Dumbledore?"
Harry hummed, leaning back. "I suppose your supposition might be on to
something."
"Slytherin of you." He was awarded with a bright grin. "You aren't going to
give me any more than that, are you?"
"I can tell you that I have a range of stories that could very quickly destroy
whatever faith the public has in our esteemed Headmaster. Granted, most are
little more than hearsay and will need a lot of research before they can be
printed, but let's admit it: all I would really need is one article, 'Leader of
the Light Leaves Boy Hero to the Abuse of Muggles' and I would have them eating
out of my hand." His concluding smirk was teasing. "Other than that? Nope."
Clearing his throat and taking a sip of his tea in an attempt to refocus his
mind away from how delicious the boy looked, green eyes alight with his
plotting, Marvolo nodded.
"That would most assuredly destroy the old coots doting persona. When did you
plan to start the release?"
"Ah, now that, I don't know. How has the Prophet been treating him? The last I
heard, they were ridiculing him for the lies he was spouting about your return
during the Final Task."
He had never been one to read the wet rage that was Wizarding Britain's
favoured source of information but those? Those he had read, not even bothering
to eat in the Great Hall during breakfast in the final weeks of school,
situating himself instead at a side-table in the kitchen. Something told him
that laughing so hard he fell off his seat in front of Dumbledore would not
have been a good idea.
"They have not let up, at least."
"Best let the noise die down then. If the past is any indication, Dumbles will
manage to weasel his way out of whatever mess he finds himself in right now.
Anything that we try to push will just be swept aside as another lot of
unfounded rubbish." He spooned cream onto a scone thoughtfully. "Suggestions?"
"The paper will lose momentum in a few months at most. Allowing, say, six
months of silence after that will guarantee fresh reactions and ensure that
people do not receive the campaign as the tail end of the current wave of
ridicule."
"'Bout a year, then?"
Marvolo made to nod, but then paused. "What do you know of your political
standing?"
Harry blinked at him. "Absolutely nothing?" Then he remembered his mental shelf
of unasked questions. He sat up straight. "You said something about vaults.
Does that have anything to do with it?"
"In a way. As the last Potter, you would have claim to the Potter Lordship. For
that matter, you should have received the Heir Ring when you were eleven. I
assume you did not? No?" Sighing, Marvolo drained his tea. "Never mind that.
That can be sorted out by going to Gringotts and requesting to speak to your
Account Manager. Alright, in the Wizarding political arena, historically
Pureblood families that, at some point in history held impressionable positions
of power were revered with Lordships and Seats. Seats give you power in the
Wizengamot. The more seats, the more sway."
“So what would that have to do with time-frame for the releases?”
“If you are able to take control of your seat, you can dedicate it to a
faction. Imagine the public’s reaction when the Golden Boy-Who-Lived abandons
Dumbledore’s campaign.” They both sighed fondly. The outcry would be brilliant.
“Anything to do with the Wizengamot makes a disorientated Niffler on the hunt
for gold in a different county look fast. It will be months before the Claims
to your Seat are finalised. Releasing prematurely would be a mistake, so things
may only be ready to move along in closer to two years.”
Harry took a moment for the information to sink in. This was politics. Of
course it took a ridiculous amount of time to do anything. "How do you know so
much?”
"As Slytherin's last living descendent from the original line, it is my
responsibility to know these things. However, the intricacies are not my
business. The Potter Goblin will be able to provide you with more information
than I."
The fragile petite-fours, dressed to finery, lay forgotten as Harry leaned
forward, curiosity clashing with reluctance. "Did you know any of my family?"
"I did," Marvolo conceded.
Harry shifted closer, his foot brushing against Marvolo's beneath the table.
"Can you tell me about them? Please."
Marvolo made a small sound. The irony of discussing family with the boy whose
parents he had killed was not lost on him. "Charlus…Charlus was a good man.
You’re Grandfather, "he supplied, when Harry merely looked at him blankly. "He
was two years below me at school. A worthy epitome of a Gryffindor. Brave,
selfless, stubborn. Fair. Many families mourned his death."
"When did he die?"
"Before you were born. Believe me, Harry. Should he have been nothing more than
a heartbeat in a hospital room, he would have fought tooth and nail to keep you
away from your mother’s relatives." He traced the silvery scars covering
Harry's hand absentmindedly.
"What else?"
Glamoured brown eyes glanced up. "While the Potters have traditionally been a
Light family, he declined from openly advocating one sort of magic, settling
for remaining Neutral, instead. I never knew your father, so I cannot speak on
his character, but if his orientation is any indication, Dumbledore was quick
to recruit him. From what I remember of those years, arguments were often
exchanged between Charlus and James; James refusing to accept his father’s
neutrality.
Harry nodded, silencing the little voice inside his head that questioned why
nobody had bothered to even tell him the name of grandparents. "What about my
grandmother? Did you know her?"
This prompted a huffed laugh from the man. "Oh, yes, I knew her. Dorea Potter
née Black."
At this, Harry choked. "Black?! I'm actually related to Sirius?
"That's it. When you go to Gringotts, ask for a Blood Test as well."
Harry just made an unintelligible sound. Then flapped his hand for Marvolo to
continue. Which he did. "Never before had Hogwarts feared a Ravenclaw more than
she. A proudly Dark witch, she had no tolerance for bullying, living by the
motto: Curse first, ask questions later if the information is important." He
chuckled lowly. "She frequently forgot the second part." He regarded the boy
across from him. It had been many years since he had last thought about Dorea.
"You look very much like her, actually."
Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "I've always been told I'm a copy of my
father, with my mother's eyes."
"Hmm. No, you look very little like your father. The black hair and facial
structure are all Dorea. She was a beautiful woman. As for the eyes, I cannot
say, but they are quite unusual on any account."
Biting his lip to hold back the blush, assuming that that would probably be a
rather telling sign as to the dynamic of their relationship, Harry chose to
analyse what he had been told and immediately levelled Marvolo with an
affronted gaze. "Are you saying I look like a girl?"
Inwardly, Marvolo winced. Outwardly, he was quite proud to say that he managed
to keep a calm facade in the face of adversary and graced his young companion
with a devious smirk.
"With your petite stature —"
"Oi!"
"— and lack of glasses…I'm sorry to say, Harry, but you, wraith, are what is
commonly termed androgynous."
Harry considered this. "So you're saying…what, exactly?"
"Unshakeable definitions of masculinity and femininity are merely sociological
constructs."
Harry was not impressed with this. Flattered in a…roundabout, odd sort of way,
admittedly, but not impressed. He refrained from pouting, suspecting that would
not provide the evidence needed to refute Marvolo's claim. "Lovely. So you
think I'm pretty?"
Alright, fine. The sneer may have been a bit much. He wondered why this was so
upsetting.
Meanwhile, Marvolo was wondering how, exactly, he had dug this hole. Silver-
tongued he may be, but, for whatever reason, it had no effect on his partner.
Glancing at the table and noting that they had finished with the High Tea,
Marvolo leaned in close, voice low.
"I am saying, little one, that you are quite attractive. However," he paused,
enjoying the way Harry seemed to be hanging onto every word, eerily still.
"Nothing could compare in beauty when you are writhing beneath me, eyes closed
and gasping."
Harry bit his lip violently, swallowing back his moan. Fingers pressed down
harshly onto the table cloth. Trying to get himself under control, Harry glared
across the table at the smug Dark Lord. Fine. Two can play that game.
Standing slowly, he enjoyed the way the smug expression morphed into mild
confusion. He rounded the table, fingers trailing over the cloth and doing his
utmost to not ruin the image that he was working very hard to create by doing
something like laughing. Pausing beside the seated man, he leaned down, keeping
his gaze fixed ahead. "And here I was, wondering what to do with the rest of
the afternoon."
Seeing the man swallow was truly delightful. But he gave that barely more than
a passing thought as he straightened and, without looking back, casually made
his way out of the room and headed towards the elevator.
The door pinged open. Hands leaning against the golden rail, a button pressed.
Two seconds and a slightly flustered looking man with chestnut hair and a
broken glamour charm on his eyes slipped inside just as the door closed.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Red eyes were predatory, a dangerous smirk curling upwards.

                                     OOOO

They had barely stumbled over the threshold before Marvolo had Harry pushed up
against the wall, the door kicked shut behind him. Harry kissed back just as
passionately, winding his fingers through the older man's hair. Hands trailed
down his side, then settled on his hips. When the fingers tightened and hoisted
him up into the air, he yelped, delighted, breaking away laughing and winding
his legs around Marvolo's waist.
Marvolo grinned, attacking the boy's neck again as his hands slipped underneath
the shirt, rucking it up. Harry gasped, tilting his head to the side so that
the man had more access, quickly setting to work on all the buttons on his
transfigured top. After an unholy amount of fiddling, he was finally pushing
the fabric over the pale shoulders. Harry shrugged out of the fabric, propping
himself against the wall so that he could pull the glamoured jumper over
Marvolo’s head.
Their mouths met again, tasting of cream and caffeine, a frantic enthusiasm as
earlier shyness and inhibitions were forgotten. No blushing to be found.
Harry pulled away when air became an issue, breathing harshly. "Bed?"
Lust filled wine-red eyes darkened even further, amusement shining through.
Without warning, he pulled away from the wall. Harry once again yelped,
throwing his arms around his neck to hold on as Marvolo manoeuvred them through
the sitting room, into the bedroom and paused only long enough to magic the
covers open before he tossed Harry onto the bed.
Harry bounced, going with it, before scrambling up and tugging Marvolo down
with him.
The hotel room filled with the sound of laughter reserved and shared between
lovers: breathless and desirous, as the two figures on the bed moved together,
sharp angles and dark hair, eager hands at trouser lines, the older of the two
settled between the denim clad legs of the younger.
Hands unbuckled belts and pushed down impeding fabric, removing any possible
form of separation between the two. Marvolo's mouth moved to Harry's neck,
dispelling the glamour spell and adding to the love bites that already ran
along the skin. If earlier was any indication, Harry was ridiculously sensitive
there. However, whereas earlier had been slow, gradual, there was an urgency in
their movements. No less careful by any means, but no longer unfamiliar.
Wondering hands and a whispered lubrication charm had Harry readily lifting his
hips, quite happy to go along with whatever Marvolo had in mind, wanting it
just as much. Marvolo made quick work of preparing him, the motions easier as
he was still stretched from before.
It was as Marvolo removed his fingers though that Harry was gripped by the urge
to regain some control. Marvolo did not have enough time to react before Harry
was twisting, pushing off the mattress, swinging a leg over Marvolo's waist and
straddling him as the man found himself with his back against the bed. With a
wicked smile stretching across kiss-bitten lips, Harry leaned forward, a
dangerous intent in those acidic eyes that had heat flaring in the Dark Lord’s
groin. It was a universal fact that Dark Lords did not usually find themselves
on the receiving end of such playfully impish promises.
He was distracted by the wraith kissing him, not noticing as smaller hands
guided his to rest on thin hips. He barely even noticed when Harry slowly moved
back, pulling him up with him. He did notice, however, when Harry rose up on
his knees, still holding onto the kiss, shifted, then sank down cautiously,
tensing, fingernails digging into broad shoulders as he slowly slid down
Marvolo's length.
Ruby eyes widened, very much not expecting that. He pulled Harry against him,
swallowing back the sharp cry as the movement rearranged their position to a
blissful angle within him.
They broke the kiss, Harry panting and Marvolo breathing harshly from the
effort of restraining himself. Pressing his forehead into his partners
shoulder, arms hanging loosely around his neck, Harry gave an experimental roll
of his hips and moaned softly when he hit the bundle of nerves that made his
toes curl. He unintentionally clenched down and felt himself smile in triumph
as Marvolo groaned and thrust up, easily establishing an excruciatingly
thrilling pace.
Marvolo lay back, pulling Harry with him, positioning the boy's hands on the
bed beside his head so that he did not hurt himself at the angle. Leaving one
hand on the wraith’s thigh, the trembling of the muscles beneath his fingers as
Harry continued to rock forward and lift up, Marvolo brought the other hand
across and wrapped it around the very much erect cock.
Hitched breathing and gasping, pleasured moans and low groans spilled from the
couple — Marvolo furtively thanking the silencing charms he had set up around
the room that first night — as the rush they were reaching for climbed higher.
Harry was close to sobbing in frustration as the edge he balanced on refused to
tilt, tired and out of breath as Marvolo teased him. No words needed to be
spoken for Marvolo to determine what the problem was, hands moving to stabilise
the boy, flipping them over and driving in deep.
Harry cried out, arching, hands flying to tangle once again in the man's hair,
unbothered to find himself on his back. Control was overrated anyway.
It was only minutes later that they both came; gasping out each other’s names
as Marvolo expertly brought Harry to completion and Harry shuddered around him
in the aftershocks.
The entangled lovers paid no heed to the thick blanket of magic that hung in
the air, ashy poison and violet midnight twisting, caressing, blending
together, too lost in their pleasurable haze as they struggled to regain
regular breath.
Eventually though, basic movements were regained and Marvolo eased out with a
groan and pulled the covers over them, a quick cleaning charm erasing evidence
of their activities, as Harry curled into his side with a sigh and tucked his
head onto his chest, eyes already closing.

===============================================================================

"I don't know how I can let you go now."
Harry stirred, heavy eyelids blinking out of the relaxed fog that he had sunk
into, the feeling of Marvolo's fingertips trailing slowly along his spine
really too enjoyable for their own good.
Midnight had come and gone. They had called down for dinner, a plain meal of
creamy pasta and a summer salad, before quickly crawling back into bed, neither
sleeping longer than a few hours before waking, reluctant to move. Thus their
current position. Two-thirty in the morning. Both unashamedly naked beneath the
soft blankets. Harry sprawled partly over Marvolo, head resting above his
heart, Marvolo's arms around him, with the curtains open, letting in the lights
of London's night.
He lifted his head, propping his chin on the strong chest, eyeing the man.
Unreadable red eyes were staring up at the ceiling, but there was a certain
tilt to his mouth that had a heavy weight settling in Harry's chest. He knew
that look. Tom had always worn it when he admitted something that normally
carried far more weight than what the words alone suggested.
"So come with me," he said quietly.
Rust darkened eyes shuttered closed. By Morgana he wanted so badly to accept.
"I can't. All of it…I need to finish what I started."
Harry sighed. “…I know."
Moving carefully, he moved so that they were eye to eye, his hands carding
through the tousled hair. He knew. "This won't be forever Marvolo. This isn't
goodbye. It's just…for now. I want a chance to live, away from all this.
Staying here can't give me that."
Marvolo released a shuddering breath, unable to bring himself to hate how
emotional he was being. Whatever it was about Harry, the boy had the ability to
effortlessly pull down his perfected expressionless mask and feed it to the
hippogriffs. All he knew, with a profound certainty, was that he wanted no
other.
"I know." His grip tightened.
They seemed to know so much yet nothing at all. They knew the other needed to
have a chance to live their life the way they wanted to, achieve the things
they desired, yet neither seemed to have any ideas of how to let the other go.
Marvolo, at least, had all of his immortality to wait. He could do that. Harry
was his, whether he knew that right now or not. No amount of returned sanity
was ever going to curb his possessive streak.
Harry smiled, rolling his eyes at the possessive gleam in those ruby depths.
The man was, well, actually believable right now. "You could always wait for
me," he suggested. "Give me a year. I'll be settled by then. I would, by no
means, be averse to seeing where this —" he gestured between them "— could go."
"You, wraith, have a remarkably high opinion of yourself." I'll wait. You know
I will. And I know you will too.
Harry shrugged. "You adore it. Don't pretend otherwise."
"Do I now?"
Harry gasped dramatically at the seemingly unimpressed look. "Good sir, you
wound me! Whoever else would be able to save yourself from that disastrous
over-inflated ego over yonder? None I say! Never — Oi!"
Harry pouted up at Marvolo, once again on his back, the damn smirking Dark Lord
leaning over him. He lasted about point-five of a second before he started
giggling, enjoying the astounded look that came across Marvolo's face.
He sighed happily when his face began to hurt. Lacing his fingers with
Marvolo's, he stared up at him. Ernest and intent. "I'm not going to lose you
again. Promise. And I'll wait, as well."
Marvolo observed the teenager, the sincerity in those bright eyes
unmistakeable.
Nodding his head in acknowledgement, he leaned down, pressing his mouth to the
side of Harry's lips, documenting the faint moan Harry gave in response, before
he pulled away, once again lying down. Tucking the teen into his chest,
breathing in that taunting scent of sage and rain. Feeling his transient wraith
relaxing in his hold. This temporary humanity that he wished would last.
Dreading the time passing as the clocks moved forward. But he knew no amount of
hiding under sheets was going to prevent the dawn, the time when the one person
whom had shown him so much more than some twisted sense of worship or obvious
disdain and fear would be slipping out of his life.

===============================================================================

The next morning was quiet. The light creeping over the two figures in the bed,
pressed together as tightly as possible, sheets having slid down around waists
and faces hiding in hair.
Marvolo was the first awake, scowling at the unstoppable rotation of the earth
and something scientific that was rushing in this horrible day. Honestly, it
was like the world itself was working against him. Why earth? Why?
Well aware that he was quickly spiralling into a long tirade about the undue
necessity of things that were utterly out of his control, he contented himself
with simply watching the boy in his arms — in a very much non-stalker kind of
way, mind.
Unbeknownst to him, Harry was already gaining consciousness, thinking eerily
similar thoughts, because, really, it's always the Suns fault. Nobody actually
got down on one knee and asked it to rise, did they? No. Bloody giant ball of
cosmic matter just decides that it has a right to open in each day in a bright,
sunny, cheerful and outrageously annoying kind of way. Sorry, that wasn't fair.
The sunrise was really quiet stunning. But he had no care for that! Not today.
Maybe tomorrow…
He sighed and did his best to burrow further into his human pillow, humming at
the pleasurable ache thrumming through his muscles.
Marvolo chuckled, running a hand through the shadowy hair.
Harry sighed morosely. "'ats the time?" he mumbled.
"Seven."
Harry whimpered.
Marvolo returned the sentiments. But silently. He was Dark like that.
Mustering as much will power as is realistically possible, Harry rolled over
and sat up, the scars across his mark standing out in stark relief in the way
the light hit his back. He really did not want to get up. But he knew he could
not put this off any longer. It was only a matter of time before one of those
imbecilic Headless Birds realised he was no longer in the house. And if they
didn't figure it out themselves — which was likely — the Dursley's would be
returning sometime during the week. He needed to be long gone by then.
Marvolo watched Harry sit up, the covers pooling around his waist, seeing the
way his shoulders drooped forward a little. He sat up as well, his hand slowly
sliding up the scarred back, intrigued when the boy shivered. He leaned
forward, pressing kisses up between his shoulder blades, over his shoulder, and
smirked in satisfaction when Harry visibly relaxed, a faint moan escaping as he
tilted his head to the side for better access to his neck. Only, he ended up
hissing as the movement aggravated the tender flesh.
Admittedly, Marvolo felt a tiny bit bad seeing the rather, well, impressive
hickeys he had left on his neck. However, that tiny — infinitesimal, really —
bit of contrition was hastily buried beneath an avalanche of smugness as he
mouthed along a particularly dark area and Harry arched into him with a gasp.
And Harry would have been unrealistically happy to see where Marvolo was
intending to go with if there had not been many reasons for him almost being in
Slytherin. Namely, his ability to spot a ploy to get him to remain in bed
longer by any means necessary.
Smirking, he disentangled himself from those roaming hands, twisting to peck
the feared Dark Lord on the cheek before edging away.
Amused crimson eyes tracked his progress, thinking it cute that the boy thought
he could get away from him. The man's amusement, took a very drastic turn when
Harry turned to him, lifted an eyebrow in what could have only been taken as a
challenge and said one sentence.
"Call up for breakfast and I'll see you in the shower."
Frankly, it was demeaning on so many levels to see the Terror of Britain, Dark
Lord Supreme and Unfairly Attractive Megalomaniac move so quickly.
Truly, it had to be a record, because Harry had barely managed to get the hot
water on before arms were spinning him around and a taller body was pressing
him against the tiled wall.

                                     OOOO

"Harry?"
"Mm?"
Marvolo looked up from tying the cord on his trousers. He was so glad wizard
kind had not yet progressed to zippers. Seeing that Harry had stopped in the
centre of the room and was furiously scrubbing his hair with the towel while
also shrugging on a black pullover that, despite clean, looked week worn, he
quirked an eyebrow, impressed at the multi-tasking.
Taking the opportunity the boy's distracted state provided, he stalked forward,
plucking the towel out of his hands, tossing it somewhere behind him, and
hooked his fingers in the loops of the boy's jeans.
While he did not squeak, Harry could admit that he made a rather undignified
sound as he was suddenly divested of his towel, yanked forward playfully and
went unexpectedly cross eyed in trying to focus on the perpetrator. All in a
matter of seconds. It was a very disorienting time for him.
Letting the suspense build for a moment, Marvolo merely smirked, shot a drying
charm at Harry's head, then proceeded to drag him out to the small table, where
breakfast and a nutrient potion were waiting.
Harry plopped unceremoniously into the seat, knocking back the potion and —
conveniently, Marvolo thought — beginning to fill up his plate only after
Marvolo had already begun. He was not going to try and fight this though. He
knew Harry would kick the habit eventually, when he was ready.
Breakfast was quick, both arriving at the unspoken agreement to not speak of
their impending separation. Instead, they made light discussion over the merits
of the Black Adder ensemble actually being wizards enacting some grand ploy to
sway the minds of unassuming muggles. The conclusion: the possibility was too
high to be coincidental. In which case, they have the Dark Lord’s kudos and
snickers from the Boy-Who-Promises-To-Hex-The-Next-Person-To-Use-This-Many-
Hyphens.
All too quickly, their limited time together dwindled, ticking by without their
consent, and they knew it was time to go.
With his trunk shrunk and stored in his pocket, and a glamour on his neck,
Harry cast a last glance around the room while Marvolo waited by the door. A
dusted blush crept across his cheeks when his gaze rested on the bed, that
little ball of euphoria bouncing in his chest in happiness. Thanking Merlin
that they had magic, otherwise they would have had an inordinate amount of
explaining to do.
He smiled when he moved towards Marvolo, grabbing his hand briefly before
letting go. The spaces of Claridge's were quiet, the early morning buzz lending
the hotel a vague sense of intensity. Or maybe that was just the pair of
wizards exiting the lobby, both exact in their movements so that they did not
touch until they were out the door and out of view of the doorman
When that moment came, instead of pulling further away, attempting to shut off,
Harry was quick to slip his hand into Marvolo's, fingers lacing, and lean his
head on the older man's arm as they walked. The action surprised Marvolo. The
man could, by no means believable, be categorised as one whom enjoys public
displays of affection. Possession? Yes. Affection? Absolutely not.
Yet he found the position soothing, holding back the slight grin that wanted to
break out. He settled for smirking instead and ignoring Harry's amused huff as
he guided them around the block, threading around the people that clogged
London's streets despite the early hour.
Stepping in to a shaded alcove, Marvolo pulled Harry into him then apparated.
The reappeared in the Designated Apparition Zone of Diagon Alley, a small
courtyard that sat between and slightly behind Eyelops Owl Emporium and
Breachers and Bangs: Haircuts for most Occasions.
Harry took a deep breath, not moving away from Marvolo. The courtyard was
empty, the early hour deterring even the most astute of shoppers. No audience.
No crowd. No watching neighbours peering obsessively through lace curtains.
He burrowed his head into the dark cloak, holding on a bit tighter. Freedom
seemed daunting now, when it was so close.
"I'm going to miss you."
Marvolo inhaled the scent that was uniquely Harry. "Just as I'll miss you, my
little wraith."
Harry huffed half-heartedly. He would miss that too. He pulled away enough to
lift his head. "We'll write. Every week. Even if nothing interesting is
happening."
The Dark Lord nodded sharply. He detested goodbyes. "I look forward to it."
Harry bit his lip, feeling the stinging in his eyes. Why on earth did he want
to cry? Safe in the knowledge that no one was around to see, he stood up on his
tiptoes to press a kiss on the others mouth, noting the way Marvolo's hand
clutched, ever so possessively, the fabric of his jumper. They separated after
a long moment.
Marvolo smoothed the shadowy hair down; simply looking at the boy, then cleared
his throat. "Do you want me to come with you?"
Harry smiled brightly, even if it did not quite reach his eyes. "No, I'm…I've
got this."
Hesitating before he stepped back, Harry wrapped his arms around Marvolo's
waist and hugged him tightly. Then he released him, ignoring the tightening in
his chest, and stepped away. A small sound, then he flashed a teasing smirk. "I
want to say I hope we meet under better circumstances but I'm thinking that
might be a bit too hopeful."
The man rolled his eyes, inwardly grateful for the change in mood. "Yes. Your
penchant for unwanted situations is unprecedented."
"Oh no you don't. I wasn't even talking about me." Harry winked and flapped his
hand. "You, Mister Dark Lord, were the one that came out of a cauldron. Talk
about unwanted."
Marvolo sighed heavily. He was never going to hear the end of that. Thank
Mordred there were only two pe — okay, one person and a minion, so he did not
classify — that knew the full details of that ritual. "Not my most flattering
moment, I'll admit."
Crimson eyes rested on the boy, his prophesised equal, drinking in every
detail. "I'll be seeing you, Harry." He stole a last kiss.
Harry smiled sadly. "Good luck, Marvolo."
There was a moment, as they stood there, that Harry thought Marvolo wanted to
say something more, but then the man nodded sharply, and gave him a little
push.
Laughing, Harry stumbled back, moving towards the opening to the Alley.
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
Marvolo watched him go, mouth twisting tightly. When Harry was no longer in
sight, he sighed and apparated away.

===============================================================================

A disgruntled snake was slithering over cold wooden floors, cursing life as she
knew it. She did not know what she had done, but it must have been something
deliciously evil. That was the only explanation she had for the complete and
utter lack of suitable rats upon which to snack. That…or they were avoiding
her. Clever rats.
A sharp crack had her perking up and rushing — slithering very quickly —
towards the sitting room.
She found her master standing on the rug in the centre of the room, running a
distracted hand over a jumper that she could appreciate for the horrifying
colouring.
But that would not save him from her annoyance.
§Masster is back. Masster was gone for too long and misssed renewing hiss
heating charm.§
Marv-Voldemort blinked, then chuckled.
§My apologies, dearest. I had business to attend to.§
§More important than your familiar, I ssee. Fine.§
Voldemort groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. She was upset. This was
most assuredly not good.
§Nagini, there were some...unexpected happenings.§
He did not know how, but he had the impression that the snake huffed at him. He
bent down, allowing Nagini to coil her massive width around his arm, snaking
across his shoulders. Her tail dragged on the floor before twining around his
waist. He rubbed her head the way he knew she liked it.
§Masster ssmells of ssex and death flowerss.§ Her slitted eyes were accusing.
She sounded like a scolding mother. §Sstrange bussinesss, I think…who were you
with?§
§Harry Potter.§ And why did his chest feel so tight?
For no explainable reason, Nagini perked up, intrigued. §The hatchling who
ssmellss like Masster?§
Crimson eyes narrowed. §Pardon?§
§Hass Masster found a mate?§
Oh dear lord, she was vibrating in excitement. He knew, just knew, that if
Nagini got started on the topic of mates and nesting, his questions would be
ignored for an indeterminate amount of time. From experience, this period was
however long it took her to slither off and fall asleep for a few hours. By
that time, it was not unusual for him to have no idea what it is they were even
discussing.
§Nagini.§ he warned.
Nagini gave a hissy chuckle. §Masster does not ansswer. Masster sshould. The
hatchling is a wisse choice.§
§Now why do you say that?§
§Clothing from the hatchling. Ghasstly, terrifying colourss...I approve...§
Lovely.
***** 7 *****
Date: 19th June, 1995
Location: Diagon Alley, London.

Feeling the shift in air pressure as Marvolo disapparated, the sudden absence
of that familiar magic, Harry drew his arms around himself, trying not to think
of what he was leaving behind, and entered Diagon Alley proper.
He was thankful he had arrived early. The few times he had been unfortunate
enough to have to wonder down the Alley during regular times, he had vowed to
never experience it again while he was being trampled, shoved and generally
deafened.
It was a traumatising experience. Not enough to deter him completely, granted,
but more than enough to make him shudder when he recalled it.
Currently, in the pale-sun washed Alley, those willing to embrace the early
hour, dwindle away their time and shop-till-they-drop amounted to a total
of…eight. Not including him.
Two men were staggering along beside each other, impaired laughter bouncing
around the empty — because, really, eight people does not amount to a crowd —
street and had passed the same store at least thrice. One woman was merely
standing in front of the Quidditch Supply store, a glazed look in her eye as
she peered at the latest upgrade to the Firebolt model broom while
Three others merrily waltzed out of the candy store, loudly discussing their
purchases. Another man sat slumped outside Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream
Parlour, blearily blinking at an espresso double-shot cone; a business man
walked out of the Barber shot beside where Harry stood, suspiciously slicking
back dyed brown hair and an elderly witch shook open the latest edition of the
Daily Prophet.
Admittedly, it was Monday. The solemn mood was only to be expected.
Smoothing his hair over his scar and vowing that he would find some sort of
concealing charm that actually worked at the earliest opportunity — and
bemoaning the fact that he forgot to ask Marvolo about the Parselmagic that the
man had used — Harry made his way down Diagon. He stuck to the shadows so as
not to attract attention and was quite pleased with himself when no one so much
as glanced his way.
The grand columns of the goblin-run establishment were tall and imposing as he
passed beneath them. Gringotts stood out from the rest of the brownstone brick
buildings that made up the little stores of the Alley. Freshly washed facade of
gleaming white and lack of colourful flags or other adornment's, it was clear
the creatures took great pride in presenting their grandeur.
Harry ignored the warning — ahem, dare — that graced the banks entrance;
inwardly laughing when he realised he officially knew someone that had broken
in and lived to tell the tale. Nodding to each goblin guard that he passed and
subsequently missing the innocuous widening of the eyes and reciprocal dips of
the head, Harry stepped in the grand space.
No matter how many times he came here, he was no less impressed. A true display
of magic at its finest, the cavernous expanse was filled with towering pillars
covered in intricate engravings of remarkable battles, the floor gleamed
luxuriously under the layers of polish, neat, dark wood counters stood proudly
in exact rows. The goblins behind the counters were responsible for the noise;
the affluent sound of stone, jewel and metal echoing up to the vaulted ceiling
that hovered, unreachable, above them as the small treasures were counted and
weighed.
He licked his lip nervously. It was impossible to not feel out of place in such
an opulent space when he was acutely aware of his old jeans and worn pullover.
The suits the Goblins wore were sharp and precise, carefully tailored to fit
each individual perfectly and accented with personal affects. He almost smiled
in relief when he spied a familiar face, walking quickly over to the counter.
"Hello Griphook." The goblin sneered at him. He refrained from biting his lip –
really, it was a terrible habit. There was something he was supposed to say
here, something he had read… "Er…oh, yes. May your gold be plentiful on this
fortuitous day."
Griphook's sneer faltered then vanished entirely, replaced by an appraising
gaze that Harry stoically withstood.
Slowly nodding, Griphook met the eyes of the goblin across from him, just as
confused as he; a muggle dressed magical opening with the traditional goblin
greeting? Hmm. Well, stranger things had happened.
"…And may your fortune sustain your endeavours, young one. How may I be of
service?"
Okay, good. Going well so far.
"I was told by a…friend…of sorts that I should speak to my account manager. He
said something about Heirships and such."
The goblin nodded sharply, his red-silk neck-tie creasing. "Who is your account
manager?"
"I don't know." Harry made a small sound, shifting under the gazes he could
feel. "I didn't know I had one."
Beady black eyes narrowed. "What is the name of the account?"
"Potter."
Every sound in the foyer stopped. Harry tensed. "The Potter Account. Would that
make you Harry Potter?"
"Yes?"
"Mister Potter," Griphook began, lowering his voice, mouth twisted in
annoyance. "We of Gringotts have been requesting your presence for almost a
year now. The letters clearly stated —"
Letters?
"Wait. I'm sorry to interrupt but I've not received any letters."
"Not received the letters?" He repeated as though it was the most unbelievable
notion he had ever encountered. Griphook scowled. "Follow me, Mister Potter."
With that, the goblin crooked a gnarled finger, jumped down behind his counter,
in too much of a hurry to use the stairs and took off down the nearest corridor
that branched off from the entryway. Harry hesitated briefly, eyeing the now
empty counter with uncertainty. Then he shrugged, rounded it, and hurried after
the surprisingly fast creature.
The absurdly long walk — ahem, jog — down the hallway was spent with Harry
doing his best to not grin at the mutinous — and highly confusing: what in
Merlin’s name was a Grundlelark and why, or, more importantly, who were they
going to feed it? — mutterings from his guide. He suspected he failed in that
endeavour. He mentally noted to return one day so that he might have the time
to inspect the intricate tapestries that hung upon the roughly hewn pale stone
in strange mixes of ornate colour.
Finally, they came upon a door that was bare apart from a small plaque. The
plaque meant little to Harry, as it was written in a different language, but
the boy was ushered through the open door before he could even begin to wonder
what it said. Seeing a large office, he supposed there was a high potential it
held his family name.
If he was not so used to stoicism in the face of supreme danger, the goblin
behind the desk would have had him whimpering. As it was, he had faced all
manners of ridiculous and unfortunate so he merely swallowed with difficulty
and bowed. "Master Goblin, may your gold be plentiful on this fortuitous day."
The goblin's good eye flickered over to Griphook. The left side of his face was
heavily marred by a savage scar that cut across his forehead, across his eye,
reaching down his jaw. What appeared to be his neutral expression was one of
pure aggression, distorting the twisted features into frightening angles. "And
may enemies tremble beneath your gaze, Mister…Potter?"
Well, Harry thought, actually amused despite the situation, they were
definitely trembling beneath his gaze.
Before he could confirm his identity, Griphook marched around him and rapidly
began conversing with the battle-worn goblin in a harsh, guttural tongue. Harry
assumed this was what Gobbledegook sounded like.
The accountant did not appear happy to hear whatever he was being told, beady
eyes flickering over to Harry, a snapped reply.
Harry shifted, looking around the office, noting the vast assortment of very
sharp, very scary weapons that were placed against the walls like precious
pieces of art. If he was not mistaken, the spear still had blood on the staff.
Ookay. Must make sure not to upset the goblins. Got it.
Although there were no windows — seeing as they were deep within the bowels of
the bank — the gold-dipped chandelier above their heads provided more than
enough illumination, little glass beads refracting the light over every
available surface. The walls were bare sandstone, the floors smooth and the
grand, an overly large desk carved out of mahogany.
Seeing the movement, the Accountant waved a hand, gesturing for him to take a
seat.
Harry did so gratefully, thoughtlessly relaxing into the soft leather low-
backed armchair.
He busied himself with counting the grains in the wood as he waited for the
harsh conversation to end. It eventually did so, with the straightening of
jackets and clearing of throats.
The as-yet-unnamed Accountant retook his seat with a grunt, lacing his fingers
beneath his chin. Harry met the unwavering stare with one of his own.
"Mister Potter, Griphook has brought to my attention that you claim to have not
received any of the letters that we have been sending for many months, nor did
you have any idea that I was your Account Manager. Is this correct?"
"It is…May I know your name?"
At this, the goblin appeared to suffer from thought-derailment and simply
stared at him, speechless. For a very uncomfortable amount of time.
Ooh, he had insulted the goblins. Not good, very much not good. Would they feed
him to the Grundlelark as well?! Whatever the hell that was! …He should beg for
forgiveness. He was not ready – nor would he ever be – to be obscure creature
food!
When Harry opened his mouth, readying to apologise for the grievous faux pas he
must have surely committed, inwardly analysing possible escape routes in case
he had to make a terrified break for it, and Griphook stealthily kicked the
other goblin beneath the table, the Accountant snapped to attention. "Nadnok.
My name is Nadnok, young one. Forgive my surprise. It is a rare occurrence
indeed when a wizard enquirers as to the name of a creature."
"Oh." Harry frowned, taken aback, cautiously optimistic that there was no
mention of the Grundlelark. "Would that not be the first thing someone did? You
know, considering it is you who is in control of everybody's wealth?"
Nadnok and Griphook shared a viscous looking smirk. "One would think," he
replied. "So, Mister Potter, what is it that I can be doing for you today?"
Harry hummed, thinking. There were many things that he needed done, so it would
be a matter of priority. Right now, however, he was working with an unknown
variable on a rather tight timeframe.
"I think," he began slowly, "that it would be best if you told me why you have
been trying to contact me."

===============================================================================

Throwing composure out the window of the Astronomy Tower, Harry gaped at the
Goblins. Then he blinked and gaped some more.
"So, you mean to tell me, not only do I have a 'magical guardian’” slender
fingers made the caustic quotation marks in the air, "that I have never heard
of, said magical guardian has been receiving all of my financial statements —
since Gringotts is legally unable to send mail to minors unless personally
requested to do so — and not been forwarding it on to me. Have they had access
to my accounts?"
"No."
"At least there's that," Harry muttered and sighed. "Then, if that's not
enough, as of October 31st last year, I have been legally registered as an
adult due to some sort of obscure technicality when my name was called from the
Tri-Wizard Tournament, a competition that allows only 'of-age' participants.
Since my guardian neglected to refute a refutable claim, said obscure magic
went to work, meaning that never again am I even the slightest bit obligated to
obey an adult because I have been 'magically emancipated'."
"Correct, Mister Potter."
"Merlin and Morgana." Groaning, Harry buried his head in his hands. Marvolo had
seriously underestimated what he would find at Gringotts. On that note…
He looked up briefly, attempted to verbalise his thoughts and achieved little
more than a slight wheezing sound, gave up rather quickly and decided to return
to contemplating his existence from behind his hands. Perhaps it would be
better to remain like this, the position was oddly soothing.
"Mister Potter?" Harry groaned again in response, decorum be damned.
"If I may enquire, why are your hands shaking? They were doing so in the foyer
and have yet to cease."
At this, Harry did indeed lift his head, and frowned, raising a hand to inspect
it. So it was. They hadn't bothered him since that first night at the Hotel. He
brushed it off as a by-product of nervous energy — he was not afraid to admit
that these goblins were intimidating.
He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, really."
Nadnok levelled him with a disbelieving look, but then seemed to conclude that
the stubborn human could take care of himself and left it at that. Clearing his
throat, he easily regained the attention of the small group with the experience
bred amongst hardened warriors. That is to say, it was immediate and
unquestioning.
"While Griphook is busy with determining when the redirection of your mail
began, and ascertains that nothing important has been neglected over the years,
apart from the obvious, what matters did you have in need of discussion?"
Griphook, recognising an order when he heard one, stood from the armchair that
he had navigated to at some point during their explanation, walked over to a
filing cabinet that Harry honestly had not noticed upon his inspection of the
office, slammed out a draw, and began leafing through the thick files held
within.
"Oh, yes, of course." Fingers tapped on his leg while Harry tried to remember
what Marvolo had suggested he do. The unexpected overload of information had
thrown him off. "My friend said I should get a Blood Test?"
The goblin grunted in affirmation. "The Blood Test is required for further
action, regardless. I recommend you also take the Inheritance Test. Often
times, the two are partnered; adjustments for the ritual to do so are
inconsequential."
"I thought the Blood Test showed what I was eligible to claim, what's the
Inheritance for?"
"The adjunct information. Details such as the names of your grandparents —
magical and non-magical — and magically designated guardians."
"Ah. Alright then. What do I need to do?"
One had to love the efficiency of Goblins. No sooner had he finished the
sentence, he was being handed a small, ornate knife, another sheet of parchment
and a silver bowl that was half-filled with an iridescent liquid.
He lifted the knife, preparing to make a small incision across the tip of his
finger.
However, it was not to be. With the gleaming metal — and let it be noted that
it was essentially a small dagger and thus very sharp — poised, there was a
split-second of normal motion, and then the door to the office was slamming
open, a bang of unprecedented proportions thrumming loudly through the
confined, vaulted area.
The sound made him jump, the danger flashing before slicing through his palm, a
deeply drawn line of red in its wake. Swearing, he dropped the dagger, grabbing
his hand with a hiss and wrapping it in the front of his jumper. He could care
less if he ruined the shirt with blood — it was black for a reason! — but right
now his hand was bloody well on fire! What was wrong with that dagger?!
Blinking, he suddenly became aware of the storm of commotion that the office
had become. Another goblin had come barging through the doors, arms waving
around wildly and eyes ablaze with an internal fire of supreme annoyance. At
this, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. So Dumbledore had not found him by
mystical means and decided it would be for the best if he were to drag him back
to Privet Drive.
Well, thank Merlin for small mercies. His hand still hurt.
In a pitch slightly higher than those he had come to associate with the other
Goblins, which lead Harry to believe that this may very well be a female
Goblin, Gobbledegook was snapped out viciously in a violent torrent of
dissatisfaction. Nadnok quailed before her. This was a goblin to fear. Perhaps
he should…move…away. Yes. That was a brilliant plan.
Edging back cautiously, lest he draw unwanted attention to himself and become a
target for the torrential tirade, he kept his eyes trained on the she-goblin.
Unlike her male counterparts, she was in a three piece suit of blue. A random
bit of information popped into his head, naming the particular shades a celeste
and stone blue, and the symbol that was etched into her tie in silver thread
was one he frequently saw on medical paraphernalia: the Rod of Asclepius.
Considering the evidence, it was highly likely that she was a healer of some
sort.
This was worrying. One should not fear their healer. It could only be hazardous
to the patients’ health.
He was doing it! He had made it three feet away from his previous position. He
was going to escape unscathed! Survive this encounter and live to never speak
of it aga—
It was at that moment, as he was prematurely celebrating the success of his
escape in silence, that the female goblin growled, nose scrunching and beady
black eyes fierce and took a threatening step forward. Her arm flung outwards,
a frightening gesticulation, and the small object that she was clutching,
apparently the cause of her ire, slipped out of those gnarled hands, soared
through the air, and promptly smacked Harry in the eye.
The sound of the human swearing pulled the three yelling goblins — ahem, the
two terrified Account Managers and the raging Healer — up short, turning to
look with wide eyes as the boy clutched a hand over his.
Ow ow ow! It stung! So badly! The hell did she hit him with?!
Relatively sure that he was not in danger of losing his eye; he pulled his hand
away, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears that had sprung up unbidden. At this
point, he realised that the hand he had used to cover his eye was the one that
he had cut open, meaning that his face was now smeared in blood. Of course it
was. Obviously, it was too much to ask to remain unbloodied. He rolled his eyes
– or attempted to, at least.
Fixing an unimpressed stare on the goblins that winced as a collective, he
plucked the offending object off from where it had stuck to his forehead. It
was little more than thickened parchment, no bigger than his palm. He flipped
it over, noting the runic symbol that appeared to have been drawn in molten
copper, softly glowing, and sighed heavily.
Looking first at Nadnok, he focused on the Healer and held out the…whatever it
was. "I believe this is yours?"
Casting an accusing glance at Nadnok, whom seemed to be conflicted on how he
should respond, the Healer stepped forward, taking the parchment in silence
before turning back to the other Goblin's, resuming her harshly grating lecture
but was noticeably not quite as loud as before.
Wincing as the cut in his palm began bleeding anew at the sudden movements;
Harry picked himself up from the floor and sank into the armchair that
he…jumped out of? Fell out of? Nope, too tired to try and figure out the
details. Figuring that the goblins would tell him if he was intruding, he
balanced his elbow on the armrest, crossed his legs, and leaned his forehead
against his uninjured hand.
Nadnok swallowed, looking forlornly at the Blood and Inheritance potion that
had been ruined, now running red with too much spilled blood. Beady eyes
flicked over to the boy that seemed unconcerned that he appeared to have just
wandered off a battlefield and had instead made himself comfortable in his
chair, and did his utmost to at least look as though he was paying attention to
his wife. This involved nodding at appropriate moments and mentally wondering
where he had put the key to his spare potions cabinet.
Ҩ — the last time! The new scripting calligraphy is illegible! The trainees
cannot read even basic Diagnostics! The King's physician was this close — Ҩ she
held here thumb and forefinger barely and inch away from each other Ҩ — from
telling him that he was dying from complications of a liver replacement. He
went in there for a dislocated shoulder! The King has never had a liver
replacement! Ҩ
Nadnok swallowed and decided that it was in his best interest to attempt
appeasement. Ҩ My dear, surely that was naught but an accident — Ҩ
Yes. Definitely the wrong thing to say. He should have known better.
Narrowing her eyes, the black depths promising retribution at a later date,
like when she was no longer concerned with the welfare of patients due to
faulty lettering on the diagnostic reports in her medical bay, she held up the
runic parchment, not even batting the semi-transparent nictitating membrane.
A claw tipped finger tapped the rune, activating it, and held up the diagnostic
result of the human as evidence of the complete inadequacy of the fonting
department.
The parchment began lengthening, copper-coloured words appearing in spidery
loops that had far too many swirls. Ҩ Do you see now? This is exactly what I
mean, it… Ҩ
The Healer trailed off as the parchment continued growing, surpassing her three
feet of height and pooling along the floor.
With wide eyes, and after shooting a look at the oblivious human that had just
seemed to remember that he had smeared blood on his face and was busy wiping it
off with a tissue, she grabbed the report and quickly began scanning through
it.
Harry's head snapped up when the she-goblin let out an inhuman shriek, unable
to shake off the feeling that whatever it was concerned him. Seeing the
surprisingly long bit of parchment clutched tightly in her fist, in danger of
being crumpled beyond recognisability, he quirked an inquiring eyebrow. The
Healed appeared to be fuming. He wondered what it said. That kind of reaction
would be typical of very bad news. What would be upsetting for Goblins?
Hmm…Well, he wasn't a goblin, so he had no idea — he figured that the bounds
between human and non-human cultures were best left un-breached at this current
time — but, if he were to think on a larger scale of Healers in general, then
he supposed such a reaction could be derived from seeing something like
his…medical…report…
Oh dear Merlin, no.
Unseeing as he was, currently conflicted between rejoicing at the presented
opportunity and bemoaning his lack of control over the situation, it came as a
surprise when he blinked and found the Healer standing in front of him.
Directly in front of him. Very close, indeed. Would it be rude if he pushed the
chair back? Probably. He settled for leaning as far away as possible, without
actually appearing to do so. 'Twas a fine art.
"Mister Potter," the she-goblin began slowly, dangerously. "Would I be correct
to assume that you are aware of what is written here?"
He cleared his throat. "Would that, by any chance, happen to be a diagnostic
report?"
"Indeed."
"Then my answer would be yes?"
"Would you care to explain?"
"Er…which part?"
Over her shoulder, Harry could see Nadnok and Griphook squinting at the she-
goblin whose name he should probably inquire, eyes widening in alarm as they
reached out and pried the mangled parchment out of her leathery hands and
succeeded in making out a total of two words out of the five foot length. They
conceded the Healer had a point; completely illegible.
Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You have been violated, Mister Potter.
The scar tissue suggests that you have suffered many, many violations over
years. Who have you been living with?"
Harry paused before answering, considering his options. He knew very little
about Goblin culture — considering that Professor Binns was a ghostly
manifestation of utter disappointment. What little he had been able to uncover
over Christmas holidays spent within Hogwarts Libraries had led him to believe
that they were a people that were quite happy to begin and end any and all
dealings with wizardkind at the counter of their banks.
However, here he was, being interrogated by a fuming goblin that was angry over
a medical scan he had been intending to have done once he was very far away.
After all, he could hardly pin accomplice-to-child-abuse on his targets if he
lacked proper evidence. And no, he was most certainly not doing an impressive
imitation of an evil cackle complete with devious hand-rubbing.
Alright, maybe he was. Mentally, of course. But he digressed!
There was potential here. If he was reading her correctly, she…actually seemed
to care. Obviously a healer, there was a chance he might be able to receive
medical attention for all the old injuries he knew had not healed properly and
accumulated over the years without getting any nosy humans involved.
He could use this to his advantage. Use their intense apathy towards wizardkind
to ensure that none of his information would be leaked.
As long as no more doors were thrown open, this might actually work out well.
"I lived with my muggle relatives."
The little goblin shrieked and glared at the floor. He could relate.
"Muggles." And here Harry thought only Marvolo could pack that much venomous
disdain into one word. "If they are muggles, they cannot be tried under Goblin
Law. I cannot condone this treatment."
Seeming to arrive at a decision, the she-goblin stood to attention, fixed him
with an assessing gaze, and nodded. "Mister Potter, I am Head-Healer Grimir.
Henceforth, I shall be in charge of all of your medical concerns and
requirements. As the magicals are clearly unable to provide competent care for
their own kind, they have abrogated that right. Do you have any objections? No?
Good. Now—" with a snap of her fingers, Grimir conjured a dragon-hide bound
notebook, a white fluffy quill, and a small stool upon which she sat. "In exact
detail, tell me whom it was that enacted these violations. Be sure to include
the militating abuse."
Harry was, quite suddenly, reminded of a goblin version of Rita Skeeter. It was
unnerving. But he was not going to mention that. Deciding that it would be best
if he just buried the slight anxiety he was feeling of revealing the intimate
details of his past to three…people? …that he barely knew under a heavy dose of
determination, Harry took a preparatory breath, organising his thoughts. It was
not like these commands were hard or follow. He had come to terms with it a
long time ago, was even on his way to getting over it. He was fine.
"Before I do what you need this information for?"
Grimir gave a surprisingly pleased smirk. "Evidence. The lawsuit that Nadnok,
as he is your Account Manager and thus legal representative, should already be
preparing, will require it.”
To retain his Accountants dignity, both Grimir and Harry decided to ignore the
frantic scrabbling for fresh parchment and an ink-well that was not empty. A
small, surprised smile crept across his face. If he had the goblins helping him
with this, things would be so much easier.
"Alright, well…My Uncle, Vernon Dursley was the one that raped me." Blunt was
best. Dancing around words because he was uncomfortable with a certain phrasing
had never been his strongest point. He preferred to be the one making people
feel uncomfortable. "The malnourishment is the fault of my aunt, Petunia née
Evans and I slept in a cupboard for ten years so that will be the stunted
growth. After that, pretty much any and every broken bone or scare you come
across is from their son, Dudley, and Vernon." He tapped his finger
thoughtfully. "Oh, except for the odd one on my forearm. A basilisk did that."
Griphook choked on his own spit and Nadnok snapped his quill. Grimir did not so
much as twitch. Harry liked her.
Quickly scribbling down the information, Grimir humphed and flipped the page,
beginning a list of dot points. "The basilisk venom is still in your veins.
Dormant, but there nonetheless. There is lingering evidence of Phoenix tears,
but any residue has long since burnt out."
Vaguely certain that his wife would not mind terribly if he decided to
'question' the patient, Nadnok spoke up. "Such creatures are incredibly rare,
Mister Potter. How is it that you came to encounter them?"
"I ended up in the Chamber of Secrets in my second year, got bit by the
basilisk then Fawkes cried on the wound." Wow. A single sentence could sum up a
lot of time.
"Where might this Basilisk reside currently?"
"Well, it's rather dead, now. Otherwise, it's underneath Hogwarts."
The goblin's eyes gleamed, piquing Harry's interest.
"Gringotts would be partial to purchasing the basilisk's corpse."
"Sure." Harry studied the Accountant for a moment. Never let it be said that he
allowed an opportunity to pass him by. Head tilting to the side, he grinned.
"For a price, of course."
The Goblins smirked, warming up to the strange human. Few knew it, but it was
actually quite difficult for their species to properly smile. This was as close
as it was going to get. "We are agreeable to negotiations. We can begin such
when the timing is appropriate, which is —" Nadnok caught the glare Grimir shot
him and shivered. "— not now."
"Enough chit-chat. Drink these." About a dozen vials were thrust into Harry's
hand. He was forced to quickly deposit the lot in his lap when Grimir also
grabbed his hand, poured a clear liquid over it, and began wrapping it up in
white linens even as the cut began to visibly close.
Leery of just swallowing an array of random potions, he lifted an eyebrow. "And
these are?"
Grimir grunted, patting his hand as she finished tying the knot. "Blood
Replenisher — your scan does show that you have had two recently but you would
do well with another. Pain potion, Nerve Stabiliser — take that first — Basic
Nutrient potion, Core Stabiliser and the others, well, actually, you should
probably have them later.” She took the unspecified potions away from him.
“Your magic is currently rather unsettled." Her mouth set in a firm line. "A
Magical Healing Coma will suffice. I can reset your bones and strengthen them
at the same time, properly heal your torn muscles." Grimir blinked, snapping
out of her medical mode. "How is it that you are able to walk without showing
pain?"
"Got used to it, I suppose."
Eyeing the potions warily, resigning himself to his fate, he selected the one
made of burgundy glass, the Nerve Stabiliser and knocked it back. She merely
continued scribbling down crucial amendments to what he suspected was becoming
his medical directory.

===============================================================================

A few minutes later found Harry once again lifting the ritual dagger. The
blood-filled bowl and botched potion had been cleared and replaced. Grimir had
left to go ready a room for the Healing Coma she wanted to put him under. He
had no say in this. He was not about to argue, though; hearing that the
strength of his bones was so impaired they were bordering on brittle and thus
would be susceptible to easy breaks in a few years’ time had been enough for
him to clamp his mouth shut and eagerly embrace this new method of going along
with whatever the doctor ordered.
Carefully nicking his finger, he squeezed out exactly three drops of blood and
watched as they hung, suspended, on the surface of the iridescent liquid before
sinking down and pooling together at the base of the bowl.
Expecting to see the liquid tint pink, it was mildly shocking when the potion
instead softened to gold. Nadnok glanced at the time-piece hooked onto his
waistcoat, made a satisfied sound, and dunked the bit of parchment into the
bowl. The entirety of it vanished effortlessly into the obscured depths despite
it being physically impossible to do so in such a shallow bowl. A passing
moment, and then he pulled it out and unrolled it over the desk.
Wondering at the cost of water-damage to such a beautiful piece of furniture,
Harry leaned over and observed the scrawling gold ink with a strange mixture of
curiosity and apprehension.

                        Given_Name: Harry James Potter.
                        Date_of_Birth: 31st July, 1980
                                   Parents:
                        James Charlus Potter (deceased)
                   Lily Margaret Potter née Evans (deceased)
                         Grandparents:_Paternal_(Mag):
                      Charlus Alexander Potter (deceased)
                    Dorea Marie Potter née Black (deceased)
                              Maternal_(No-Mag):
                        Robert Stefan Evans (deceased)
                     Violet May Evans née Rose (deceased)

Here, Harry paused. It was the first time he had ever seen the names of any of
his grandparents. From what Marvolo has said, he had a feeling that he would
have liked Charlus and Dorea, but he wondered what Robert and Violet would have
been like. Would they have liked him? Accepted him for what he was? Or might
they have been like Petunia, despising his very existence and trying to starve
the freakishness out of him?
Chewing on the inside of his lip, he tried to shake off that lingering voice
that whispered how pointless it was to hope for even that much. It didn’t
matter. They were dead, now. He would never get the chance to find out.
Dead. He blinked, dispelling the tears that threatened to fall free. All of his
grandparents were dead. For the first time, Harry was truly coming to realize
that he had no family left. No home.
He drew in a deep breath. He would think about it later. Clearing his throat,
he smoothed out the parchment and continued reading.

                            Heir_to_the_Lordships:
                    The Noble and Ancient House of Potter.
                  The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.
            The Most Noble and Most Ancient Olde House of Peverell.

…
Lordships?! As in: plural?! He was being followed by plurals! First the
betrayals, then the vaults and now there were Titles. Why was this so
unexpected?!
Seeing the wide-eyed, slack jawed expression and utter lack of movement from
the human boy, Nadnok frowned in worry. He looked at Griphook. He, too, bore
witness to the dumfounded shock.
“I think…we may have broken the human.”
Nadnok considered this. “Agreed. Retrieve the Wack-Me Stick.”
Griphook rushed out of the office. By this point, Harry had overcome his
astonishment and realised that this was actually a good thing. He could not be
certain, but he was relatively sure that three Lordships made him quite
powerful, and thus safe, in many senses. He did not, however, visually show
this, leaving Nadnok to continue believing that the human was faulty.
Griphook returned a minute later.
At this, Harry looked up.
Now, see, any normal, self-respecting being would assume that Griphook would be
holding something reasonably long, woody and, well, stickish.
However, these were Goblins. Hence, this was not the case. No, if Harry assumed
that Griphook had indeed adhered to Nadnok’s suggestion and retrieved the Wack-
Me stick, then he was forced to arrive at a truly alarming conclusion.
Fore, brandished in his claw-tipped, gnarled hands as the evil little goblin
smirked diabolically, was a very large, very sharp, very much not-stick-like in
the slightest, iron mace.
Seeing this, Harry was not afraid to admit that he jumped out of his chair,
sought protection behind the desk and shrieked. Loudly. A shriek that was equal
parts dismay and pure, unbridled fear.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He whirled around, Nadnok beside
him. “Why are you chuckling?!”
Nadnok wiped away a mirthful tear. “It works…every time.” The goblin’s shoulder
shook with his laughter, and this time, Griphook joined him, tossing the
torture weapo – er, unassuming mace that was entirely innocent in this – over
his should, where it clunked into the wall.
Heart racing from the adrenalin and with his hand over his chest, Harry gaped.
“Are you kidding me? You just do that for kicks! I cannot…you…unbelievable.”
Throwing his hands up in the air, he dropped down into seat. Shooting one last
glare that promised retribution – and yes, the goblins believed the boy would
follow through with it. Not everybody could pull off that look so expertly,
after all – Harry once again continued with the Blood Test Results.

  Magical_Guardians: Sirius Orion Black. (Active since Nov. 1, 1981. Inactive
                              since Nov. 3, 1981)
     Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. (Active since Nov. 4, 1981)

Nadnok's eyes widened minutely as he read through the boy's Heirships,
particularly when he landed upon that last one.
"Well, Mister Potter. I suggest we bring the other account managers in here so
that you may accept the Lordship rings."
Harry did not hear him. His entire attention was focused solely on that very
last line. The name of his current magical guardian. The name of the man that
had lied to him. Manipulated him. Paraded him around like some sort of trophy,
the Light’s Golden bloody Gryffindor.
His teeth clenched. The man had knowingly left him in that brutal manifestation
of Hell itself when he it had been his responsibility to ensure that he was
safe. Not as a Headmaster. Not as a man with a shred — an iota — of decency.
No, he had done it as his guardian.
That godforsaken bastard!
Poisonous green eyes glared through the parchment that was now in his hands. He
would make that man pay until he bled for it. He would destroy him, ruin him,
tear him off his beloved pedestal and drag him through the dirt until that
fucking benign smile had been ripped off and then, only then would he kill him.
Oh, how delicious that would be, to make the man feel even a tenth of what he
had endured. He snarled, equal parts in anticipated pleasure and pure,
indescribable hatred, fingers clenching.
Magic slipped free from the tight hold he kept on it when in public, black
flames licked up the edges of the parchment, dancing in ashy twists outwards
from the tips of his fingers. Burnt ash drifted down to the floor once the icy
fire had devoured the implicating document.
"Mister Potter."
He licked his lips. Focus. He had to focus. Eyes closed as he wrestled his
magic back under the control, wrapping it around himself like a cloak. Holding
it tight.
Making a faintly laboured sound, he yanked it down when it tried rising up. Why
was it so much easier to control when Marvolo was beside him?
He looked up after a long moment, as satisfied as he was going to get when it
felt like his magic was scratching up his sides, begging to be released. It
would settle down eventually. Realising that he was now the primary attraction
for the attention of two new goblins, he coughed — awkwardly — and stood from
his seat, a bashful blush warming his face.
"Sorry. I'm, er…having a bit of a difficult time restraining my magic. Seeing
proof that the man who ruined my life was technically the one in charge of it
is rather trying to handle."
Nadnok waved his contrition aside, having seen the name and understanding the
boy's plight.
"Mister Potter, these are your other Account Managers. Allow me to introduce
Bannot. He is responsible for the Black accounts." Harry nodded politely,
exchanging the traditional greeting with the new goblin. Unlike Nadnok, Bannot
was not obviously battle worn. His velum-like skin was still unlined, scar
free. The canines of his teeth were more pronounced than those of the goblins
Harry had already met. His three piece suit was a collection of burgundy and
suede grey shades, and where Nadnok had a simple, elegant yet nondescript time-
piece, Bannot had several, the chains entangled and overlapping with the clock
faces displaying a different design for each one. As such, a faint ticking
exuded from his person, announcing his position in the room.
Harry liked it. He thought it was quirky. He really wanted a pocket watch now.
Later, though, currently, he was being steered towards the other goblin.
"And this is Furnar. He manages the Peverell accounts."
Harry greeted the goblin. He did not know what it was, exactly — it might have
been the vaguely Elizabethan style in which he was dressed, maybe it was the
way the hair in his ears had shortened to a wiry mass of dull fuzz. Perhaps, it
was nothing more than an indeterminable feeling. Whatever it was, there was
something about Furnar that suggested the goblin was very, very old.
When he spoke, Harry very nearly cringed at the rasping tenor that was like
grit clawing along old bones, dry and rotten. "Greetings, Lord." If Harry
though that was bad, he was proven wrong when Furnar chuckled. "I have waited a
long time."
Well, at least he wasn't speaking in Shakespearian or something else just as
obscure. Harry could do without the headache.
He raised an eyebrow, reclaiming his seat as they all clustered around Nadnok's
desk. Now he knew why it was so big. "Waited for what, exactly?"
Furnar’s rasping was amused in a rather unamusing way. "For you. Centuries it
has been since last there was a Peverell Lord. Can you not taste it? There are
times changing. That is for certain."
Bannot growled. "Pay him no mind, Mister Potter. He's clinically insane."
Wisely, Harry merely blinked. If they thought that was insane…
"It has never been proven! You watch your tongue lest you find yourself bereft
of it!"
"Why, you overgrown lump of swamp lichen! You dare promise empty threats! Come,
make good on your word, as lacking as it is!"
And thus began Harry's introductory experience to goblin bickering. Nadnok
sidled up to him as weapons were drawn. Chuckling at the wide-eyed human,
Nadnok grunted, sidestepped a wayward thrust of a rapier and clapped the boy on
the shoulder. "Do not worry; they are like family on most days…Today is simply
not most days."
"Oh..." Harry said faintly. He was not sure if that was supposed to be
reassuring.
Satisfied he had mollified the human, Nadnok pushed over a suit of armour. The
clamouring of crashing metal was just deafening enough to silence the unruly
goblins and scare the wits out of Harry.
Thick brows furrowed in disappointment as Nadnok surveyed his brother goblins.
"That is enough. If you are to behave as sproglings then leave. Otherwise, put
aside these idle quarrels and behave."
Bannot dropped the shield he had been holding. It was convenient that it landed
on Furnar's foot, making the goblin squeal — actually squeal, although he would
furtively deny that — jump out of the way and trip of the suit of armour,
sending the helmet flying.
To their credit, they both acted as though nothing happened and calmly retook
their seats on either side of Nadnok. With the three goblins pinning him with
unblinking stares, Harry felt as though he was on some sort of panel, or maybe
a job interview. It was creepy.
They would likely find that an apt compliment.
After a minute of shifting paperwork and adjusting ink pots, Nadnok tapped the
tips of his nails together. "Now, Mister Potter, the instigation of your Claim
to the title of Lord is really quite simple. All you need do is put on the ring
designated to each family. At that point, because we are dealing with family
magics here, the sentient magic of the rings shall either accept you as Lord,
or deny your Claim. The order in which you begin is inconsequential to the
overall process. How would you prefer to proceed?"
"Potter, first." It was only fitting, he supposed. "Then Black and Peverell."
Yes, leave the creepy goblin until last. Good choice.
Acquiescing, Nadnok pushed a small ring box across the desk. Harry took it,
flipping it open. A dusted bronze band of inter-woven Celtic knots shone lowly
up at him, the metal wrapped around a smooth stone of rose-hued jasper. It
was…warm, when he pulled it out. That must be the family magic Nadnok spoke of.
Feeling his own magic poking at it experimentally, he slid it on to his left
index finger, where it resized to fit snugly around the narrow digit.
Bannot went next, pushing his ring box forward. Unlike the Potter's box, this
was black velvet with a silvery emblem stamped onto the surface. Recognising it
as the Black family crest only from stolen moments between books in the
Library, he hummed.
"Technically, Mister Potter, you are one of several heirs. As a patriarchal
line, three could have inherited."
Really? "Who else?"
"Apart from yourself, Sirius Black and Draco Malfoy." Harry's nose wrinkled.
Ew. He was related to a Malfoy. Icky.
"You are of Black blood through your paternal grandmother, considered to be an
adult in all ways that matter, and are able to Claim. Young Mister Malfoy is
still considered a minor and thus illegible at the current time. While Mister
Black has been incarcerated, he is still legible. However, he has made no
attempt to claim the title neither before not after his imprisonment. It is my
understanding that he is of the belief that a rudimentary disowning ritual —
one enacted near on twenty years ago — was properly officiated, hence refuting
his petition. Despite that not being so, " Bannot smirked sharply, all vicious
angles and malicious satisfaction. "It is not the goblin way to correct the
mistakes of wizards."
Harry could not keep from grinning, snickering softly and opening the box.
The Black ring was plaited silver, hammered flat, the precious metal flowing
around a rough oval of green-blended tourmaline. Dark magic washed against his
own, nothing like Marvolo’s, but almost soothing nonetheless. It settled on his
right index finger.
"A word of caution, Mister Potter," Furnar rasped. Right now, coated in
reverence as it was, the sound would not be remiss in a graveyard. "Although
the blood has remained, the family magic has not accepted a Lord since the heir
of the original Heads. One ring passed among three brothers until it came to a
daughter."
"And you want me to put it on?"
"Indeed." Furnar lovingly unclasped the wooden box. "It seems rather excited,
does it not?"
Harry glanced down, unconvinced, and jade eyes locked onto the ring. Black
metal and a roughly hewn block of obsidian.
"Smithed from Stygian Iron. Infamously elusive in its existence. Thought to be
naught but myth. Only the worthy will be accepted, young lord."
Harry's hand was reaching out before he had actively decided to do so, moving
against direction because he could hear it calling, calling him…
Cold metal slid down his thumb, brushing past the Black ring. Ice raced along
his veins, leaving him gasping at its familiarity, its intimacy. Ashy shadows
lashed out and crawled up his arms, eyes opening to reveal a shade of Killing
Curse green; bright and glacial.
So wrapped up in his reaction to the ring, Harry missed the way the three
goblins shivered as magic thickened the air, lovingly, hatefully stroking along
wood and flesh.
Harry hummed in pleasure as ice, warmth and darkness settled alongside his
personal ash and poison, feeling lighter than he had in a long while.
Nadnok was the first to recover, Bannot too busy tapping one of his time-pieces
when the hand stopped moving and Furnar staring off into space with a dazed
expression.
"I believe congratulations are in order, Lord Potter-"
"— Black —"
"— and Peverell."
Slowly stretching out his fingers, feeling the weight of the rings, physical
manifestations of how untouchable he had just become, Harry's smile was feral.
***** 8 *****
Date: 19th June, 1995
Location: Office of Nadnok the Potter Estate Manager, Gringotts London Branch.
 
"The first thing I want to know," Harry began, "is if I can change my name."
The Estate Managers nodded, Bannot taking the lead as he had more experience
with these matters. "You may, however, as you are no ordinary magical but a
Lord, it is imperative and compulsory that you take one of the magical Family
Names."
Alright. Not quite the amount of free-wheeling freedom he was hoping for. But
it was better than nothing.
Harry reclined further into the leather, tired after all the happenings of his
visit. If he had known that he would be threatened by a crazed goblin as a bit
of fun, accosted by an enraged healer and suddenly made a Lord, he would have
insisted to Marvolo that they stay in bed for another few hours. This was
energy sapping.
"Who else knows of my inheritance?"
"Despite such information not being publicly released, it is not difficult to
obtain should one look in the right areas."
Harry almost missed the gleam. Almost. His mouth twitched upwards. "And how
difficult would it be to make sure that this information cannot be obtained?"
Bannot chuckled. "The right price would...smooth things along."
Harry tapped his fingers thoughtfully. He supposed he ought to get used to the
possibility of spending money without any attachments.
His fingers stilled. He had money. For the first time in his life he had money.
A sharp grin broke out. He had money to spend on things other than school funds
and equipment requirements. After years of cowering in dark corners wishing for
a way out, resorting to digging through trash cans because it was the only
option available to him after regularly going days without eating, he would
never again go hungry. He had his out. Hands clapped over his mouth,
desperately holding back hysterical laughter, the exuberance of realisation,
shoulders shaking.
He was oblivious to the wary looks the goblins were currently directing his
way.
Nadnok cleared his throat and Harry hiccupped, wiping his eyes and taking a
calming breath. His grin was just this side of sane. "Sorry.” Hiccup. “I'm
going to need an inventory of my vaults before I can agree to any price."
"It shall be done." Bannot stood, adjusted the delicate chain that had become
hooked on the button of his waistcoat, and then left the office.
"Would Dumbledore know of my Titles? You know, being my magical guardian and
all?"
Nadnok made a disgruntled sound just as Bannot returned and slammed a thick
file onto the desk. A dense cloud of dust puffed out. Harry coughed, trying to
fend off the offending dust cloud by flapping his hand. Huh, he thought they
would have taken better care of their beloved paperwork.
"It is doubtful. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, you know. The usual." He sneezed. "Let's just say that I would rather not
have some people hounding me for the rest of my life." He sighed heavily. "I
don't suppose he's done anything to upset Gringotts at all?"
Catching the pointed look shared between Bannot and Nadnok — Furnar was busy
fiddling with the sweeping sleeves of his tunic — he sat up straight, a
disbelieving eyebrow rising. "Has he?"
Nadnok hesitated. "What is it you intend for him?"
Harry waved a hand dismissively. "Utter ruin. Nothing more, nothing less." He
was close to bouncing in his seat; green eyes alight with a child-like
anticipation. This had to be too good to be true. "What do you have?"
"We goblins do not take kindly to deception of the fiscal kind." It remained
unsaid that they would, of cause, ignore such happenings if they were the ones
doing the deceiving. "His inability to adhere to the legal specifications
pertaining to his role as your Magical Guardian is concerning." Nadnok's beady
eyes narrowed, shark-like grin and laced fingers. "I wonder, what should we
find if we were to look deeper?"
Bannot smirked. "Take a closer look, for example, at the donations registered
to his self-established organisation, his club for Avian Adversaries.
It would be...curious indeed if the members also happened to be known
participants of his Order of the Phoenix, would it not?"
"Ooh, it would,” Harry breathed. Forget dignity, he was bouncing in his seat,
clapping his hands together excitedly. "What else?"
"Currently? Nothing." Damn. He really thought the goblins were building towards
something there. Meh, his good mood could not be deterred! "We have nothing but
speculation at this point. However, once our business here has concluded, I
shall commence with the instigation of the investigation. A tedious affair such
as this could take months. In fact..."
Pulling open a shallow draw, Nadnok withdrew a fresh piece of parchment and
slid it across the desk to Furnar. Done with rearranging his sleeves into
artful waves, Furnar grabbed the parchment. Wrinkled hands and claw-tipped
nails made quick work of folding the parchment along precise — and invisible —
lines.
By the time he had finished, a tiny origami bird stood proudly upon the glossy
wood. With a snap of his fingers, it began tweeting. Shrilly. That was going to
get annoying. Harry gazed at it shrewdly, trying to determine its evil purpose.
He came up empty. "Alright, why?"
Bannot, having been glaring hatefully at the parchment creature, was the one to
answer. "Nadnok is fond of his faunal reminders. He is a menace upon those of
us whom remain sane."
Nadnok, hearing only the first part, turned, staring fondly at the bird — since
Harry had never had, nor did he intend to have, any interest in avian species,
it was simply going to be referred to as 'bird' — and sighed blissfully, hands
clasped in a mockery of a sweet-heart position. Sadly, Harry knew he intended
the pose to be completely sincere. "Is she not the most beautiful thing you
have ever heard?"
Bird screeched shrilly, reaching a pitch Harry suspected was one decibel off
from dropping of the sonic range.
Was he supposed to answer that?
"Er..." He didn't want to lie. Or say the truth. He had never seen a goblin
cry; the Fifth year Ravenclaws had a conniption last year, vowing that they had
been unfortunate enough to witness such an act. He had no intention of joining
them. Avoiding the question it was, then. "You were saying?"
Nadnok blinked, dazed, the semi-transparent nictitating membrane making a
suctioning sound. "Ah, yes. As I was saying, tedious affair, could take months.
Every vault the man has had, or could have potentially had contact with, shall
need to be evaluated. Any discrepancies in monetary transference shall be
recorded and investigated and paperwork filed accordingly. It will be a lengthy
process. And that is merely within Britain.”
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Not at present. At a future date...perhaps."
Harry inclined his head. Anything to see that man fall would be worth it, in
his opinion.
Bannot flicked the thick file he had heaved through pointedly. "I believe we
should return to the changing of your name and securing of your details, Mister
Potter."
Harry laughed, leaning to the side in his chair, crossing his legs. “I think
you’re just eager for my gold.”
The Black Accountant shrugged, emboldened by the carefree nature of the human.
Harry's teasing smile widened. "Fine, fine." Eyes flicking to the stack of what
he was to understand was nothing but information on his vaults and deciding
that there was no way in Avalon that he was voluntarily reading that while he
sat here — and even then, it would not be so much as touched unless he had an
entire pot of highly caffeinated tea, a steeling resolve and several Headache
Relievers — he came to the conclusion that there were easier ways to do this.
"Was there something particular you had in mind as payment?" See? Doom averted.
"There is a goblin-made shield that has lain untouched for centuries within the
Black Vault. A creation of unparalleled beauty, taken by your forefathers —"
"You can have it."
The goblins mouth clamped shut. Thick eye-brows creased while long ears
twitched suspiciously. "Have you no desire to retain it? It is a glorious
master-piece. Surely you cannot cede it just like that."
"I can, I will, I did. What on earth am I going to use a shield for, anyway?"
"You...have a point. Very well, consider the payment accepted."
"...I probably should have asked this before, but what exactly am I paying
for?"
Furnar chose that moment to pipe up. "Invisibility, Mister Potter. You have
bought invisibility." He then flicked his eyebrows mysteriously.
Blinking and realising he would be receiving no further clarification; Harry
looked at Bannot, nonplussed.
"All files pertaining to your person shall be locked down, will vanish. For all
intents and purposes, you have become unreachable. Should you desire it, Harry
James Potter shall cease to exist, the name never again to be linked to you.
Would I be correct in assuming that it is your intention to Claim your Seats on
the magical's Wizengamot?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then only the title as Lord of your chosen family shall be known. You will be
unable to avoid revealing your holdings over the Potter Estate; however,
regardless of if you take the name of Black or Peverell, it would be able to be
classified as a Familial Conquest."
Harry hummed, pleased. "That sounds...well, wonderful doesn't quite cut it.
Thank you. Do any of you have any advice on which name I should take?"
Furnar cracked his neck as he stretched, the exaggerated ruff tilting at a
precarious angle. There was gleam in the narrow depths of his eyes that lit up
an innate instinct that Harry had learned to rely on. The goblin was plotting
something. Unfortunately, he had no idea what that might be. Warily, he was
resigned to waiting it out.
"Take the name of Peverell. It needs not be said that Potter is negated.
Leaving Britain and taking the name Black with you will raise many eyebrows
amongst the Pureblood circles." He rasped, and cleared his throat, a sound akin
to boulders grating against each other. "Black has become too widespread
throughout the centuries, too interwoven to have died out amongst foreign
lines. Your anonymity will be unachievable."
Alright. The goblin's interludial moments of lucidity were really throwing him
off.
Exchanging a sly glance with his brother goblin that went entirely over the
humans head — not literally, of course, but that's just semantics — Bannot
slowly nodded. "Furnar is correct, Mister Potter. You would not remain
unaccosted. You are young for one with so much power. Family —" Harry cringed,
knowing where the sneering goblin was going with this. "— would clamour for
your attention, attempting to assert their control over you. The Peverell name
no longer remains, ergo, you will not suffer such an issue.”
Harry frowned in confusion. "But you said earlier that the bloodlines were
still around."
"Indeed it does, but not the family. Blood is interwoven, Mister Potter. It
cannot be lost, but it can be concealed. The Potter's, for instance, can trace
the beginning of their line back to an estranged daughter that was the great,
great niece once removed to the grandson of Ignotius Peverell."
"…I have no idea who that is."
Was it his imagination or were the goblins actually pleased to hear this? Nah,
that would just be suspicious…which was exactly what he was waiting for. What
could they possibly want if their plotting involved a name? He narrowed his
eyes, deciding to pay closer attention.
Nadnok waved his hand, easily picking up from Bannot. "All you need know is
that he was a long gone ancestor of yours. Anything else is irrelevant at
present. What have you decided?"
Brushing aside his concerns for the moment — and an unfounded focus of what
was, in his opinion, a healthy amount of paranoia — and rolling his eyes, the
boy smiled wryly, as though he had not just been told what he was going to do.
"I'll take the Peverell name."
"Very well." Yes, like it was such a concession. "What of your first name? The
second as well, for that matter.”
Delighted — and inwardly thinking that all those hours spent lying on his bed,
trying to recover as his magic, limited as it had been, went to work on healing
fresh lashes or bones that were just shy of breaking again had been good for
something — Harry shifted in his chair with a smirk.
Admittedly, he had assumed – during those times – that he would be able to
choose a random surname, but using 'Peverell' was not a problem.
The first time he had ever been called something other than 'Freak' of 'Boy',
he had been almost five and it had been 'Harry'. His first bit of proof that he
was just as much a person as Dudley. As Petunia. He refused to include Vernon.
The man did not deserve that title of human.
Thus, his name held a certain sentimentally that he was not ready to let go so
he had found a variation of it, changing it slightly for any official
documentation he might have to sign. It would be a rather glaring coincidence
if his initials remained HP, would it not?
It had been his second name that had given him the most trouble. He wanted
nothing of his parents. If he ever received the opportunity to go, he wanted a
fresh start, a life away from their impression.
A life with as few ties as possible to this one. Freedom.
It had turned out that pain induced delirium created a few moments of tranquil
lucidity that was perfect for straying thoughts taking bizarre turns, drifting
over, and abstract details long since forgotten. During one of these times, his
mind, mid mosey, had stumbled upon Tom’s creation of the enviably awesome
anagrammatic pseudonym of ‘Lord Voldemort’. It was pure genius. Even if Harry
suspected the Slytherin had used a spell to do it. He had asked once. His
suspicions were as yet unconfirmed, but he digressed.
Thinking about Voldemort had led him to thinking about Albania, then some other
things, and back to Albania and he had his middle name.
"Rian." Fingers tapped along his leg. "Rian Liri Peverell. That will be my
name."
Nadnok appeared to be baffled at how he had arrived at the name. He didn’t
blame him; it was odd. "Rian Liri?"
"Mm, yes. I read 'Hadrian' in a book once, when I was younger. Liked it
immediately. 'Rian' is just shortened from it. I didn't want a 'H' in my
initials for...well, just in case."
"Ah, and the second name?"
Harry's foot swung from where he had hooked it behind the other beneath the
chair. "It's Albanian for 'freedom'."
"A fitting name, I think...Mister Peverell."
Green eyes lit up, rolling his shoulders as though they were adjusting to a
comforting hold. Even his magic felt pleased, humming lowly. “I like the sound
of that.”
"He will need to take the Blood Test again."
Harry and Nadnok looked across to Bannot, who, always one to be prepared, was
already procuring the necessary materials.
"Agreed. That is, if Mister Peverell is agreeable?"
"Oh, sure...Why do we need to do it again?"
"As you...What did you do to the last test?"
"Burnt it, I think."
Furnar frowned down at the rug, intrigued, and nodded to himself, his chin
disappearing into the ruffles of the ruff. "So that's what that pile of ash
is." Harry blushed, biting his lip sheepishly.
Gnarled fingers folded together as Nadnok reclined in his seat, content to
allow Bannot to potter around his office. "Well, it is imperative that such
Tests are filed accordingly so that we might keep as accurate records as
possible. Regardless, the results will have changed now, so it should be done
at any rate."
Reaching for the knife set before him, Harry paused when Bannot made a small
sound and raised an eyebrow before noticing the new additions. Whereas before
there was simply a bit of parchment, liquid filled bowl and the ritual dagger,
now there was also a ribbon bound scroll and a gold-tinted turquoise feathered
quill with a...diamond?...nib. Watching for a telling sign, Harry lifted the
scroll, slipping off the ribbon.
"What do I do with this?"
With Bannot tapping the face of the timepiece that had once again stopped and
Furnar fixing him with a look that said it should have been obvious, Nadnok was
left to answer.
"That is to verify your name change. You must sign that before the Blood and
Inheritance Test; otherwise the latent magic will not recognise it as a
legitimate alteration."
Right. It was official. Goblin magic was brilliant. Giving the delicate quill
an experimental flick, Harry scanned through the cramped lettering that held
absolutely no meaning to him, arrived at the conclusion that signing it should
be fine as nothing dangerous seemed to be mentioned — really, it was more the
principle of the matter. It wouldn't be official without the obscure legalese —
he put the tip to the parchment and signed his name. His new name. He bit his
lip to keep back the silly grin, bouncing inside.
With the last curve of the final 'l' the diamond nib pulsed. The drying ink
throbbed a poison green with ashy violet dripping down around the edges, and
then sank into the parchment in stark black. Harry almost dropped the quill in
alarm. Thanking Merlin that he managed to return that much of his dignity,
green eyes narrowed accusingly at the smirking goblins.
How was it fair that they derived amusement by pulling one over on the
unassuming humans? It wasn't! At all!
"Apologies, Mister Peverell —"
"You don't look apologetic," the boy drawled.
Nadnok coughed, fighting down his mirth. "That was merely the quill borrowing a
strand of your magic in order to record your magical signature. We ensure
validity that way."
Harry huffed, not entirely mollified but choosing to move on, and picked up the
dagger, slicing open his finger indifferently. "Goblin magic is brilliant."
Three drops of blood. "Why is it so different from, well, my kind of magic?"
Before Nadnok could descend into a lengthy explanation, Furnar shot out a hand,
pulling his fellow goblin up short. Beady black eyes observed the human with a
strange intensity. "Mister Peverell, what exactly do you mean by 'my'?"
"Er...Wizarding magic. What else could I mean?"
Furnar made a considering noise. "And, out of curiosity, are you of the belief
that your particular brand of magic is like other wizards?"
"Is it not?"
Those transparent and milky-webbed eyelids blinked. "Do you frequently come
across other magicals with such...curious magical signatures that it can be
felt even when the wielder is actively keeping it under control?"
Harry frowned. While he could hardly experience what other people felt when
they came into contact with his magic when it was in its natural state, he had
honesty always assumed that people had just as much difficulty constantly
keeping it down as he did. Admittedly, his magic had only really started
putting up a fight after he cast that Patronus that saved Sirius' life in Third
year and had gone utterly berserk the night his name came out of the Cup, so he
did not have a long period of reference, but there were a few wizards he had
come across that he had been able to feel. The two that came to mind were
Dumbledore and Voldemort slash Marvolo.
For an entire school year he had had to live with the sickeningly white aura
the old coot toted around with him, dripping with deception and good-will. It
was horrifying. Every encounter had left him itchy and feeling as though he
needed to scrub the residue off of his skin. Marvolo's magic was antipodal;
deep midnight silk and dusky lilac that soothed his own with its familiarity.
Ah. Yes, he saw what the goblin was insinuating. Many words could describe the
barmy Headmaster and recently-returned-to-sanity-and-main-feature-of-some-very-
pleasurable-memories-that-left-Harry-blushing Dark Lord, but magically normal
were not them.
They were, after all, revered as the strongest wizards of the century.
Seeing the light of realisation within poison, Furnar chuckled. "So you do
understand."
"Are you saying —"
"That your magical core has the potential to rival self-claimed Light and Dark
Lords? Indeed, I am."
"But...that....but....what?!" Harry stared aghast at the aged Accountant, brain
refusing to compute the information in a timely manner. With a satisfied grunt,
Furnar's mouth remained closed and he snippily crossed his stocking clad legs.
The bells that Harry was just now noticing jangled shortly, but he digressed.
"No! You can't go and say stuff like that and then stop talking! Furnar!”
Harry looked at Nadnok helplessly, hoping for some support and tugged on his
hair in annoyance when he was met with a smug expression. "Insufferable, the
lot of you."
Chuckling, Nadnok submerged the bit of parchment into the golden liquid, waited
the appropriate amount of time, then pulled it out and once again spread it
across the desk. Observing the boy before him, he decided that there would be
no harm in answering the question he had posed on the workings of goblin magic.
Bannot, sensing what the other intended, looked at him incredulously, but was
silenced with a sharp slice of a hand and a meaningful glance.
"In answer to your earlier query, Mister Peverell, and because Furnar shall say
no more on the matter until he deems himself good and ready to do so, the most
basic explanation I can provide is simply that wizardkind have ingrained within
themselves that audible and verbalised commands is the way in which magic ought
to exist naturally. What they fail to realise is the accidental magic amongst
their offspring, an act that is rewarded throughout childhood, occurs unspoken.
There is no conscious thought, no direction. There is intent, only."
Harry leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the results of his
test form where he had been pulling it towards him. "How does that make it
different from your kind of magic?"
Even though the goblin's voice remained impassive, the gruesome scar ripping
across his face twisted bitterly. "They believe forcing magic into irregular
contortions that are bound within their spoken language and spells that are
created through crude translations of intrinsic patterns is natural. They label
the magic of my kind as..." He paused, frowning. "How would you say it? Open?
Yes, they label it as open magic, uncontrollable. Your Mother Magic did not
gift such a treasure upon the humans so that they could kill it. Magic is
supposed to be free, be a part of the self, as easily directed as your thoughts
are stray; entwined with every breath.
"You...you are different. You have not learned to dampen it from birth.
Restraint, for you, takes conscious effort, the wildness of your core, it is
not discouraged. That is our magic. Fit only for creatures, it is something the
Wizarding Ministry deemed too much of an unknown, and thus strives to make us
register so that we might be monitored."
The implications of what Bannot was saying struck through his core, slicing
deeply, but he could only regard it with a detached sort of indifference. The
goblin was describing his human magic as being, in its foundation, similar to
theirs. A power that needed to be restrained.
He now knew why Dumbledore had been so insistent on his remaining with his
relatives.
How many times had Vernon literally told him that they would beat the
freakishness out of him, no matter how long it took?
Granted, that sheer level of idiocy was almost unfathomable on anybody else,
but with the Dursley's? The people that made such a total lack of good judgment
it defied reason into an art form? Yeah, he could see how they would arrive at
such a pigheaded conclusion. A Whale and a Horse that had naught but a single —
time-shared — brain cell to their names could do that.
Eh, that sounded like a bad joke.
Praying to Merlin that Dumbbell had not been the one to suggest in some way
that a childhood of agony would negate his freakishness so that the man could
ensure his perfect little weapon was malleable and easily controlled — and
thanking Morgana that the Dursley's had failed in achieving that, at least — He
put a pause on his current train of thought, refocusing on his Accountant.
A toothy smirk that showed off sharp canines sent chills down his spine.
"Needless to say, Mister Peverell, wizardkind are no longer welcome to the
intimacies of our practices. They seek to control us, limit us? Then that is
what they shall see." Beady eyes cut across to his brothers, sharing
conspiratorial looks. "It is amusing when decades pass and with each
generation, more of our abilities are forgotten, our magical efficacy
underestimated."
Harry cracked a smiled. "They do say there is safety in ignorance."
"And that victory will be found in over-confidence."
"That too." Releasing a harsh breath, Harry slumped into the chair. "I'm
sorry," he flapped his hand, encompassing everything in the gesture. "Honestly,
the more I learn of the Wizarding world, the less impressed I am with what I
find. I mean, I thought muggles were hypocritical and racist. They didn't have
magic and different species thrown into the mix."
“That is the way of things, Mister Peverell. One learns to accept that,
regardless of the being, existence seeks to assert power over others. At
present, the magicals believe this is equitable to power.”
Uncertain as to what more could really be said on this matter — a passive
sympathy would change nothing — Harry leaned forward and pulled the Blood Test
over, turning it slightly so that it could be read.
 
                        Given_Name: Harry James Potter
                        Taken_Name: Rian Liri Peverell
                         Date_of_Birth: July 31st 1980
                                   Parents:
                        James Charlus Potter (deceased)
                   Lily Margaret Potter née Evans (deceased)
                         Grandparents:_Paternal_(Mag):
                      Charlus Alexander Potter (deceased)
                    Dorea Marie Potter née Black (deceased)
                              Maternal_(No-Mag):
                        Robert Stefan Evans (deceased)
                     Violet May Evans née Rose (deceased)
                                    Titles:
                             Lord of House Potter
                              Lord of House Black
                            Lord of House Peverell
                                Master of Death
  Magical_Guardians: Sirius Orion Black. (Active since Nov. 1, 1981. Inactive
                              since Nov. 3, 1981)
 Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. (Active since Nov. 4, 1981. Inactive
                             since Jun. 19, 1995)
 Other: Magical Core Block 40% — Partial Break (Oct. 31, 1994) Remaining Block
                       of 25% [A.P.W.B.D (Nov. 2, 1981)]
 
For a moment, Harry merely stared at the parchment that was supposed to be an
almost exact replica of the last one. But it wasn’t. This had changes. New
information. He growled inaudibly. Stupid bloody test, raising more damn
questions. Did he not have enough already? When, when would it end?
"What does it mean by Master of Death and what," his voiced lowered into a near
hiss, ice snapping, "does it mean when it says my magical core has been
Blocked?"
Furnar, being the entrepreneurial and assumption-defying goblin that he was —
there was a reason he was in tights — rubbed his hands together, sharpened
talons clinking, oozing satisfaction. With a quirked eyebrow at the unexpected
reaction, Harry would go so far as to say the goblin was one word away from
cackling.
Bannot cleared his throat, twining one of the chains on his waistcoat around
his finger, nervously. He appeared to decide his first question was better left
unanswered at present. "In the past, Mister Peverell, Core Blocking was done to
limit the damage a magically powerful child could do in a release of accidental
magic."
Harry pursed his lips. Okay. He could understand that.
"However..." Harry made a dismayed sound, inwardly whining. "It is typical of
such Blocks to be removed upon the introduction of a structured regime of
training for the child. For instance, an institution of learning."
"So the Block should have been removed four years ago at the latest but that
didn't happen?"
"Indeed. Furthermore, Blocking of a minor's magical core has been resolutely
prohibited for over three hundred years."
"...Of course it has." And Dumbledore would have known that when he did it.
"Why did it not show up on the first test?"
Nadnok grunted unhappily. "At a guess, Mister Peverell, it would appear that
the family magics of your rings, and as you are now in all ways a Lord, have
removed the Block on the Block."
Harry blinked. "What does that mean?"
"Gringotts is not infallible. There are magics, banned magics that one could
use in order to hide information from our files." A long finger tapped the ink
on the parchment. "A Block of this kind would have worked as a sort of
concealer. Should we still have the other report, it is possible we would find
that the information was there, it was simply unseen."
"Alright that's it." Harry sat up straight, leaning forward. If he didn’t write
this down, he was going to forget all of it. Who would have thought the Beloved
Headmaster, enforcer of Good Will and Candy was so corrupt? And this was only
the beginning! He was so looking forward to unearthing more of the old coot’s
skeletons…no, bad thought Harry. You shouldn’t be thinking like that…Pfft, he
fooled no one. He was loving this.
"Do you have something I can write on? And can I borrow a quill? Please."
Pulling open a draw and retrieving a dragon-hide notebook and plucking out a
quill from where they were held in feathery tufts, Nadnok handed them to the
human, a silent question. "You may keep the notebook."
Harry looked up with a smile. "Thank you."
Nadnok inclined his head. Harry inked up the quill, flipped open the notebook
to one of the first blank pages, and began writing, scrawling the title first.
 
             Dumbledore’s_Misdeeds_and_Things_he_Shall_Suffer_For
                           • Put Core Block on Minor
 
He paused and looked up. "What kind of magic would Dumbles have used?"
Curious eyes flicked between the open page and the boy. "Temporal magic."
Furnar sighed heavily, a grating rush of wind. "Black magic."
Harry hummed, unable to say that he was surprised. Of course the Lord of Light
dabbled in Black magic. Heh, meant more material to use against him.
 
 • Illegal use of Black Magic regarding concealing information relative to me.
  • Suspected to have encouraged abuse in order to make me more controllable.
   • Failure to do what a magical guardian in supposed to do — like pass on
                             financial statements.
• General all round deceitful, lying, manipulative son of a bitch that I shall
                           thoroughly enjoy destro—
 
He coughed, realising that he was getting carried away with himself. Probably
best not to leave evidence of his intentions on his Get-Him list. Straightening
the notebook, leaving it open in case more dot points needed to be added, Harry
tapped the feather tip of the quill against his lip. The goblins, spying the
title of the page, began chuckling. They did indeed like this human.
"Now, what's this Master of Death thingy about?"
At this, Furnar did succumb to cackling.
Seemingly unable to remain seated, Furnar stumbled out of his chair, clutching
his sides as his cackling reverberated throughout the vaulted room, unsettling
the still sane occupants. The ruff around his neck jiggled as he moved, and
tipped back as he gulped down a goblet of what Harry hoped was only water. An
inebriated goblin that was already off his rocker was not needed right now.
Gasping for breath, tugging on the belt of his tunic, Furnar eventually looked
up, a savage grin — so they could grin! — breaking across his face. Harry was
not ashamed to admit that he actually attempted to become one with the leather
of his chair, so eager he was to get very far away from that. A sobering
breath, another adjustment of his sleeves, and Furnar began rasping.
"A legend unparalleled in its infamy, Mister Peverell." Harry refused to relax
on principle. That gleam in the goblins eyes was unnatural. "The Bard, Beedle,
would have the generations of centuries believing that Death itself gifted to
three brothers three items; a wand of elder," gnarled fingers bedecked in
twists of metal straightened a quill on the desk. "A river stone," Bannot
handed Furnar a ring that was then positioned over the bottom of the quill.
"And a cloak of invisibility." Three narrow daggers that were produced for
Merlin only knows where were added to complete the image.
Furnar's hand swept over it, Nadnok nudging Harry forward to fully take in the
symbol: a straight line and a circle within a triangle. It...looked oddly
familiar, like a flitting reminder that vanished too quickly to place. His
brows furrowed. "What is it?"
"That, young one, is the Deathly Hallows."
Harry shivered. He had no idea why, but he did. Perhaps it was something to do
with the reverence coating the thick tongue of the three goblins that induced
fear merely by sitting behind a desk.
Lending a moment of awed contemplation, Furnar cleared his throat. "Few humans
know further of the legend beyond this; those who once did know that these
tools were figments of Life, Death and Eternity themselves embodied.
"All information henceforth is mostly conjecture. Once such theory pertains to
the creation of the wand. It holds that such a wand was crafted from the heart
of an Elder tree growing upon a newly bloodied battlefield, a twin core of
elderberry vine and Thestral soul. Regarding the stone, it is believed to have
washed ashore from the River Lethe. As for the cloak, fashioned from and after
Death's own shroud."
Aware that he was gaping, Harry snapped his mouth shut. Damn. Bloody. Hell but
that was impressive.
"According to records that have long since been lost —"
"Investigations still have not uncovered how that dragon broke free," Nadnok
interrupted snidely.
Bannot nodded in concordance. "We lost everything when that vault flooded —"
"As I was saying!" Furnar glared at his brother goblins. His narration was
being interrupted. He would not stand for such disrespect! "According to the
records that have been lost, it was your ancestors that featured as the three
brothers. Antioch Peverell, the oldest, received the Elder Wand, Cadmus gained
the Resurrection Stone and Ignotius wore the Cloak."
Huh. Sounded reasonable enou — wait a minute. "Is this the same Ignotius you
mentioned earlier?"
Was he surprised when he was ignored? No. Answering would no doubt prematurely
reveal their plotting.
"—The only proven information surrounding these men is that apart, each was a
practitioner of Necromancy. Average practitioners, perhaps, but Necromancers
nonetheless."
"Is that it?"
"No. But it is all that matters."
"Oh...okay then."
"Now, apart from the power hungry that held faith in fantasy, humans were
content to let this story fade into the nether, become naught but a fable read
to children."
Bannot chuckled, swinging a battered timepiece into his palm and inspecting the
surface briefly before sharing a commiserating look with Furnar. "We goblins
were not so dismissive."
"Indeed we were not, brother."
Nadnok grunted as he straightened, hands clasping beneath his chin and pinning
Harry with a serious expression. "What our Archivists have been able to
determine is that Death's Master and the Lord Peverell are conjoined. One does
not appear without the other."
Harry froze. They had...this was...They had! His head snapped towards Furnar —
labelling him as the primary target of his ire as he had been the most
assertive — and pointed at him accusingly. "You knew this was going to
happen?!"
He was not completely sure if he meant that more as a question or an
incredulous observation but he had said it now, couldn't exactly take it back.
Furnar's smirk was horrible. "Are you kidding me?! That's why you were so
insistent on taking Peverell as my family name, isn't it! You were —" Struck by
an insight that he arrived at quite suddenly — as insights are prone to doing —
he halted and groaned pitifully. "This! This is what you were plotting. How
could you have even known this was going to happen?"
Furnar shrugged and took a seat now that the main body of his story was done,
legs swinging unrepentantly. "I had suspected, young lord, but I could not be
certain. The situation in which you find yourself in is unprecedented. At
fifteen months of age, you escaped Death. You survived a direct Killing Curse.
By all means, you ought to be six feet under, gradually being devoured by worms
–"
"Oh, lovely," Harry sniffed, not pouting. "Thanks."
"— Not sitting here, hearing this, alive as you are. You did not evade a simple
servant but Death Itself. Next, you are of Peverell blood. The Deathly
Hallows," a clawed hand gestured to his pictogram, "were bloodline gifts and
curses upon thieves. What do you suppose the final requirement is, Mister
Peverell?"
Harry was tempted to not answer. But he knew that would be rude and the
goblins, despite their infuriating quirks, had been much more helpful than he
had expected. "Is it the inability to ever do things easily, by any chance?"
"Close...but no. Think, Mister Peverell. This is the eternal end about which we
speak. One must have an aptitude for Death’s chosen magic."
Harry blinked. And then he went over the words in his head and he blinked again
before his jaw dropped open. "Oh dear Merlin no," he breathed.
"By Grinard yes!" Furnar crowed — sounding remarkably like a dying rooster as
he did so, which completely ruined the gleeful aura he intended.
"I'm a...are you saying I'm a Necromancer?"
"Correct." A reverent sigh. "The most desired of the Black Arts. Is it not
glorious?"
"Urgh!" Throwing his hands up into the air in a profound demonstration of utter
exasperation, Harry's head dropped onto the desk with a dull thump.
Seeing the humans despair, Bannot kicked Furnar in the shin.
The elderly goblin yelped and growled. "What was that for?"
Nadnok fixed him with an unimpressed stare, momentarily looking away from the
human that appeared to now be attempting to uproot his hair. "That was
exceptionally unhelpful."
Harry tugged at his hair, unperturbed that his face was being squished by the
flat surface. By Merlin and Morgana's bathwater, visiting Gringotts was
supposed to be quick! Go in, do stuff, sort out some details of his 'run away'
masterplan and then get the hell out of England. Simple, succinct, fool proof.
But no! No, it had to be this! This disjointed exploration of facts both
obscure and utterly unbelievable. It...It was too much. He was so goddamned
tired. He wanted to forget about all of this, rewind time and crawl back into
bed with Marvolo. At least then he knew where he stood. He was fourteen, a pre-
runaway holed up in a fancy hotel with a man that made him feel safe and had
let him forget that he was about to be alone, in an unknown place, for an
indeterminate amount of time.
Was now a bad time for a breakdown? He felt it was deserved. And long overdue.
This chair was quite comfortable, perfect for moping and worldly contemplation.
It was an option.
Feeling the boy's magic rise up and begin thickening the air, Nadnok looked
worriedly at the teenager. Bannot merely looked at Furnar, as if to say this
was his entire fault, which, for all intents and purposes, it was. Honestly,
when was he going to learn that other beings did not share his obsession with
anything to do with the Peverell's?
"Mister Peverell, while this is a considerate amount of knowledge, and must be
unsettling to discover, I do not understand why this is so displeasing to you."
Fine, go and stomp on his pity party. Not like he was busy or anything.
Not bothering to lift his head, Harry merely groaned. "I'ma user of Black
Magic."
"If one were to examine the particulars, one would find that you are not yet a
user of such magic. You merely have the capability for it."
Harry flapped a hand over his head. "Semantics!" Coming to the conclusion that
he would not, in fact, be left alone to mope, and after heaving a heavy sigh,
Harry removed his face from the desk and fixed a shrewd gaze upon the clueless
goblins. He should have known the minute he saw those shifty little eyes that
nothing but trouble awaited him.
Running a hand through his hair, Harry huffed despondently. "Look, I'm new at
this. I'd never even heard of Black Magic until a few days ago. However, I also
learned, at that time, that that magic is banned. Do you see my problem with
this?"
The suctioning sound of three sets of eyelids blinking at him simultaneously
was off-putting.
"Banned, as in, I could be imprisoned for using it." He waited. "Seriously?
Nothing?!"
"Mister Peverell, Black Magic is only outlawed in Britain."
Oh. Well, that was certainly good to know. But... "Am I going to be randomly
arrested for using it?" Wait, was he already agreeing to learn it? Uh, guess he
was.
Nadnok looked at him as though he was observing some novel demonstration of
existence at the dumbest level. It was insulting. But Harry shrugged it off
with a carefree...shrug. Perhaps Nadnok had a point.
An awkward cough later, Harry's fingers were once again tapping against his
leg. Nadnok grunted despairingly and peered at the human. "Mister Peverell, no
harm will befall you simply because of a bloodline trait. Outside of these
borders, you are beyond England's reproach and legislation. None outside of
Gringott’s walls, and most certainly no human, even remember what the Peverell
Lord once signified.”
That was a relief. As his mouth began curling upwards at the prospect of
learning new magic, his ambitions ground to a halt and went up in fiendfyre.
He was getting excited over Black Magic. The exact kind of Magic that Marvolo
himself, feared Dark Lord Supreme in his spare time, had been cautious of, that
had assisted in driving Voldemort to insanity.
He couldn't learn this! It was dangerous! He liked his sanity mostly intact,
thank you very much! His inhaled harshly. It was part of his magic. There would
be no avoiding it. What...what was he supposed to do? Was it possible to ignore
it? Kick it under the rug and...and, what? Forget about that gigantic lump that
he kept tripping over? That did not sound like an overly intelligent course of
action.
Chewing on his lip absently, he tried to remember what exactly Marvolo had
said. He was fairly certain he had mentioned something about there potentially
being books within his vaults. Acidic green eyes flicked toward the listings of
his vaults and he inwardly sighed. No avoiding it, then. He'd have to go
through that, find the books.
"What is it that concerns you so?"
Most assuredly not jumping in his chair because he forgotten that he was not
alone whilst he had his drastic change of mind, Harry met the gazes of the
three calm goblins, a disbelieving sound, brows creased.
He was afraid.
"I don't...I don't want to lose myself to this. I've heard the stories, people
being driven so far around the bend they no longer remember there ever being
one in the first place because they used this magic. This isn't exactly
something to be celebrating over."
"Ah." Nadnok found himself unsure of how to respond.
Bannot studied the human that he found himself surprisingly enjoying the
company of. The times when humans had treated goblins with the respect — ahem,
knee-shaking terror — that they deserved had long turned to distant memory,
times that were fondly recalled every other decade when the goblin race
converged for their traditional 'Mocking Wizardkind' celebrations. Reference
need to be provided before one could ridicule something, after all.
He would not be...opposed to offering to teach the boy. He leaned back, a
contemplative expression twisting his features. "How is it that you intended to
complete your education, Mister Peverell?"
"Get books on the subjects then contact the Ministry of whatever country I end
up in to take the exams, I suppose."
"Would you be agreeable to taking instruction from myself? The Black family
will always be historically a Dark Family that held a certain familiarity with
the Arcane practices. It would have been remiss of Gringotts to put in place of
management a goblin with little experience in those arts. Thus, I am justly
competent and in a position of instruction."
"...Are you serious?” The boy scooted to the edge of his seat incredulously.
“You would really be willing to do that? For me? A human? I thought you didn't
like wizards?"
"You would be correct. We do not. However," clearing his throat and steadfastly
ignoring the way the eyes of his brother goblins snapped towards him, both
thoughtful, he observed the boy shrewdly. "You have potential, young one, and
power, but you hesitate. The partiality to necromantic practices has always
been there, simply being made aware of it cannot make you susceptible to be
being overtaken by it."
Harry was so close to accepting when green eyes shuttered, regarding the Manger
of the Black Estates solemnly. Despite how much he wanted to jump and accept
the offer, life taught harsh lessons. "What would you want in return?"
Not taking offence in the slightest — really, he would have been offended if
the boy had not asked, one could never be fully relaxed around bloodthirsty
goblins that hungered after gold, after all — Bannot chuckled. Harry raised an
eyebrow at the despicably cunning light in those obsidian beads.
"You underestimate your worth, Mister Peverell." He sobered suddenly. "Learn
not to. It is a weakness." Wisely, Harry nodded with wide-eyes. Should he be
taking notes...? "If you are amenable to my mentor ship, you have already
supplied the price."
Harry took a minute to think about this, and once he had, his slowly sharpening
grin was chilling, a huffed laugh. "Ooh, I truly like you. My payment would be
being in your debt, yes?"
"Indeed."
"Alright." He inhaled steadily. This was perfect. Already, that tight curl of
anxiety in his chest was unfurling. He had someone that could help him. "I
accept."
Nadnok very nearly knocked over an unstoppered ink-well in his disbelief while
Bannot smirked in satisfaction. "Mister Peverell!"
Harry looked at him in confusion, defensive. "What?"
"Have you no idea what you have just done? Politically, magically, you are one
of the most powerful wizards alive! To agree to a promise of debt is just...my
word!"
"I haven't signed anything yet." Harry deadpanned. "And besides! You're a
goblin! You're supposed to be blindly encouraging me, not arguing!"
Nadnok grunted unhappily. "I am also your Account Manager. This is currently a
severe conflict of interests."
"What's there to be conflicted about? I'm interested, he," Harry gestured to
Bannot, "agreed."
"I did, Nadnok. Do try not to get your toga in a twist. It is unsightly of one
such as yourself. What would Grimir think?"
Nadnok sneered at the other but appeared to decide that it was a futile battle
as he crossed his arms and slumped in his seat. After some indecipherable
muttering under his breath, he grunted despairingly and sighed. "I too will be
agreeable to tutoring you, then."
Harry blinked. Two —
"As will I."
— Three goblins were willing to help him? This was absolutely brilliant. If he
didn't have to search out a fellow magical that was restricted in what they
could legally teach him, and with the goblins seeming in-depth knowledge of
different magic and obscure practices, there were no restrictions on what he
could learn.
Perhaps this venture would not be so tedious after all.

===============================================================================

 
He spoke too soon.
Here they were, miles beneath the main floor of Gringotts, stumbling onto the
landing platform of the banks deepest vaults.
The caverns were quiet, the harshness of their breath reverberating with a
distinguished hum off of dry walls of roughly hewn rock. Groaning under the
passage of time, the tarnished iron of the goblins underground railway gleamed
in the dimness, the sconces that flared to life throwing exaggerated life to
the structure.
Deep as they were, there were few doors on this level. Apparently that was
because they held fortunes so large the vaults had been expanded across the
general size of several others. Those that remained were less doors and more
inset gateways that towered over the small group, proudly barring access to
trespassers with thick metal and carved stone.
Sinking to his knees, Harry groaned miserably and crawled over to the nearest
wall, sagging against it. Pulling his knees to his chest, he buried his head
between his knees. Took a deep breath.
"I think...I'm," he gulped, "going...to be..." Pressed his lips together.
"Sick." He clapped a hand over his mouth and prayed to everything under Avalon
that he could keep it together.
The settled silence was shattered by the piercing wail of one of Bannot's time-
pieces. Attempting to sneer around his own turbulent stomach, the goblin
smacked at it viciously and allowed himself to triumphantly lean against the
wall beside the human when it was silenced.
Leathery skin darkened to a pickle green and leaning heavily upon each other,
Nadnok and Furnar tripped their way over, steeled what little remained of their
conviction, questioned how their forefathers could have possibly conceived a
track drop of an 86degree angle as being a good idea, and sunk to the ground
where they stood.
Harry found it comforting that the cavern-bred creatures were suffering almost
as much as he. It was only fair.
They had ridden a cart to get here.
A cart that had the appearance of a fragile metal box with frayed rope acting
as seat belts.
It would be fun, they said. No need to worry. There is abso-fucking-lutely
nothing dangerous about it, they said.
Granted, there had been no swearing when they spoke, but that was a
technicality and Harry felt that what he had just suffered through more than
called for it. In fact, he would go so far as to say that a single profanity
was a mild concession; he deserved some form of congratulations for his
restraint.
Of course, his lacking vulgarity may have been because he was currently
breathing though his nose and reminding himself of all the reasons why it would
be improper to be sick over the dusty stone floors because he had just endured
a cart ride from hell.
Everything had been fine. They had climbed in, chatting good-naturedly as
Bannot upheld a running commentary on the pick axe that had been used to hallow
out the Goblin Kings personal sitting room. Harry had strapped himself to the
seat, not even bothering to question why the goblins did not do so as well,
figuring that either they enjoyed the thrill, or they no longer found high-
speed cart-rides daunting.
Shifting as limbs were rearranged, a shifted lever, the groan of a gear, and
then they were dropping. Dropping down. In a near vertical line. Dropping down
very far.
Harry may have screamed. He couldn't remember. The memory was fuzzy.
And then they were levelling out and he was breathing a sigh of relief around
his sore throat and then they were twisting upside-down, around in large loops,
and just kept twisting. A sharp hairpin to the left, another drop, several
barrel roles, an uphill curve.
By the time they surged through a waterfall — why, why did they have a
waterfall? — Harry was latched onto Nadnok's arm, fingers clenching into the
thick material of his dragon-hide militaristic-styled coat, knuckles white from
the force. The goblins ears had been snapping behind them, pushed back from the
air-pressure that was making it impossible to breathe.
Another drop, a relatively flat level travelled at full pelt and then the
breaks were activating, the cart slamming to a halt hard enough that were
lurching forward in their seats, shaking hands fumbling with the knots in the
rope to just get the bloody hell out of the death trap.
Hence, their current, motion-sick poses.
Assured that he was not going to up-chuck his dignity anytime soon, Harry
risked speaking.
"I hate you all."
The goblins groaned in agreement. They hated themselves.
Tipping to the side, the side of his face pressed into the cool, solid and,
most importantly, unmoving dirt, Harry decided that this was a good place to
lay. Nothing, and he meant nothing, was going to make him move.
His eyes squeezed shut. Now, to just make the world stop spinning.
Several minutes later, when regular respiratory systems had been restored,
heart rates were no longer in danger of flat-lining and nausea of unprecedented
proportions had been overcome, the small group were able to continue with what
they had travelled down here to do.
Enter the Peverell vault.
Unfortunately, due entirely to his recent near-death experience, Harry could
not remember why they wanted to go into the vault.
Swallowing back the taste of bile in his throat, Harry groaned and slowly sat
up. "What are we doing here, again?"
Lifting the lamp that had miraculously survived the trip, Nadnok flicked open
the shutter and lit it. A small pool of light shone outwards. "You said you
were in need of a wand, Mister Peverell. As you have claimed the title as Lord
of House Peverell, the heirlooms will have been restored."
"Right, right...how does the wand tie into this?"
"It's inside the vault."
"Ah, yes." Harry nodded and considered picking himself up. He tried it. Nope,
not going to happen. "I remember now, so...which door is it?"
The lamp swung to the side as Nadnok searched for the intended door. The light
paused upon one door that...well, it didn't visibly stand out from the others —
it was just as big, just as age-encrusted, just as imposing. The only
difference was that, should Harry feel the inclination to cross to the other
platform, turn and squint, he would find that the runes of protection that were
etched into the door vaguely made out the Peverell's coat of arms: the symbol
for the Deathly Hallows. "This one."
Knowing that his blood was required to open the door, Harry crawled over to it,
grateful for his jeans otherwise he would have ripped his knees open. His hands
were a lost cause. Splinters from the wooden hand-rail of the cart were deeply
entrenched in the tips of his fingers and the palm that was not covered in a
bandage. Grimir was going to be so upset.
He came to a halt before the door. He blinked. And then he frowned, rocked back
on his heels, deeply regretted the poorly though out movement, and contemplated
this new problem.
Namely, the flat expanse of hammered metal that was impeding his progress.
Aware the goblins had recovered sufficiently and were converging behind him,
Harry glared at the door. Did he say that it was flat? As in, no aperture or
convenient gap between the metallic folds in which to stick his hand and
deactivate the locking mechanisms?
"Where's the pointy thing?"
Repressing an amused smirk, Nadnok simply redirected the lamp higher.
Harry followed the light with eyes that grew in depressed resignation in direct
accordance with the further it climbed.
He whimpered.
No, it was fine, he could do this. It was just standing for Merlin's sake. He
had been doing it for years. There was no reason why he would be unable to do
so now...
Fingers still trembling from the aftershocks of terror sought out for any sort
of handhold, finally alighting upon a deeper groove in the surface that proved
to be perfect for hoisting himself upright. Onto his feet. Held up by his
knees. Knees that were attached to legs that desperately wanted collapse back
down to the ground.
Taking a deep breath and bodily pressing himself against the flat surface of
the door that he was in the process of opening, Harry gave himself a tentative
moment of stillness before inwardly congratulating himself for achieving this
insurmountable feat of...standing. Wow, that was a downer.
Certain that he would not fall, Harry sadly released the wall, allowing it its
personal space, located the niche he needed and nicked his thumb on the tiny
needle within. A rune that must have been engraved within the recesses of the
gap vibrated beneath his hand. The resounding sound of gears and heavy locks
grating apart boomed through the caverns, rebounding off the walls and
multiplying to an intensity that required Harry duck his head and cover his
ears, almost tempted to whirl around and look for the dragon.
Alas, there was no dragon, cool as that may have been, merely a seam appearing
down the centre of the door — or doors — and the separate panels easing open,
groaning beneath their weight.
Beneath them, Harry felt tiny. Really, was there even a need for arches to be
so bloody big? Surely the space could have been utilised for more vaults or
something?
A snap of Furnar's fingers — as the Estates Manager, Harry had been told that
only his magic would be accepted within the secretive depths — sconces lit,
and, for the first time in centuries, the Vault of House Peverell was revealed.
To a teenage boy and his three goblin Accountants.
Harry's jaw dropped open.
As did Nadnok's. Bannot, bless him, retained a shred of poise and settled for
widening his eyes to an alarming size. As for Furnar, he merely shrugged,
having already known what lay within.
Burning with a softly glowing and long-unused splendour, the many sconces that
lined the walls of the hall divulged the illuminated mounds of wealth.
Galleons, sickles and nuts trickled gently down neatly separated piles,
disturbed by the opening of the doors. Precious stones glinted from where they
lay nestled amidst others of their kind, refined diamonds refracting the light
in a myriad of colours, landing upon bricks of gold and silver.
Harry stepped back, blinking back the stinging in his eyes from the sudden
brightness in the dark, his awe verging on horror. By Mordred... "Are all the
others like this?" He inquired faintly.
"Indeed. Although, you will find the Black Vaults will have more books and
battle paraphernalia while the Potter Vaults hold more tapestries and
adornments."
Harry turned to face Bannot, noting the gleam in the eyes of the goblins at the
sight of so much gold. "The Peverell's only have one vault?"
"Correct."
"Oh, thank Merlin." Harry sagged in relief. "I don't know what I'd have done if
there was more than this. How did they gather so much...so much..." He flapped
his hand speechlessly. "So much?!"
Furnar released a rasping chuckle. "Through means both nefarious and
inglorious, Mister Peverell."
"Do you not mean glorious?"
The wizened goblin shook his head, ruff beginning to spin to the side. "No. The
glory came later. Few riches are gathered honourably in the beginning."
Well, when he put it like that...
"Come. An eternity can be spent gazing upon such a sight as this. It is best we
do not lose focus, young one."
"Hmm? Oh, yes, right. Wand. Got it. Er...where is it?"
In answer, Furnar led the company across the clear entryway and over to a side
alcove that had been dwarfed from the striking image the rest of the vault out
on display.
He paused before three low pedestals of blackened marble, silver veining
slicing across the carved surfaces. Upon each pedestal lay a dust-clogged
cushion. It was to these that the goblin gestured reverently.
Raising an eyebrow, Harry examined the treasure each pedestal held, beginning
at the one closest to his person, and, incidentally, the one that held the
wand.
He neared it warily, feeling the slumbering magic of the wand reacting to his,
caressing along it almost in warning. Not touching, his eyes flicked between it
and his Estate Managers.
"I've seen this wand before."
Nadnok grunted, moving closer, the better to examine the wand. Wandlore had
always been an interest of his and he could not pass up the opportunity to
observe the most infamous wand of history whilst it was in a neutral state.
"According to the Archives, this wand was last held by Albus Dumbledore. It is
our understanding that he won it from Gellert Grindelwald, whom stole it from
the German wandmaker, Mykew Gregorivitch."
Harry hummed, impressed. His loosened the hold on his magic, allowing a whisper
of ashy lilac to twist around the length of pale wood. "Held, not belonged?"
Jade eyes narrowed. "And why does it feel so...violent? Wrong?"
Nadnok glanced up at the human, conflicted over how to feel that the height
difference was not as alarming as he had learned to expect around those of the
boy’s age. On one hand, it was amusing that one so powerful could be so small,
on the other, he knew the reason for this being so was a lifetime of abuse.
The boy’s attitude impressed him. Most magicals, when presented with such a
weapon, would not have thought twice before grabbing it. Yet here he stood,
curiously observing it.
"The wand chooses the wizard, as you well know, Mister Peverell. Despite Its
countless owners, this wand has only ever chosen once, and that was Antioch
Peverell. It was said before that the Hallows were bloodline gifts and a curse
upon thieves. The winners can hark on as they like but each acquisition was
naught but a sordid affair. The tales of the grisly ends that each thief met
has become legend, a renowned reputation known throughout history, endowing
upon the wand the alias of the Death Stick." Nadnok nudged the teenagers arm.
"You may touch it, no harm shall befall you."
Harry made an incredulous sound, doubting the goblins conviction so much.
Figuring that there was nothing for it, Harry picked it up despite his
reluctance.
He had thought his old holly wand — may magic bless its splinters — had suited
him nicely. It had nothing on this. With the innate sense of rightness sparking
along his veins, the rush of his magical core binding with the wand, laying
claim, washed through him, the shadowy mess of his hair picking up as the magic
in the air became near tangible.
Unable to hold back the silly grin, Harry turned the Elder wand in his hand,
rubbing a thumb over the raised outline of an elderberry. It fit in his hand
perfectly. "Why does it feel so much better than my first wand?"
Pleased for the opening to further discuss his favourite subject, Nadnok's
mouth twisted into a mockery of an elated grin.
"Eleven and a half inches, holly, Phoenix feather core, Ollivanders. With a
core such as your own, the wood would not have filtered your magic correctly as
the affiliation would have been defective. That is not to say the wand in its
entirety would have been wrong, no. Rather, the issue would have been resolved
be placing the Phoenix feather inside a different wood." He scratched his chin
absently. It had been a long while since he had an audience that was truly
interested in what he had to say on the topic. Grimir had made it abundantly
clear how little she wished to once again hear of interlacing cores with
corresponding woods. He inwardly winced; never again did he want to experience
her when she was peeved. There was a reason goblin females were the most
vicious of their race.
"As it is," he continued, "Phoenix and holly do not naturally pair well at any
rate. It is curious indeed that Ollivanders made that particular wand. As a
wandcrafting material, holly symbolises continuance and while one would assume
that this would match with a Phoenix's representation of rebirth, it is too
soft to channel the eventuating magic. A core such as that need a strong wood,
something akin to elder," he gestured to the wand Harry held. "Even yew would
have sufficed."
Harry choked a little and coughed; his grin sharpening. "That might be why,
then."
"Why is that?"
"My wand was a brother to Voldemort's — thirteen and a half inches, Phoenix
feather, yew...I imagine Dumbledore would have had a conniption if mine had
resembled Voldemort's anymore than it already did."
Nadnok tutted, not denying the boys claim. "For such cores, there are no
brother wands. If what you say is true, the wands should have been twins or
nothing."
Banner sidled up to the pair, growling under his breath. "Alright, that’s
enough chatter out of you. The ring is next, Mister Peverell."
Amused by the thoroughly annoyed look Nadnok shot at Bannot — who appeared
utterly unfazed — Harry moved over the next pedestal.
The ring was smaller than he had expected from an heirloom that was one third
of the revered Hallows. The gold band was simple, slightly tarnished. That
alone made it clear the stone inlaid was the feature. Smooth, cut sharply in a
squared manner that rose upwards towards the centre, the obsidian surface was
marred only by an engraving of the Peverell Arms, the etching gilded.
The magic seeping outwards from the fabled Resurrection Stone was much more
pronounced that of the wand, the small stylised pebble emanating a darkness so
thick it seemed to suck in the light around it.
His head tilted to the side, pensive, brows pinching. He poked at it with his
magic. The rings magic reared back aggressively, slashing around, before
seeming to pause, then hesitantly creep closer. There was a delay as the magic
of the ring seemed to think, the interlude heavy, suspended in indecision.
Then, cautiously, it reached out to his own, midnight twists eager like an
adoring puppy.
It...felt like the Tom's Diary. Fainter, but...familiar.
...Why?
His hand lifted, reaching for it.
"The ring held a flesh-eating curse when it arrived."
Snatching his hands back and cradling them firmly against his chest and
yelping, Harry jumped back. Irrational? Not in the slightest. He was not having
his flesh eaten by a curse. Who even though of these things anyway? And it had
looked so innocent. It had deceived him.
And no, it was not unreasonable to have sustained emotional hurt from an
inanimate object. It was perfectly normal.
"The curse has since been removed."
He gaped at Furnar, dropping his arms after a second of contemplation. "And you
couldn't have started with that?!"
The goblin shrugged, smiled evilly and said no more.
Harry narrowed his eyes at him, but did not get the chance to acknowledge his
wicked ways as yet another of Bannot's timepieces — this one an intriguing pool
of teal with a silver face and hands that actually fluttered — began its shrill
screeching. A short distance away from them, a glass display case cracked.
Bannot winced. Harry quirked a dispassionate eyebrow, mouth twitching.
"Was that important?"
Bannot coughed. It was difficult to perceive any evidence of a blush, but,
should the lighting have been better, Harry was sure it would have been there.
"No."
"Alright." Harry hummed. "Can I pick up the ring now?"
"Before you do..."
Come on! What now! It already had a curse on it! What else could possibility be
enough to prevent hi—
"You should be aware that it is currently housing a percentage of soul."
Well...that certainly put a damper on things. "How is there a soul in it?"
"Ever heard of a Horcrux, Mister Peverell?"
Harry's perplexed expression was evidently enough of an answer. "Very long,
very tedious story aside, a Horcrux is a nasty bit of Soul Magic that wizards
conceived in order to ascertain the continued longevity of their lifespan."
"So..." Harry blinked. "It's for immortality? Wait, if it's nasty, why is it
still there?"
"Unfortunately, the only known way of removing a soul piece is to destroy the
container." Bannot looked at the ring with a blank expression. "We
cannot exactly destroy not only a piece of history but a naturally magical
object and a Peverell Heirloom. The paperwork alone..." Trailing off with a
far-off glint in his eyes, he shuddered, shaking his head. "No, best not to
touch it."
"Then what am I supposed to do with it now?"
"Oh, it's perfectly harmless now. The likelihood of possession or subconscious
suggestion is at an all-time low. I would venture so far as to say it is a
complete impossibility."
"Well, that's good, I think...er, out of curiosity, whose soul is it?"
"The Archivists —” Seriously, who were these Archivists? How did they know so
much? Were they...Harry resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, containing
a shiver. They could be watching. "— have identified the soul piece, by way of
the lingering magical signature, as belonging to one Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Moving mechanically, Harry stared at the ring, askance.
Tom...Tom had ripped apart his soul?
Gods, he had. What could...why would he do such a thing?
‘The latent fear of failure, of dying before I could achieve my goals, haunted
me at night...I found references of a crude off-cast of Soul Magic...did the
ritual. Achieved my immortality...accursed magic.’
But then, if this felt like the Diary...
Harry inhaled sharply, a finger trailing over the tarnished band of the ring.
The Diary must have been a Horcrux as well.
He had killed a piece of Marvolo's soul. It was hard to breathe.

===============================================================================
They were in his dreams again, the room of cream painted walls and a royal blue
sofa. Harry stretched out; grinning up at the Slytherin he was leaning against.
Intense dark eyes met his, a sharply raised eyebrow, amused tilt to the mouth.
Elegant fingers carded through his hair, the young Gryffindor used to the other
finding comfort in the tactile habit. He understood. He needed it too.
"What are you?"
"Curious, are you? What do you think I am?"
The twelve-year old huffed. "I'm hoping you don't say you're just my
imagination. I don't need the proof I've gone mad. The rest of the school
already thinks it."
Tom grinned fondly, pulling Harry closer and turned back to his book, but not
before replying, with a mysterious smile, "Believe me, I am not a figment of
your imagination."
"...You didn't answer the question."
"A little more than a memory, then. But less than whole."
===============================================================================

He blinked back the tears that wanted to fall. His mouth set in a firm line. He
had failed to protect Tom. He would not make the same mistake with Marvolo.
"Apart from Basilisk Venom, what can destroy a Horcrux?"
Bannot spoke, sensing the humans turbulent emotions and wondering what about
the ring could have set him off so. "Fiendfyre."
"Thank you." Eyeing the ring for a moment longer, feeling what he now realised
was TomMarvoloVoldemort's magic tugging at his hopefully, he made up his mind,
reached out and slipped it onto his right ring finger.
The band tightened happily around his finger, settling down the minute it was
on and humming in contentment. Underlying the Horcrux's signature was that of
the Resurrection Stone, an icy feeling that trickled over him like a slowly
moving current.
Fitting, he supposed.
Wiping his eyes, he turned to the final cushion and...found it empty.
"Is this where you tell that the Invisibility Cloak is there, it's just
invisible?" He deadpanned, not quite up to the necessary demonstration of
extensive emotion.
The goblins chuckled behind him, a small chorus of amused crumbling rock.
"Not at all, Mister Peverell. The Cloak is already in your possession."
It took him all of a second to realise what Bannot meant. When he did, he could
have face-palmed. "Of course it is." In his trunk, as a matter of fact. At
least he now knew why the triangular symbol had seemed vaguely familiar back in
Nadnok's office. It wasn't like he had seen it countless times on his
invisibility cloak, or anything. "This is incredibly anti-climactic."
"One cannot have everything, Mister Peverell. Did you have anything left to ask
or shall we return to the surface? I believe Grimir will have finished
preparing the Healing Room by now."
"Er..." Harry cast a long glance over the gold and silver filling the vault.
"Should I take any of this with me?"
"No, we will retrieve the monetary sum you require later from the Black
Vaults." "Then, no, I'm good. We can go."
"Very well."
The little company made departed the pedestals, heading towards the doorway,
turning backs on the treasures.
Harry fiddled with the wand still held in his hand. He chewed on his lip
contemplatively. "What does being Master of Death entail, exactly?"
Furnar skipped — actually skipped — ahead of him, nimbly — though Harry
suspected it was just obliviously — avoiding the exasperated looks his fellow
goblins sent him, clapping his hands.
The image, complete with tight tights, belted tunic and flopping ears, was
disturbing. On so many levels. Harry preferred him when he was mellow.
"Nobody knows, not even our Archivists! Is it not delicious? You, Lord, are
entering into territory uncharted." He whirled around, onyx beads blazing. "You
could be unbeatable," He turned away. They passed beneath the doors, the heavy
metal groaning slowly then abruptly slamming shut. Locks snapped arduously in
to place, foreboding.
"You might live forever!"
Furnar did a little shimmy that was just a sight Harry furtively wished he
could forget.
"Or it might be nothing more than a fancy title for a powerful Necromancer!"
All movement from the crazy little goblin ceased. The only thing that kept
Harry from warily abandoning the creature to the darkness of the caves and
getting as far away as possible was the fact that both Bannot and Nadnok
appeared unperturbed.
Gnarled hands smoothed down the short hair in his ears, his voice faraway and
eyes solemn. "Nobody knows, Mister Peverell. But it shall be a true pleasure
navigating these shores of uncertainty with you."
Harry did not know how to answer this. At least, not in a way that was not
astoundingly insulting and may very well get him killed. Thankfully, Furnar did
not seem to need a response and simply continued walking.
Well...at least he wasn't singing. That would have been too much. Much too
much.
Keeping a respectable distance between himself and the bipolar goblin — which
involved staying resolutely behind his other Managers — Harry followed them
back to the cart.
The cart.
The cart from hell that was determined to kill them all.
He pulled up short, eyes wide, trained on the horrid contraption in case he
blinked and it jumped him. Nope, nuh uh. Avalon would have to burn down before
he willingly climbed in that...that thing. And that was a physical
impossibility! It was just a metaphorical place magicals still liked to
reference!
Cautiously stepping back, and not looking away, Harry cleared his throat. If he
was casual about this, it would not attack. "I'm just...yeah." And with that
eloquent explanation — really, he impressed himself sometimes — he took off
along the platform, just shy of running and completely uncaring of where he was
going. Up had to go to the surface eventually. He could totally make it.
Nadnok and Bannot gazed after the human that was hightailing it out of there.
"It is a sad day indeed when the human is on to something."
"That is true."
"Unfortunately, he's going the wrong way. That goes down to the kitchens."
"Ah, indeed it does. It would not be good if he were to fall into the lava
basins, would it?"
"...I think not."
Nadnok sighed. "I'll retrieve him."
Harry slowed. Was it his imagination or was this platform going down? Meh, who
cares, he was getting away from the demon cart. Nothing else matters—
Actually quite impressed that the human had managed to get so far in the space
of a few seconds, Nadnok closed in, footfalls silent with the experience of
decades, grateful when the boy slowed. Deciding to take the moment the boy’s
distraction provided, his hands shot forward, latching on, lifting and holding
the boy above his head. Spinning on his heel and ignoring the shrieking coming
from above, Nadnok began marching back to the cart.
Harry shrieked as he was grabbed and lifted. "Oi! Put me down! I refuse to get
back in that cart! Refuse, you hear me! I'm telling you, it's evil!" Twisting
limbs and wriggling appendages proved futile. "How are you so strong! Nadnok!
Put. Me. Down!" Poisonous green eyes widened fearfully, the cart looming
closer. His attempts of escape became more desperate. "This is kidnapping! I
object!"
By some bizarre and utterly unexplainable fluke of the flexibility of the human
body, his frantic squirming somehow managed to contort him into such a position
that he was upside-down, hair hanging in his eyes — which was, strategically,
quite worrying as his view of the enemy was now obscured. Nadnok grunted as his
foot accidentally connected with the side of his head, crinkling the goblin's
ear.
"Oops, sorry...But you can't do this! I'll scream. I swear to Merlin I
will...HELP! HELP! My Accountant is repressing me!" His hands grabbled at empty
air. He huffed. "I have every right to get lost in theses blasted caverns and
by Morgana I will if it means I never have to —"
Nadnok jostled him, cutting him off. "Cease struggling, human."
Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, Harry sagged, limbs flopping, and allowed
a victorious huff when Nadnok grunted at the sudden dead-weight.
 
===============================================================================
 
Meanwhile at Hogwarts.
 
Fawkes trilled sadly from his perch in the corner of the Headmaster's Office.
The graceful and slow-moving waving of the unreasonably long snowy-white
griffin feather quill that had been...repurposed from that elusive Creature
Trader over in Cairo paused as Albus peered at his familiar over the rim of his
half-moon glasses, the twinkle in his eyes glaringly obvious and smile fondly
benign.
None actually knew how he pulled off this perfect imitation of a wise and kind
grandfather, but… do it he did and by Arthur did he do it well.
Examining his Phoenix as Fawkes met his gaze indifferently then calmly returned
to preening his beautiful plumage, Albus smacked his lips together.
Finding his teacup empty, a wizened hand shifted the paperwork he had been in
the process of combing through — sorting out everything for the impending
beginning of yet another school year — and pulled open the shallow desk draw
beside he elbow.
The crinkling of a paper bag was rather loud in the mostly silent room, joined
the ticking and whirring emanating from the various trinkets he had collected
over the years, as Albus procured a lemon drop from his own personal stash.
The candy bowl on his desk may have been...well, laced with a few things. Like
a Calming Draught. Nothing serious. Just a little extra push to help the
children feel more comfortable. He had only the children's best interests in
mind, of course.
The lemon drop was placed in his mouth with a triumphant little pop. Humming
jovially as the lemony candy began slowly melting, reclining in his gold-dusted
chair — throne — the Headmaster's sky-blue eyes roved over the grand and
imposing desk sagaciously.
Everything was in order. Ink wells of gold ink, ribbon bound scrolls arranged
genteelly. One could never be quite sure when they would have visitors, after
all. It was only proper the image was presentable.
Albus frowned when his eyes happened upon the space that rested beside his
hand. What on odd place to be empty. Indeed, he could have sworn he had put his
wa—
Eyes widening in alarm — but regrettably not choking on his lemon drop — the
Headmaster pushed his throne out. Where was his wand? He had put it right
there. Had it rolled off?
Yes, yes, of course. It must have. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
He bent down, a gnarled hand holding his bell-tied beard to his chest so as not
to drag it along the ground, peering under the desk. Lowering to his knees, he
began crawling around; inspecting every little nook of space he came across,
digging through bauble filled draws.
He could have sworn he had put it right there! Where was it?
Behind him, the portraits of old Headmasters and Headmistresses nudged each
other awake, hiding their mouths behind hands and pointing rudely, the frames
shaking from painted figures that were shaking with repressed laughter.
One such portrait, a Mister Phineas Nigellus Black, however, had no such qualms
and began laughing. Loudly. Upending the goblet painted onto the featured bit
of desk as he slammed his hand down onto the wood uproariously, throwing his
head back and gasping even as he continued laughing so hard he cried.
Oh, how low the great Albus Dumbledore had sunk. Literally. Who knew he had
golden bumblebees stitched across the buttocks of his baby-blue robes.
***** 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hello my lovely minio -- no, no. Readers. Have to remember its
     readers.
     Anyway, apologies for the unwanted and thoroughly annoying delay
     between updates.
     I have only one excuse...
     School started.
     And so, for that reason and to avoid this situation in the future,
     updates will be Weekly At the Latest!
     Yay!
     =====================================================================
     =====================================================================
Date: 19th June 1995
Location: Gringotts, Lower Levels.

Dipping a clawed nail into the thick, coppery sludge of a highly sophisticated
potion, Grimir finished the rune sequence she had spent the last ten minutes
painting across the frail chest of the Peverell boy with a sharp flick.
Almost instantly, the twisting lines and sharp swirls of liquid flared, linking
together with an audible snap that had the Goblin Healer simultaneously
stepping back and leaning forward with narrowed eyes. Another bright flare and
a satisfied smirk stretched across her face.
Good. Everything appeared to be proceeding as it ought to.
The young Lord Peverell displayed no signs of waking form the induced Healing
Sleep, having warily swallowed the sleeping potion barely thirty minutes
before. Beady black eyes observed the human. Laid out on the bed, black hair a
halo around his head, he cut an alarmingly flat shape, a thin sheet covering
him from the waist down.
Should all continue according to plan, his frailty would soon be rectified.
Grimir's mouth twisted down sourly. The discovery of the Block upon his magical
core had certainly thrown off her precisely timed strategy in healing the boy's
body. A Core Block on a child. Oh, what she wished to inflict upon Dumbledore's
person...
With an unplanned variable in her perfect schedule, she had been left with
little choice but to remove the Block before she could proceed with the
stipulated healing. Trying to force his body to accept the amount of foreign
magic required for such an in-depth procedure with that kind of restriction
almost guaranteed death…severe psychological and magical trauma at the very
least.
Ergo, the copper runes and flaring light. Dumbledore may have been able to
place an undetectable Block — which was highly illegal — but there were only so
many things a goblin could not solve, and this was not one of them.
For the first time in her existence, the she-goblin found herself thanking the
Fortune Woutnar that the human had been seen in time. With 76% of Peverell's
magic unleashed, and what he appeared to have suffered through, it was hardly
surprising that his control over his magic had been slipping.
Even she had to admit that the way it was behaving was quite unusual, almost as
if it were unsettled. Or waiting.
The light from the runes flared brighter, emitting a faint heat, and narrowed
eyes snapped towards the boy's face. A hitch in breath was all the warning the
goblin medic team had before a loud cracking sound echoed through the small
room and pure magic suddenly thickened the air.
Grimir's eyes widened and she spun around quickly, already grabbing the kin
closest to her.
Ҩ Out! Clear out! Hurry! Ҩ
Her five fellow goblins ran with her, even dropping equipment in their hurry,
rushing through the door as though their lives depended on it. Considering the
sudden turn the situation had just taken, she suspected that was not far off
from the truth. This was very bad.
After nary a moment of shoving and shuffling, slamming into doorframes and
stepping on kin’s toes, the medic team was out in the corridor and the door was
slammed shut.
Her four fellow goblins held their breaths as she slapped her hand onto the
rune engravings that surrounded the door and the strongest wards the goblin
nation had at their disposal snapped to life. Very strong, very potent, Magic
Detainers.
In the moment that Grimir arrived at the worrying conclusion that she and her
fellow kin had severely underestimated the hold that the human boy kept on the
magic he already had access to, a boom that bordered on subvocal crashed
against the recently erected wards and all the goblins stepped back in shock.
Some — those of weaker constitutions — even began praying to the goddesses.
Despite her sneer, Grimir was tempted to do so as well.
Reminding herself that the wards would hold, Grimir inched closer and
cautiously slid open the viewing screen.
The human was still lying on the bed, still unconscious, but his back was
arching at an almost painful angle, his whole body shaking as the copper runes
broke apart the Bonds on his magic. As she watched, the runes darkened,
signifying that they were no longer in use. But what truly caught her attention
were the colors of the magic, the shades darkening and brightening periodically
as his free magic embraced that which had been locked, coaxing the new essence
into joining with it.
Poison green twisted through the air in violent ribbons, slashing out as ashy
violet coated every reachable surface, curling over the silhouettes of chairs
and work-tables.
Ҩ Unusual, Ҩ she muttered lowly, checking to make sure that the boy was not
displaying signs of pain before stepping back so that her colleagues might look
in.
The four others crowded around the little window, muttering amongst themselves,
some even taking notes. Grimir conjured a chair and sat down bedside the wall.
They would have to wait this out. Attempting to enter the room now would be
perilous, and there was no way they could have remained inside —
Even from outside off the Healing Room, all goblins present felt the sharp
spike in air pressure, hurrying to get far away from the door. There was a
weighted pause, and then the human’s magic was lashing out harshly against the
Detaining Wards, attempting to break through.
A splintering sound had every goblin widening their eyes and stepping even
further back, heads turning to gape at Grimir, whom was doing her best to not
gape as well — and, in her opinion, pulling it off quite well — as she spread
out her own magical core to examine the wards.
Ҩ Is he...? Ҩ
The query trailed off, the goblin seemingly unable to fathom the notion that a
mere human could have broken through a Goblin ward. Grimir shook her head.
Ҩ No. The Ward is undamaged. At a guess, that was the two strains forming into
one. Ҩ
She waved her hand, gesturing to the wide expanse of corridor. Ҩ I believe it
will be over soon, but best make yourselves comfortable in the meantime. Ҩ
Her med team heeded her suggestion, conjuring various chairs and cushions, even
pulling out a pair of knitting needles and continuing with the he-goblin's
infamous cauldron cozies.
Satisfied that her teams were capable enough to entertain themselves for the
time being, Grimir returned her attention to the Healing Room. Closing her
eyes, she focused on the feel of the magic in the air, tangible even from here.
It was wild. Chaotically ordered. There was no doubt that the boy already had
surprisingly good control over his core, but he could improve. This new influx
of power, mixed with his already unusual magical signature, could prove
troublesome if he left it unfocused.
He would need to find some way to have it in continuous use. Perhaps...Well,
she would not be averse to training the boy in the Healing Arts. It would be
good for his core. From the colors alone, she knew that he would have a
difficult time in creating an affinity with the art, but it should prove a
challenge to his core, keeping it occupied.
Leaning further back in the chair, Grimir wandered if her husband had had the
insight to offer teaching the human.

===============================================================================

It was several hours later that Harry began regaining consciousness. At first,
he was content to just remain in that lovely dark place, where nothing was too
bright or painful. It was...peaceful, and he was reluctant to leave,
remembering the other place.
Awareness came slowly, sluggishly pooling in the corners of his mind. Was he
sleeping? If he was, he didn't want to wake; this sense of floating was
delightful. He had never felt so...unleashed. It felt like a lead blanket,
scratchy and goddamn annoying, had been removed, the feeling no longer there
after so many years.
Magic washed down his arms, whole and humming in pleasure. Or maybe it was
purring. Oh Merlin, he hoped he didn't have any creepy affinity with cats. Mrs
Figg had utterly ruined the tiny felines for him...truly, the amount of times
he had scooped caffeine drenched fur balls out of his teacup whenever he had
been left in her 'care' were too many to count.
Ooh, look, shuddering in revulsion really speeds up the 'return to the land of
the living' process. Interesting. He ought to remember this. It might come in
handy. Not that he intended to be unconscious again...
Who was he kidding? He was Harry bloody Potter — technically Rian Peverell now
— thinking that he might never end up unconscious again was like asking the
moon to just go away for a bit because it was completely ruining the lighting
of the celestial observation. Utterly nonsensical!
Scrunching his nose and insistently derailing that particularly absurd train of
thought, Harry warily opened his eyes. First thought? That had been a very bad
idea.
Why? Because he didn't even know eyelids had enough muscles to ache!
Ow ow ow.
The hell was he hurting for?!
And the loving goblins — yes, yes, that is heavily sarcastic. He really wasn't
a 'Just-woke-up-and-could-quite-easily-kill-someone-if-only-to-get-rid-of-the-
agony' kind of person. He doubted anyone was — wanted him to believe they had
put him under a Healing Coma?
Oh...the doubt. Frankly, he would believe them more if they told him they had
knocked him out, tossed him into a dirt patch, and just let a highly hormonal
and territorial bull walk all over him.
Biting his lip harshly and undoubtedly drawing blood as he held back the
pathetic series of whimpers, and firmly reminding himself that he had suffered
much worse, Harry once again opened his eyes and kind of threw himself over
onto his side.
Sudden movements. Not his best idea, granted, but it worked.
Looking around, he realised that he was alone in the room that he had passed
out in after he took the potion Grimir had handed him. He had found it amusing
when he had first entered and seen all the white sheets and glossy floors;
human and creature definitions of sterile rooms being so similar. The only
thing missing was that sickening smell of antiseptic choking the air.
Now, now he was not finding it amusing — he hated infirmaries! — and the amount
of raw magic thickening the air was stifling. He breathed in deeply, eyes
watering at the compression of his ribs, inhaling the scent of sage, turned
earth and rain.
His magic then.
Damnit. And to think, he had only recently learned how to control the last lot.
If this is what his unblocked core looked like, then he could very well
understand why he was alone in the room. An exposure of raw magic like this had
proved to be hazardous on many occasions if the persons coming in contact with
it did not have a magical affinity. Most cases? Left gibbering like a loon and
stalking the other magical if only to get closer.
Exhaling slowly, Harry swept half-lidded eyes over the empty spaces before him
and carefully slipped himself into the lulling stream of his magic, catching a
thread and focusing it. Keeping a tight hold of the thread, he watched with a
slow smile that quickly morphed into a grimace as facial muscles protested as
magic took shape.
Nothing much had changed. Well, apart from how much more there was. Looking at
the colours his magic manifested as, he supposed it was fairly obvious, or at
the very least, understandable that he had some sort of affinity for
necromantic magic. Ashy violet and thin lilac swam lazily through the air,
ribbons curling and trailing behind, falling out gently. Poisonous green,
brighter than his eyes, was sharper, buzzing at constant attention but
currently content to enjoy the freedom of space; slashes of it twisting around
in bizarre contortions.
Pleased to find his magic unresisting, he gently began catching ribbons,
mentally twining them around fingers and wrists, pulling back gradually. It was
the work of minutes, but he was sweating towards the end. This was so much more
than he was used to, so much more to handle. Once he had all the magic pooled
around his hands like giant mittens, and careful not to disrupt it with quick
movements, he stretched it, flexing fingers, then pictured his inner core
determinedly within the depths of his mind and wrapped the magic around it,
fitting snugly.
And then, as owners are wont to do with wayward puppies, he ran the hell out of
there, arms flapping, and slammed up walls of iron around his core before magic
could realise what happened. Yes. Perfectly reasonable. Brilliant plan. Oof.
Ah, his magic did not agree, evidently. Oh well. It was done now. He'd sort it
out...later.
The door creaking open had him snapping his eyes open and towards the source.
Seeing Grimir, he had a quick, mental debate as to what an appropriate response
would be and settled for pinning her with a deadpan stare and saying the one
word that encompassed all of what he was experiencing. "Ow."
This did not, however, garner the look of contrition he had anticipated.
Instead, Grimir appeared quite satisfied with his eloquent analysis, stepping
beside his head, beady eyes clinically assessing, before she made a pleased
sound and pulled out a clipboard.
"Awake, I see. How are you feeling, Mister Peverell?"
"Like a ragdoll that has been ripped apart, thrown around, then sewed back
together, only with all of my limbs in the wrong place."
She dipped her head. "As expected then." The quill made a sharp, odd 'v' shape.
Harry blinked. They had boxes for that on medical forms?
Finished with the compulsory ticking of odd boxes, Grimir looked up; her mouth
twisting into what Harry supposed was the goblin equivalent of a soothing
smile. He did not suppose much further on this, though, as, seeing that
expression aimed at him, he surreptitiously attempted to become one with the
wall. His logic was irrefutable. If she could no longer see him, then she could
no longer point that creepy twist of the lips and yellowed teeth grimace his
way.
It was purely unfortunate that he was not, in fact, flat, that particular shade
of paint and was currently incapable of moving that far. He inwardly sighed,
scrapping Plan A and tried to quickly think up Plan Letters-Through-the-
Alphabet.
He was stuck on B when Grimir spoke.
"So, Mister Peverell," Harry focused on the she-goblin and paused his ingenious
plan of simply pretending he had no idea of who she was. "To clarify, you are
currently experiencing the phantom pains of..." She held up a gnarled hand,
fingers out, and began checking off.
"The removal and replacement of the bones in your left hand, right wrist, two
vertebrae and several ribs, the rectification of complete skeletal density and
fragility and the reconnection and rewiring of the nervous systems in you back
and both hands. Then, there was the damage done to your internal organs, which
required intense cellular focus in order to reduce bruising and force new
growth and the strengthening and repairing of the alveoli."
Harry blinked. Then he thought about it and blinked again. "....Yes to them
all. How long did that take?"
"Five hours." She thrust a bulbous potion bottle into his hand. "Drink this.
Goblin grade Pain Potion."
By Morgana...bless the efficiency of goblin healing. If he was dealing with
Madam Pomphrey, he would have been forced to stay overnight for a mild sniffle
and come away without the sniffle but with a sight-blinding migraine.
Thanking Grimir, he uncorked the bottle with practiced movements and knocked it
back, ignoring the thick sludgy taste of rotten berries and seriously
considered crying at how quickly the pain wracking his body vanished. Too tired
to cry — honestly, it just took too much effort — he settled for sighing and
squirming around until he was sat up, back supported by small fluffy pillows
and raised a dark brow.
"Was it really necessary for me to wake up in pain?"
Grimir sighed, grabbing a thin wrist and pressing her thumb against the pulse-
point. "No. Ideally, the pain potion would have been administered in conclusion
to the healing. However, the amount of released magic was unexpected. The
sedative wore down at an unanticipated rate."
Harry hummed, closing his eyes...
"On that note, I will be training you in Goblin Healing."
Startled green eyes flicked towards her, mouth twitching in amusement. "Do I
get a say in this?"
"No. Now up with you, prolonging stays in bed are unproductive."
Huffing, but inwardly quite happy to get out of the sterile room, he hopped off
the bed and gratefully accepted the stack of folded clothes Grimir passed him.
It was as he was buttoning up his jeans and reaching for his shirt that he
realised he had been naked beneath the sheet and blushed.
Grimir evidently found this amusing and patted his knee fondly. Well...the
goblin team that had treated him had, technically seen him naked already...and
they weren't actually human...he had no idea what the reproductive organs of
goblinkind were — and he never, never wanted to find out! — so he supposed
there was no reason for them finding any interest in his body and...
Yep, he was decided. He was going to write this off as unavoidable,
unimportant, and proceed as normal.
And so, with that firming conviction, he pulled on his boots and followed
Grimir out of the Healing Room and down several corridors. The walls of roughly
hewn stone were bare, designating the wing they were currently in as the
Infirmary. Burning sconces were alight every few feet, illuminating every nook
and cranny in sharp relief.
The walk back to Nadnok's Office was pleasant. Harry had been quick to realise
that Grimir was not one for idle conversation. Appearing to have other things
on her mind, he contented himself with using the time to get used to the
lightness of his body; rolling shoulders, flexing fingers.
Grimir caught the movements from the corner of her eye. "Are you unsatisfied,
Mister Peverell?"
"What?" Harry halted in balancing on his tiptoes to ease the muscles in his
legs, and looked at her incredulously. "No! Not at all! I feel brilliant...I
can honestly say I have never felt better."
Grimir was momentarily thrown off balance. The boy was not going to... "You are
satisfied? You have no complaints about lack of height or some such drivel?"
Harry scoffed, stretching out his arms before tucking his hands into pockets.
"That would be ridiculous. Not that being taller wouldn't be great, but
something like that isn't going to happen during a healing session. I cannot
even begin to tell you how grateful I am to all of you for helping me."
Lowering her clipboard, the quill disappearing up her sleeve, Grimir allowed a
slow, pleased smirk to stretch across her mouth.
"Well then, Mister Peverell, you are welcome." She cleared her throat. "I will
be putting you on a Nutrient Potion Regime. One dose every day, either over
breakfast or dinner. On recommendation, breakfast is more appropriate as
additional nutrients will be consumed shortly after with the following meals
but most avoid this timeframe as slight pains or annoyances as the potion works
on repairing damage is expected, so is avoided during times of frequent
activity." Black eyes cut over him as they took a sharp corner, Grimir
smoothing down her blue jacket. "Due to the level of damage, and its duration,
the regime will be enforced over a two year period. This will ensure that the
structural soundness of your bones and musculature remains constant. I will
send the first months’ worth of potions up to Nadnok before your departure."
Feeling the little ball of warmth bubbling up in his chest, Harry grinned
widely and resisted the urge to glomp this adorable goblin that was
demonstrating how much she cared about him. He suspected her reaction to such
would not be mild.
"Thank you, Grimir."
The Healer pressed her lips together, making a dismissing noise, turned another
corner, walked a short distance, then pushed open the same door that Harry had
entered earlier that morning...
Merlin above. Had he really only been here for a few hours? Was it really only
yesterday that he had been with Marvolo? Less than twelve hours since they said
goodbye? Bloody hell, it had been! Harry groaned inwardly, blankly trailing
after Grimir. He so just wanted this day to be over already. He wanted to get
out of here, leave and get on with it.
Noticing that the office was empty apart from himself and Grimir, Harry looked
at her in confusion, eyebrow lifting.
"Nadnok, Bannot and Furnar are currently unavailable. As the Gringotts letters
to your person remained unanswered for so long, they had not anticipated your
arrival today and were unfortunate enough to have meetings scheduled with the
Goblin Courts. The meeting should adjourn in a few hours." She rocked back on
her heels. "Until then, instructions have been left for you on the desk. The
intention is for you to amuse yourself until their return, at which point the
final details of your travel shall be finalised. I trust this is agreeable?"
"Yes, it is." Harry eyed the items that sat innocently enough upon the corner
of the large desks. "Is it possible for me to leave and come back?"
Grimir inclined her head. "Indeed. The necklace," she pointed at said item.
"will aid you in that endeavour. Although, should you stray from Diagon, do not
go far. Your magic has been overworked, thus you will tire quickly, and
overusing muscles that have just been healed can lead to future complications."
"Alright, thanks."
Satisfied that she had conveyed the necessary information, Grimir turned
sharply and left, off to go sort out another case of Golem Animation injuries.
Honestly, what kind of imbecilic sprogling thought it would be a good idea to
make golems that were obsessed with rings? Utter nonsense.
Alone in the office, Harry wandered over to the desk, plucked up the piece of
parchment and flopped down into the closest chair, smoothing out the folds to
read.
He skimmed through the scrunched lettering quickly, humming absently as he did
so when he arrived at particularly interesting bits.
Green eyes flicked up when he was done, scooting closer to the desk and peering
at the objects that had been left behind for him.
The leather pouch was self-explanatory: money from one of his vaults. That
would be handy. There were things he needed before he left. Finding himself in
need of buying necessities was not the first thing he wanted to do when he
arrived at....actually, that would need some thought. He'd do that later.
Studiously ignoring the third item, Harry focused on the second and picked it
up. It was a simple gold chain, nothing extravagant. Purely utilitarian. A leaf
of metal dropped down at the bottom on a loop, covered in what Harry was coming
to recognise as Goblin Runes. They were a bit sharper, more rustic than what
Hogwarts covered in Ancient Runes.
According to the parchment, the necklace functioned as a transient glamour. A
slow smile stole across his face as he felt the sleeping magic coming from the
necklace. A nondescript appearance. Brilliant.
Putting the necklace down as he had no current need for if, Harry sighed
deeply. Either he could sit and twiddle his thumbs or....he could look at the
Account Files.
Huh, who new two words could sound so ominous?
He glared at the offending mountain of paperwork. It was sat exactly where
Bannot had slammed it down earlier after hefting it in from wherever he had
gotten it.
Considering that goblins were supposed to be stronger than humans for reasons
he could not be bothered explaining and Bannot had looked as though he was one
paperclip away from collapsing on the ground, Harry was not confident in his
ability to pull the stack closer.
But it was in the middle of the table...oh dear Merlin, he was whining. What
happened to his insurmountable constitution? He was not a child, dammit!
Well...he was...but that was beside the point. He was mature. He did
underhanded things. He was emancipated! He was an adult in all but age and he
would not be bested by a measly stack of paperwork and reduced to infantile
behaviour! He was better than this!
It was odd how thoroughly he failed in convincing himself.
Harry sighed again, closing his eyes in despair. Paperwork. Oh how so many rued
the day it was invented.
But it was this or sitting there bored for an undetermined amount of time and
he had never been one to sit around idle. There was nothing for it.
Leaning forward, planting his feet against the floor firmly, taking a deep
breath and bracing himself, hands gripped the stack of files and pulled.
And...found himself falling back into the chair, arms flailing as it tipped
backwards, with the horrible stack of files sitting innocently atop his chest
and not crushing his lungs in because it had a goddam featherlight charm on it.
For a moment he could only stare up at the ceiling stunned and blinking away
his disbelief. And then he began growling and crawling out of the wreckage of
his chair, unceremoniously shoving the bloody thing out of the way and trying —
and failing miserably — to not pin all of his displeasure on the chair.
He knew who was at fault here. Aside from himself.
Bannot.
Or maybe it was Nadnok.
Actually, it could have even been Furnar. The fact that the goblin would be
unexpected made him a key suspect.
So...he would round it up and just blame all three of them. Yep, that would
work well.
He wondered how one would go about pranking goblins. Without it being viewed as
a declaration of war.
He chewed on his lip as he righted the chair and put the files back on the
desk. This would need some careful thought. Perhaps he'd owl the twins, once he
assured he could not be tracked down. They were sure to have some ideas. Hell,
he would not be surprised if successfully pranking a goblin was added to their
Bucket List.
Dragging a hand through his hair, Harry stared at the accounts of his family
vaults. He would need his Managers to explain some things, but he ought to be
fine just scanning through it. Hopefully, one of the families had some
properties and he could get a general idea of where he wanted to go.
Repressing the urge to play Eenie-Meenie-Mo — because there were some levels he
would not stoop to — he unclasped the leather buckle holding the files
together, separated the three thick piles, and grabbed the nearest one.
Ah, Potter. Did he want to see what Dumbledore had been keeping form him? It
had been a big day...perhaps whe—
He flipped open the cover.
And blinked at the thin folder that lay within the larger file. Frowning and
utterly perplexed, he flipped the cover closed. It was thick. He flipped it
open. There was practically nothing there.
Right. He was just going to move on from this and not question it. Evidently,
goblins were a lot more aesthetically orientated than he had first assumed and
even he could admit that thick files looked cool on a shelf.
Sliding the dark folder out, thumb leaving a smudge on the polished gold
cornering, Harry settled back into the chair, legs crossing, folder propped on
his lap, and opened it.
If looks were to be believed, it contained nothing aside from a single sheet of
parchment.
Thankfully, Harry did not hold much belief in looks so continued with his
perusal.
The sheet was thick, ink smoky and old as it ran through what appeared to be a
list of contents. A slender finger tapped thoughtfully as Harry's head titled
in interest.
Carefully brushing a tiny sliver of magic against the folder, he was intrigued
to find that it felt similar to the menus that were used for the Yule Ball.
Perhaps this functioned similarly.
He scanned though the list of subheadings, noting that it covered everything
from Share Holdings to Family Trees.
Finding one that listed Properties, he held a finger down on that and waited. A
soft shifting could be felt beneath his fingertip, and when it stopped he
flicked the contents page back and grinned at the new sheets beneath it.
Focusing on the page, he read through the current Property Holdings. Potter
Manor was listed first, followed by some small cottages that were struck
though, along with the house that was listed in Godric’s Hallow. Unusable then.
Probably destroyed in the war. It would not be surprising if they had been used
as various safe-houses.
There was nothing outside of England. Evidently, the Potters had not been an
inquisitive people. Hmm. If the other accounts also came up empty, then he
might have to buy a house. That might be safer. Dumbledore undoubtedly knew all
of the properties anyway, and being a born Black, Sirius probably had a pretty
good idea of where most of the Black Properties were located. Peverell would be
the only one that had potential anonymity. But the family had not had a Lord in
a long time, and was clearly old enough that the family name was not even in
use anymore, so any properties were likely unusable—
As he thought, his eyes had read through the list again and frozen on the very
last entry. Supposedly the newest.
Was this some sort of joke?! How could — why would...
Frozen in place, completely taken aback at his finding, Harry must have looked
ridiculous when he suddenly lunged forward in his seat, sinking to his knees
and wrapping arms around his torso, biting down on his lip as he struggled to
reign in his magic from destroying the office.
His breathing was ragged, pained, and he could feel his core snarling within,
slashing out violently.
He had to get out of here. Needed to move. Had to distract himself because he
could not think about what he had seen.
Harry blindly grabbed the money pouch and the necklace off of the desk,
stumbling out of the office as he slipped the chain around his neck, feeling
the sleeping magic flare to life as the rune activated.
He was almost running through the corridors, desperate to get away from that
folder and find a place to calm down. The silence of his own head was going to
drive him insane.
Pausing and resting a palm against the wall, hearing the noises of Gringotts
antechamber just a little ways off, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose with
his free hand. Deep breath. Calm down. Focus.
I can do this. Stop thinking about it. You can think about it later.
Feeling his heart rate settling down, magic mutinously lying low, he exhaled
steadily before straightening. Forget it. Find something else to do.
Pushing away from the wall, Harry continued towards the Hall at a more sedate
pace. He slipped behind the goblin tellers, noting that the crowds of people
had picked up, which was only to be expected as it was now about three in the
afternoon. He passed them all unnoticed, and walked out the giant doors into
Diagon Alley.
He had some shopping to do.

===============================================================================

Stepping inside Flourish and Blotts, Harry breathed in deeply, relaxing under
the familiar scents of old parchment and ink, adjusted the satchel bag he had
just bought, and ventured further into the store, barely sparing a glance for
the clerk that completely overlooked the nondescript teen with boring hazel
eyes and sandy hair.
Harry was not ashamed to admit that when he had first seen his reflection —
incidentally outside of the luggage shop — his response had been to cringe and
think one thing. Blonde really does not suit me.
And then he promptly mentally slapped himself and reminded himself that he did
not care what hair colour suited him better. Stupid exhaustion. Completely
fucking with his mind. So, in an attempt to avoid looking anymore at his
Glamoured reflection, he had ducked into the store, looked around, happily
realised that the place sold all forms of travelling paraphernalia, realised he
was, indeed, in need of a bag, and merrily set off in search of one that he
liked.
Thus, the worn-looking brown dragon-hide satchel bag, brass buckling dull,
slung across his chest, hitting against his hip and thigh in a manner that was
strangely reassuring.
Passing the stands of pre-bundled books for Hogwarts students, Harry bit back
the wave of nostalgia that rose as he carefully skirted around it and headed
towards the back aisles. He knew he would not be setting foot inside the place
that had been his first — and only — home, but having it so blatantly pointed
out to him was a bit shocking.
He bypassed the small groups of laughing children and gossiping parents easily,
ignored the little pointers that suggested he take a quick peek at the latest
seller 'Lockhart: Memory of a Memorable Man’ and fought down his gag reflex at
the icky title, slipped down a narrow, dusty little aisle and beheld his prize.
The travelling section!
He slowly made his way down, inspecting the titles of the little tomes and
novels, suitably distracted.
He ended up pulling several that looked promising.
’Charms for the Traveller That the Traveller Will Always Forget.’
Biting his lip, Harry had first been intrigued then been forced to reluctantly
admit that he would undoubtedly be classified as one of the mentioned
travellers. Finding no contents page, he flipped though the book, pages
ruffling under his fingertips. Reading the chapters titles as he passed them,
he discovered that he technically had no need of a toothbrush, a list and
discussion of the reliability of contraception charms — that had him thanking
everything under Avalon that he was a guy and more than that, he was
uninterested, so he didn't need to worry about that stuff right now — and
finally caught a glimpse of what he had been hoping to find. Translation
charms.
Goodbye language barriers and awkward silences!
‘A Travellers Guide to Almost Every City of the World Except For Those Not
Included’ and ‘How the Travel Unraveled’ quickly joined his growing pile.
Making to leave, he had been unable to leave ‘Travelling: Why Not To’ before
wandering off to peruse the rest of the store. Various sixth and seventh year
texts were picked up and carefully stacked beneath the pile that he was five
minutes from balancing beneath his chin. He focused on books that centered on
transfiguration and household charms, and completely ignored the Ministry
approved 'Dark' section which was really 'Washed-Out Grey' and, he was fairly
sure, consisted of little more than gothic vampire romances. He shuddered in
disgust and moved on.
Paying quickly at the counter and only basking a tiny bi — okay, fine, he was
positively gloating in the beautiful anonymity upon which he was graced, he
gathered up the books and slipped them inside his bag, grateful for the size-
expansion charms on it. Knockturn Alley would be next. Just because he hadn't
bought any 'Off-Light' books did not mean that he didn't want any. Quite the
opposite actually.
Ever since accidentally flooing to Borgin and Burkes that one time, he had
wanted to go back. Properly. It had been to his everlasting annoyance that
Hagrid had grabbed him and dragged him out before he could pull out a dark
cloak and attempt to learn more about the witch that sold...whatever it was she
sold at the Alley's interest.
And right now, he had money, a glamour and the dark cloak. And no one to bother
him about it. The timing was perfect.
He stepped out of Blotts, raising an eyebrow at the steady stream of people
that flowed around him, making the most of the mildly-weathered day. It was
certainly quite a relief after the heat Britain had been experiencing for the
past week and a half. Should the Dursley's be on a beach vacation, he seriously
prayed that they forgot sunscreen, were currently being burnt to a crisp and
would go on to discover they suffered from untreatable forms of skin-cancer.
Typically, he wasn't the kind of guy to which such a severe condition on
somebody. But this was not a typical situation. No, he hated them with an
unparalleled fury and thought it would be incredibly amusing to see the Whale
and Pig waddle around with cauterized chunks of flesh missing from their forms.
He could see it now. Mouldy jelly blobs given life.
Ooh, no. Stop thinking about this. It will not be good if you start cackling in
public. Think of...think of, um, Tsunamis! Yes! Think of Tsunami's and...jelly
blobs crashing under the waves. No, bad mind. Er...oh, come on, there had to be
something depressing he could think about. Damn, nothing. Alright...Oo Marvolo!
Think about Marvolo. Hah, see no insane urge to cackle madly, although now he
was just picturing twisted sheets and warms smiles and fingers in hair and his
cheeks were bloody well on fire.
Well...it was the lesser evil. He could work with that.
Forcefully redirecting his wayward thoughts, Harry spotted a break in the
stream and stepped into it, adjusting the strap of his bag before he looked up
and felt his heart stop in his chest. Managing to keep moving though the sheer
habit of human functionality, Harry could have sworn that time slowed down as
panic set in.
Sitting outside Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, happily enjoying the
summer’s afternoon light, and smiling widely as they chatted were Hermione and
Ron.
Looking as though they didn't have a care in the world.
His breath quickened as he ran though possible scenarios of escape in his
minds. He could not let them see him. If they did, all of his plans, all of his
freedom were screwed. But what if they saw him before he could get away, what
if —
It took getting shoved in the side and accidentally catching a glimpse of his
reflection for him to remember that he was wearing a glamour, there was no way
they could recognise him and that he was an utter idiot. Honesty, he needed to
pay more attention to his surroundings. That red hair was a stand-out.
He was still watching them out of the corner of his eye, unable to explain why
he had not immediately entered Knocturn once he made it across, and was instead
pretending to examine flowers. Something bitter twisted inside him as he saw
them laughing. Not one letter all summer and for some inconceivable reason, and
being the idiot that he was, he had almost been worried that something had
happened to them. Clearly, he could not have been further from the truth. While
he was locked up, starving and fucking dying, they had been moseying along,
allowed to go out and do whatever they wanted.
It was at this point that he realised that being the Mother Hen that she was,
Mrs Weasley would never allow her precious child out unsupervised in such dark
times without protection.
He blinked before casting his gaze over the crowd. Damn he could be sarcastic
when he wanted to be...ah, yep, there she is. And Remus Lupin was beside her,
with a black dog and trying to blend in and....
Black dog. He was with a black dog.
Sirius.
He had...
Inhaling sharply, hands clenching until nails cut through skin and the piercing
pain was enough to clear his mind before he lost control of his decidedly
volatile magic and blew up this innocent flower stall, Harry turned away and
bee-lined for the entrance of Knocturn.
Even while his mind tried to ignore what he had seen, he was unable to deny it.
He pulled the hood of his cloak up, covering his face in shadow and blindly
moving passed the withered hags that crowded the entrance, unheeding of the way
the occupants of the alley moved back, eyes wide.
Sirius, his own godfather, the man he had once hoped to learn to look up to as
a fatherly figure, had left his safe-place.
His godfather had left his safe-place, likely the place he had been all of last
year when Harry needed someone — anyone — to talk to when the entire school was
shunning him and had only been able to risk speaking to twice. He was risking
exposure, risking being found out by the Ministerial Aurors, risking being sent
back to prison for Granger and Ronald.
All so that he could be part of a fun outing.
When a part of him noted that he was attracting a bit too much attention, he
ducked into a side alley and leaned against the wall, gasping.
What about when he was on the ground, barely conscious from the pain and the
blood loss as his uncle whipped him, forced himself on him. Where had he been
then?!
He covered his mouth with his hand, closing his eyes to hold back the tears.
It felt like he had been punched in the chest; a sudden impact, blunt and
damaging, a stunned pause, and then the pain came. Throbbing through bone and
muscle, constricting his lungs.
Why? What had he done to make all the people that were supposed to care for him
dismiss him? Ignore him? Forget he existed until they had need of him?
Why did it take an obsessed Dark Lord to make him feel like he was an actual
person? That remembered he did, against all odds, exist and help him? Care for
him?
Hell, the goblins weren't even the same species and they had helped him more
than all of those people back there had.
Glacial eyes snapped open, an icy calm replacing the earlier panic and pain of
betrayal. They could all go burn in Arcane. They only wanted him when they need
him? Fine. Let's see what they do when he's no longer around.
He didn't need them.
He was no longer some eleven year old child that was determined to do anything
to appease his new found friend: refuse the hat even though deep down he had
wanted Slytherin, go after some stupid stone just because the teachers were
incompetent, Dumbledore was a manipulative bastard and the children wanted an
adventure, be forced to participate in situations he did not want to get
involved in. He was sick of it. Sick of being the Gryffindor. Sick of the
pettiness and ignorance, the naivety.
He pushed off the wall, his face expressionless until a small, tight smile
twitched his lips.
He would be fine.
Finding himself in a side-alley, he glanced back at the main street, before
shrugging and continuing on, curious to see where this led. Fortunately, there
were no other alleys branching off from this one so he was not going to get
hopelessly lost. He'd turn around when he lost interest.
Vanishing out of Diagon Proper as he did, he would not see the way the breeze
shifted, or how gold-flaring eyes widened as a known scent was caught, or how
the man lurched to his feet, the dog trailing along behind in confusion, or
how, when questioned about a short boy with black hair and green eyes, the
clerk of Flourish and Blotts could only scratch his head and mention a short
boy with hazel eyes, sandy hair and how he had bought a lot of books.
It did not take Harry long to realise that somehow, despite assumptions that
Diagon Alley was nothing but a shopping district, he had entered what appeared
to be a Wizarding residential zone, with various shady looking taverns and inns
scattered throughout open windows and flowerpots.
He would admit. The flower pots were odd. But he waved it aside, continuing
even as he realised that locating a good book store would be fruitless.
Thinking about it now, he vaguely recalled Tom mentioning something about plans
to find a place in Knocturn once he got out of the orphanage. The Slytherin
must have been talking about these lanes of narrow doorways.
He continued walking for a good while, curious to see where this housing lane
ended. He kept a tight hold on his bag, even though it was under the thick
cloak. He may have been curious, but he was a far cry from imbecilic and even
though he felt relatively safe, there was that unshakable chill that lingered
along his spine.
It eventually came to the point that Harry was carefully contemplating the
possibility that this lane just never ended when he came upon the...dead end.
Well, that was disappointing. No idea what he had expected, but this flat
expanse of wall that was silently mocking him was not it.
Huffing in annoyance, curiosity pouting, Harry leaned against the wall and
looked back the way he had come. The walk had been good, familiarising himself
with using muscles that were at optimum health. Unweighed down as he was, light
and smooth, he was truly beginning to acknowledge how heavy and cumbersome he
had always felt.
His head tilted back, leaning against the stone, and he breathed in, exhaled
steadily. Glamoured hazel eyes swept over his surroundings surreptitiously,
making sure that he was alone, before he pulled out the Elder Wand and cast a
tempus.
Urgh. He had barely been out here for more than an hour.
Lovely. Now what was he going to do? Nadnok, Bannot and Furnar would still be
busy. Hunting down any books he wanted up in Knocturn Alley wouldn’t take long,
and that was pointless browsing.
And he would be damned if he returned to the office now and willing near the
Potter Folder right now. He feared that if he did, the goblins would return to
find no files but a new pile of smoldering ash.
Like the first Blood Test. Somehow, he did not think that would be appreciated.
Flexing his magic, feeling how uncomfortable it felt under the self-inflicted
constraints, Harry attempted settling it down in a more pleasing position. It
was as his magic came in contact with the wall that he felt a slight resistance
before something clicked and he was falling through a wall that was no longer
solid and stumbling out back into Muggle London.
Catching himself before he could trip headlong into the city's afternoon
traffic, his jaw dropped open, astounded.
And then he whirled around, a slow, surprised grin lighting up his features,
looking between the unassuming stretch of graffiti-painted brick and the
bustling London street.
Unbelievable. Diagon Alley actually had another entrance. This was brilliant!
It also explained why so few shady-looking people were ever seen in the Leaky
Cauldron. Why use the supervised entrance when there was another one?
Pushing back his hood and shrugging out of the cloak to tuck it into his bag,
Harry craned his head back, looking for a street sign.
Shaftesbury Avenue.
Right. Not too far from Soho Square Gardens, but definitely not as far from
Charring Cross as he ought to have been, with all his walking...
Nope, not going to question it. Temporal distancing was not his thing.
This new development, however, was quite pleasing.
And also rather disastrous.
The problem was that, now that he was no longer in the Magical District, there
was nothing to distract himself with or hold himself back from doing what it
was he really wanted to do...
Really, all that had been holding him back before – apart from sheer
stubbornness, of course – was having to pass through the Leaky Cauldron whilst
pretending to be a happy tune-whistling teen, very much not thinking about what
he was setting out to do, risk his magic flaring up in angered excitement and
having his plans foiled.
Now...now that was no longer a problem.
Moving closer to the road, Harry held his wand out as his grin twisted into
something wicked and sharp, glamour flickering on his eyes.
Five seconds. A bang.
The worn out doors wheezed open, metal screeching, before a pockmarked youth
poked his head out of the Knight Bus and Stanley Shunpike shifted the toothpick
to the side of his mouth, hand outstretched for payment.
"Where ya off to then?"

===============================================================================

It was truly intriguing how being intimately acquainted with something could
mar its image so indescribably, turning even the most beautiful of creations
into the most horrendous of distortions.
Harry found that this applied to many things, but only two concerned him.
People.
And houses.
The last, in particular, is what held his interest.
Folding his arms and propping them atop his bent knees, Harry shifted in his
seat on the curb.
The English summer breeze was warm, the light dying, kicking up dry leaves that
danced lowly along sun-warmed pavement, flitting around the figure of the boy
with the dark hair that picked up with the wind.
Finding the position uncomfortable, he shifted again, ankles crossing and knees
falling open, hands in his lap.
Half-lidded green eyes were fixed solely upon the house opposite to the curb he
sat on. Number 4 Privet Drive.
By Morgana how he hated this place.
From the street, it looked like the perfect little suburban house. Door freshly
painted, walls clean, the beautiful roses that grew in the groomed garden-beds,
framing the thick green grass.
From the street, its facade was unquestionably pristine.
But look closer. The grass was uneven, overgrown, uncut for a few days more
than was acceptable. The soft petals of the roses wilted, crumbling yellow
around the edges, garden-bed inundated with the shooting heads of weeds that
ought to be cleared out. Fallen leaves had entangled themselves in the seals of
the windows that were dulled under the barest onset of dust. The bars on the
bedroom window of the second floor had begun to rust, dripping disrepair down
the white-washed walls.
How many times had he painted those walls? That door?
Harry plucked up the Elder Wand from where he had put it behind his ear after
he cast the Disillusionment Charm, turning it in his hands. He had deactivated
the glamour rune. He wanted to be himself for this.
How many hours had he spent tending to those roses in the burning heat?
Planting them, growing them, caring? Bleeding on them? What about the grass?
What about when the rains had set in, thickening the air with its humid
contradiction of too much heat and too much moisture, making it difficult to
breath as he struggled to push the mower over the wet lawns? What about the
neighbours that looked on as he quickly withered away, just like the daisies
did when summer returned with full force, unrelentingly beating down on his
bare back, blistering the skin. How about the evenings when the lashes come
without mercy — the lawn was yellowing in patches, they said. Couldn't even so
much as water it properly, you ungrateful freak, after all we've done for you —
and he stopped counting the days since he last ate?
He looked down, tracing the pad of his thumb over the elderberry grooving, the
pale wood stilling in its twirling between his fingers.
It was fitting, he thought. How the childhood of his nightmares lingered behind
the meticulously painted door of a carefully structured facade.
Nearly fourteen years had taught him that none cared about the monster that
waited within as long as the image was presentable.
He hated it all. All of them. All of the people that could have — should have
looked closer.
He remained unmoving as the Woman from Number 6 passed behind him, unaware that
the boy she had watched grow was less than two feet away, or that her Husband
was having an affair with the Man in Number 1 that also had a City Lover that
sometimes drove down and 'visited him' while the lady he lived with, the
Sister, had luncheon every Saturday with the Old Lady over on Main Street and
told her all about how they'd come into their money.
Or maybe the Woman did know that, and she simply didn't care.
It was easier that way. When you didn't care. She certainly seemed to think so.
She'd never cared about the bruises that stained his skin in terrible
splotches.
Harry didn't care about her, though. She was just some random woman that
happened to live on the same street he had. Frankly, if he was going to exact
his revenge on every single person that had ever been in the position to help,
or slighted him in some way, then he'd have to take out the entire
neighbourhood.
Exhausting? Very much so. He didn't even know how big Surrey was.
No, utilising his time to the best of his ability would be much
more...rewarding.
A chilling grin stretched across his lips, bitter twists and a sadistic light
in those eyes.
Nobody said those years of torture had left him completely sane, after all.
Sparks snapped out from the tip of the wand, eager to be of use.
He was undecided as to what he would do about Sirius, but cutting all ties to
the man felt satisfying enough for now.
Dumbledore, he knew, would have to wait. He wasn't ready yet; the execution
would have to be exact. He would not ruin his one chance to bring the man to
his knees.
The Dursley's, however...well.
Harry chuckled, a dangerously low sound that slipped away alongside the wind.
The Dursley's certainly had a lot to suffer for.
And what better time to start than now? He would be out of the country before
the night was over. If his calculations were correct then the Dursley’s would
be back the day after.
Oh, how unfortunate...
He wondered...Did it count as arson if he owned the property?
A steady hand raised the Elder Wand — the magic of the Hallow thrumming along
his veins, responding to the readying anticipation of his own. Wrist tilted
down slightly, an inquisitively elegant angle, poison-shaded eyes lit up.
"Fiendfyre."
The spell was whispered, a wicked breath that was caught by the wind with a
recent gust.
Magic snapped out vividly, the power behind the curse intense as it was
released. A snarling wolf, it's thick pelt kicking up in the breeze, slipped
out from the tip of the wand, easily towering over Harry — and he was sitting
on the curb! Even standing, it would have been a head taller. The coal-like
eyes, burnt gold by the heat, rolled towards him, the beast circling around to
Harry as a Phoenix joined it, dripping embers onto the tarmac as it shot up,
twisting through the air with a majestic sweep of its blazing wings.
The Phoenix hung suspended in the air, summer holding its breath, before it
dove, Its screeching cry an everlasting torment.
Harry tilted his head, a devilish smirk tugging at his mouth as he looked at
the fyre-wolf. The creature opened Its maw, flickering reds creating a tongue
that lolled out to the side in a heated pant, a fiendish grin revealing gold-
dripping fangs. A heavy paw lowered, moving closer to him.
Feeling the curse coiling tightly within him, battering against his tight hold,
Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion. Why wasn't the wolf joining in the raging
destruction? What did It want?
As if in answer to his silent query, the wolf lowered Its head.
Harry looked at It incredulously even as the Phoenix let out another shriek and
Petunia's precious roses went up in fire.
Did it...?
The wolf looked at him pointedly.
Oh, it did!
Well...he was rather curious.
Moving tentatively, acutely aware of the kindling heat caressing his skin, he
stretched out a hand, the incandescent light illuminating from the beast
washing out his pale skin. He paused, fingers upturned, a breath away.
And the fyre-wolf locked eyes with his and nudged Its snout against his palm,
fire humming, tail sweeping to the side, sparks trailing in its wake. Then,
with a soft yip, the fyre-wolf turned, a triumphant howl to the sun and Harry
laughed breathlessly as It raced across the road and set upon the house, paw
swatting at Its kin as It swooped low, wings tucked in, and smashed through the
front window in a burst of melting glass.
The strain on his control increased two-fold and Harry winced. Honestly,
perhaps it might not have been the best idea to use a Dark Curse when his magic
was still trying to acclimatize to being allowed to flow free in its entirety.
But, watching as the wolf brushed up against the side of the house and autumn
flames licked up the walls, molten brick dripping in its wake...
Nope, didn't regret it in the slightest.
Ten seconds was all it took for the two coruscating creatures to burn the house
down until nothing but glowing coals were left, heat searing though the life of
the people that had tormented his, turning what should have been a loving home
into a prison he thought he would never escape. Picture frames fell from walls,
glass shattering under the pressure, glossy photographs curling and crumbling
to ash, flames dancing in delight, ravenously consuming everything.
He inhaled deeply, tasting smoke and heat on his tongue, eyes alight in
satisfaction.
The Phoenix swept up high into the air, spiraling, lava ribbons flying out in a
wild dance and Harry laughed as the fyre-wolf's giant head turned as the beast
glanced at him from over Its broad shoulder, a smug grin, the breeze stirring
up embers as it ruffled Its fur.
A sharp slice of the wand ended the curse, cutting off the insistent pressure
that begged to be released and freed, to decimate.
He missed the overbearing warmth immediately. The sudden absence of the
beautiful creatures left him feeling cold.
The boy stood, kicking the curb thoughtfully as he straightened his shirt,
tucking his wand behind an ear.
Looking at the house that had brought him nothing but pain and misery for what
would forever be the last time, Harry grinned.
He could almost see the looks of abject horror upon their faces, how their
piggish eyes would widen...
He breathed in harshly, eyes half-lidded and hazed in pleasure, delighting in
the feeling of his blood racing at the thought of their fear, their grief.
Let them have a taste of what it felt like to wander how they would survive
through to the next day.
They'd have the clothes on their back. Nothing more.
He opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them.
Grabbing the Elder Wand and flicking it, muttering one last spell under his
breath — the last spell Tom had taught him — he erased his magical signature,
rocking back on his heels in satisfaction as he felt it take action.
And then he turned away, cutting across the lawn of Number Three, rounding the
house and easily jumping the back fence. It was the fastest way back over to
Wysteria Lane. Actually, he might need to go further than that. Best not to
call the Knight Bus so close to a crime scene, after all.
The worst of his nightmares were left behind in the smoldering rubble. The
threat of returning could no longer haunt him, now.
The Wards that Doge and Mundungus had put up only a few nights before were
still intact. Specifically, the one that was designed to lock him inside the
property, inside a house that had just burned down to the ground. Come
tomorrow, he had no doubt that Harry Potter would be thought to be dead. By
Merlin, he loved fire. The place was so utterly destroyed, it would be take
them weeks of investigation before they found proof of his having been in the
house at the time of fire or not.
The boy left not a moment too soon. At the same time as he stepped onto the
pathway of Wysteria Lane and crossed the road, several cracks of apparition and
the sounds of sirens in the distance converged on the remains of Number 4
Privet Drive.

===============================================================================

Disembarking the Knight Bus for the second time that day and carefully avoiding
Shunpike's nattering about some scrawny kid called Neville, Harry stepped out
onto the Muggle street.
He waited for the bus to disappear around the corner before he smirked, digging
his hands into his pockets to keep from bouncing.
Not in the mood to try and figure out how the trick wall to Knocturn actually
worked, he pushed his magic against it and slid through.
Thanks to the wonderful — ahem lacking — ingenuity of Wizarding architects and
their penchant for straight lines, Harry had no fear of getting lost and indeed
soon found himself back in Knocturn Alley.
Taking a moment to observe the delightfully untoward dealings that no self-
respecting criminal would ever conduct even a few feet closer to the entrance
way, Harry leaned against the wall, Glamoured eyes flickering over the store
signs that swung in soft creaks above their heads, a satisfied smirk twisting
his lips.
He'd done it. He'd burnt down the house that haunted him. He'd flipped the
proverbial finger to the old coot. He'd bought himself several weeks of freedom
and assured that the Order of the Phoenix had one hell of a headache on their
hands.
Life was good.
He couldn't wait to tell Marvolo.
He'd do that tomorrow, though. They'd only seen each other that morning. He
didn't want to look clingy.
On that note, he really ought to look for another owl.
Pushing away from the wall and keeping an eye out for any magical menageries,
Harry wandered down the Alley, glancing in window displays and observing the
types of people that went in and out of varying stores.
Despite the oppressive nature of the mouldy stones and chipped brick, Harry
found that he enjoyed the atmosphere, appreciated the way people kept to their
own business even as they nimbly dodged out of the way of scrawny pickpockets
and touchy hags.
There was something deliciously exciting about dancing through the criminals
and outcasts.
Of course, Harry only had to sharpen his magic a little and let if flare out
and anybody too close backed the hell away from him, but he was going to chalk
it up to a natural presence of 'do not mess with me' and think no more on the
matter.
By the time the sixth hour rolled around and evening was setting in, Harry had
bravely ventured into several questionable stores and procured another stack of
books covering basic knowledge on Defensive Dark Magic, one that focused
specifically on having revenge upon betrayer's — titled 'How To Curse Your
Enemy While Smiling in Their Face' — and a few on Pureblood customs and the
unedited and uncensored histories of magic.
Oddly enough, those had been easy to find. It had taken a copious amount of
digging through dusty shelves and valiantly fending off a sneezing fit by
holding his breath and spelling the word 'pineapple' backwards to find what he
had really wanted. The advanced texts on Ancient Runes.
Despite Tom's brilliant idea to keep up the charade of the idiot Gryffindor —
and yes. He had been smacked for that — the other boy had eagerly introduced
Harry to Runes and Arithmancy during the nights of his second year. It may have
been the unrestrained excitement of the Slytherin, or just his own interest,
but Harry had immediately fallen in love with the subjects and continued
studying them privately despite not enrolling in the classes. Having steadily
ransacked Hogwarts Library and read everything they had to offer — oh the joys
of the insomniac — Harry was determined to use his first unmonitored shopping
trip to rectify his dismal collection of texts.
It had came as a surprise when, with his arms outstretched and fingers grabbing
at the air in an attempt to reach the little tome that
was...just...out...shallow breath...out of reach!... A dust mote had disturbed
the precarious balancing act of the shelf, it had wobbled and a book on
Parselmagic had dropped down onto his head.
A predestined act of fated magic?
...Nah.
A strange occurrence that was unbelievably helpful and one that he was going to
use to his advantage despite the bizarre serendipity of the moment?
Obviously.
So now, wincing at how heavy his satchel would be if feather-light charms had
not been invented — and making a mental not to send the creator a thank you
card — Harry pushed through the glass door of Menylops Magical Menagerie.
It sounded like a rip-off of Eyelops Owl Emporium. He entered with non-existent
expectations.
The bell tinkled, the smell was suffocating and the store clerk remained
fixated on his raunchy magazine.
Just another pet shop, then.
Closing his eyes and repeating the mantra 'No Matter How Cute They Are I Cannot
Free Them All...But...No!' over and over again in his mind, Harry eased his way
around the caged displays of various magical creatures that he did not know the
names of.
He was just thankful there were no puppies. He would have caved if there had
been puppies.
With narrowed eyes, he carefully inspected the available owls.
He had a large list of requirements, after all. The owl had to be perfect.
They had to get along with Hedwig.
Granted, the list of requirements began and ended there, but Hedwig had already
demonstrated just how insurmountable a task that would be.
Harry wondered if owls were capable of hating their own species.
Or if Hedwig was just special like that.
He had to turn away so that he did not have to see the way thin feathers
ruffled sadly, the look in the dull eyes as another potential owner dismissed
them, or the way chains rattled around scrawny feet with the slight shifting.
Merlin, he hated pet stores.
Moving to get away from the owls, Harry's ears perked up at the sound of
hissing and he followed, arriving at a wall of reptilian glass displays.
It was for this reason the he found himself in the very back of the horrible
menagerie, casually tucked behind a display of reptile treats...fine. He was
crouching down behind the treat display, determinedly keeping out of sight of
the pervy clerk and hissing at the adorably vicious looking viper. And no, his
hiding — not that he was hiding, because he wasn't! — had nothing to do with
his Second Year making him feel dirty for speaking parseltongue in public. Not
at all! And even if it did, as he had just said, he was not hiding. He was
just...lying low; assessing compatibility possibilities with what he hoped was
going to be a new familiar...yesss.
Dear Morgana, did he just drags his’s’? That's it. He's grabbing a snake and
getting out of here.
Creeping closer to the glass cases in a move that would have impressed even the
most dedicated of Guerilla Warfare tacticians, Harry looked into the case of
what he recognised as a Green Tree Python.
Stupid clerk couldn't even put up species labels. Idiot.
The snake was not overly big, lying listlessly on the floor of its exhibit in
anxious coils.
Sensing the approaching movement, acidic yellow eyes met green as the python
raised its head ever so slightly, hissing hatefully.
§Ssilly human. Coming closser. Raissing hope. Go, leave. Do not give hope. You
will leave and we will sstay. I will bite you for your inssolence!§
Pain briefly clenched his chest, a life of knowing exactly how this snake felt.
So he gave a slow, sad smile. §Will you really bite me?§
If snakes could blink, he suspected it would be doing so vigorously. Or perhaps
Salazar Slytherin truly had been on to the whole 'react as little as possible'
thing as it only bared its fangs a little in surprise and shifted closer.
§A sspeaker?§
He hummed, idly noting that even humming sounded hissier in parseltongue. §How
long have you been here?§
The snake — he thought it might be a she — took a moment before answering. §Too
long, sspeaker. Ssunlight and sspace was sseasonss ago.§
§How would you like to come with me then?§
§...Sspeaker is not joking? Sspeaker wantss me?§
Harry smiled, knowing the snake had already made up her mind. Anything to get
out of a glass prison §Yess.§ Checking over his shoulder and seeing the pervy
clerk turn the page, Harry slid open the lid to the case and reached a hand in.
Bright green cautiously uncoiled, scales shifting before the snake hesitantly
slithered up his hand, up his arm, then came to a rest across his shoulders.
A forked tongue flicked across his neck, directly over his pulse point. He held
still as his new familiar scented him.
§You tasste of death flowerss and flame ssmoke, masster.§
Harry blinked. §Well...§ He blinked again. He'd take is as a compliment.
§That's new. My name is Harry alright? None of this 'master' business. Do you
have a name?§
The arrow shaped head swayed in the negative, her length contracting. Harry
frowned, stroking a finger along her head and smiling when she gave a pleased
hiss. §I think I'll call you Teyen...how does that sound?§
§...It tasstess like freedom. I will take it. Sshall we leave this place?§
§Yess, just...§ Eyes scanned over the reptiles, coiled around tiny fixtures
that were nothing but mockeries of their natural environments. Cut off from
sunlight, nothing but poorly appreciated spectacles.
He pursed his lips. He had already committed one technical-crime today. A few
more would harm...well, it would probably harm quite a few.
But he would feel better afterwards.
Ah, look, mind made up.
Shifting in his crouching position, he leveled his very best authoritative
glare at all the snakes and smirked when all of the attention suddenly focused
on him.
§If I let you guys out, will you promise not to bite anybody? Unless they harm
you first, of course.§
A chorus of hissy affirmations erupted.
That was acceptable. §Alright then. Wait until the coast is clear, okay?§
Not risking using his wand and leaving behind traces of his magical signature,
Harry pressed his fingertips against the glass and focused.
Now that the Block was gone, he was optimistic that wandless magic would come
easier. It had never made sense that he could manage a shrinking charm and
little more.
A light push, tightly pressed mouth and then the wall of glass vanished and he
almost, almost cheered. But he did not. He did actually remember where he was.
Standing up, pleased that the reptiles made no move, Harry wandered back the
way he had come.
If he was freeing the scaly’s, he was damn well freeing the feathers as well.
Tapping every leg-chain and vanishing them as trying to unlock them would have
made too noticeable a sound; Harry slipped up to the front desk, did not breath
for a second and then coughed.
Coughed very loudly.
So loudly, in fact, that Mister Perv fell out of his chair and ripped the very
revealing page in half.
An unimpressed look masked the fact that inside, Harry was laughing his head
off and snickering like a pre-teen.
Glaring, the clerk sneered, reverently set down his magazine which was,
thankfully, face down, and made to question the unremarkable boy about his lack
of purchases.
When the clerk paled, Harry knew he had spotted Teyen and quirked an eyebrow.
And decided to have a tiny bit more fun. Now, he had never been one to think
that accents were phonetically spelt, but he was working with what little he
had learned from the boys from Durmstrang that he had spoken to during the
year.
Deepening his voice and exuding a foreboding air, his mouth twisted. "Vell? Vot
are you looking at?"
Hah, nailed it. Look at him, quaking in fear. He would have made an excellent
Dark Lord...it was unfortunate he already had plans and an extracurricular like
that would just get in the way.
Gulping, the clerk shook his head and resisted the urge to grovel. "N-nothin'.
That'll b-be si-sixty galleons, s-s-sir."
Harry handed the money over, absently amazed that the small pouch wasn't empty
yet. Then, employing his very best impression of Snape, he upturned nose,
huffed, and sneered. His cloak snapped behind him as he whirled around sharply
in a manner that could only be called threatening. How fabric managed that, he
had no idea. He just hoped that he got the movement right without using the
spell that he had caught Snape using just before the Schools arrived for the
Tournament.
Reaching the door, he fixed his sneer and looked dramatically over his shoulder
to glare at the clerk. Paling even more, the clerk wisely scuttled away,
grabbing his magazine and hid out in the back room.
Success! Doing his absolute best to keep his glare in place, Harry huffily
opened the door wide. And that was the signal.
In a move that Harry would have believed to have been coordinated if he did not
know that it was naught but the product of minutes and desperation, the snakes
dropped down out of their displays and slithered frantically over the grime-
encased floors while the owls silently flapped off of their perches and glided
over the over-priced aisles.
A flurry of feathers, soft caws, scrapping of scales and suddenly the
disgusting menagerie was bereft of its key attractions.
One foot out the door, an amused smile tugging his mouth, Harry hesitated then
sighed. He could not free some of the animals and leave others behind. Pressing
a sticking charm onto the door so that it remained open, he pushed a wave of
magic out and vanished the doors on the other enclosures.
Quickly jumping out of the way and pressing up against the wall, Harry watched
as tiny little stick-like things clung to the fur of strange creatures that
brushed up against shuffling beings with leathery skin. All making their escape
from the inhumane habitats they had been forced to live in.
He chuckled lowly, eyes flickering over the creatures that descend upon the
unassuming alley, scuttling over dead leaves and slithering further in to the
shadows. He hoped whatever innate sense of, well, sense that animals typically
had led them to somewhere safe.
The store emptied in seconds, Harry removed the sticking charm and let the door
swing shut.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, ensuring the hood was up and partly
concealing his new friend, Harry turned and began making his way back to
Gringotts. The goblins should be done, by now.
Teyen swung slightly with the movement, low hisses reaching his ear. Lifting an
eyebrow, Harry raised his hand to stroke her head.
§Happy now, are we?§
§Very much Mass—Harry.§
He stepped over what he vaguely assumed was an undernourished crup.
§Good.§

===============================================================================

Harry was innocently doing nothing but sitting inside Nadnok's office, amusing
himself by reading through the rest of the Potter Account folder, when the
goblins returned.
As anyone would look after hours upon hours’ worth of negotiations and
pleasantries, the goblins looked pale and worn out.
Harry studied them with thoughtfully narrowed green eyes and tilted head.
Perhaps...yes. Best not tell them about what he had gotten up to today. He
didn't think he could handle fainting goblins.
Heads bowed under the weight of sheer exhaustion, the three goblins moved
further inside the office, looked towards the dark haired boy, and then
promptly pulled up short.
Deeply asleep as she was, Teyen remained ignorant of the mild concern she was
causing and merely coiled up tighter where she lay on Harry's lap under a
heating charm.
Harry smiled brightly. Furnar, seeing a lost cause, simply chose to accept the
unpredictable nature of their human and dropped into the closest chair, ruff
drooping.
Bannot, timepieces blessedly silent for once, shrugged, wholly unconcerned with
the young Lords new pet. Inwardly, he was bemoaning the fact that the boy had
selected a non-venomous variety. He should really pull the boy aside and talk
to him about what makes a respectable pet.
Unfortunately for Nadnok, the responsibility of upholding some sort of
authority fell upon him, so he sighed. Milky-filmed transparent eyelids
blinked, the suctioning loud and he sighed again. Thanking the Goddess that he
and
Grimir did not yet have sproglings of their own, he pinned the boy with what he
hoped was a serious look.
Having seen worse than a serious look in his life — even if Nadnok's scare was
standing stark against his skin and twisting viciously — Harry's smile widened.
"Mister Peverell, are you aware that that Python is magical and," beady eyes
flicked down towards the barely four feet of bright green snake, "not yet fully
grown?"
Harry hummed. "Yes to both. What of it?"
Nadnok sighed, again. "It means, youngling, that your Python's bite, although
not venomous, will likely be incurable. Furthermore, as a female, she will
inevitably be larger than her male counterparts, and will grow to be at least
seven feet in length. As you are a powerful wizard, Mister Peverell, should the
familiar bond between yourselves continue, it is possible that her natural size
will be increased."
"So...nothing bad then?"
Nadnok stared at the human incredulously. How could the boy look excited at the
potential prospect of a ten foot familiar?
The goblin dragged a heavy hand down his face. He would never understand
humans. "No, not bad, nothing to be concerned about at all."
Snickering at the blatant usage of sarcasm, Harry put the folder down and
pulled the notebook he had been working in earlier closer. "Relax, Nadnok. She
won't harm anyone."
"Now, really, I must protest. What purpose does it serve if a familiar is
unable to wreck untold pain upon the nuisances?"
Harry rolled his eyes at Bannot. "She looks cool and I can talk to her. What
else does she need to do?"
Furnar perked up, ruff bouncing droopingly. "You are a parselmouth?"
"Yes."
"Can you communicate with the dragons?"
"...I have no idea."
"Hmm." Furnar scratched his chin in contemplation and leaned back. They could
use this...
"Anyway!" Harry pronounced loudly, creeped out by the way the Elizabethan-
styled goblin just kept staring at him. "I'm pretty sure we're all tired and
would like to get the hell out of here, so, now that we've covered the fact
that I do indeed have a snake on my lap that is not going anywhere, can we get
on with it?"
By now, Nadnok had reclaimed his seat and pulled it closer to the desk.
"Yes, I quite agree. Before we begin, however, Griphook mentioned seeing you
leave Gringotts. No problems were encountered, I hope?"
Harry flapped his hand dismissively. "I just had some things to do in Diagon.
Got a lot of books." He frowned slightly. "I still need an owl, though."
"There are plenty of emporiums and menageries in this district. How were you
unable to acquire one?"
"They need to like Hedwig. None of them cut it."
"Hedwig is...?"
"Oh, she's my owl, but she's stuck at Hogwarts, currently. I have letters that
I'll need to send but I don't want to use the rental owls, so another owl it
is."
Bannot cleared his throat, smacking down a timepiece when it started vibrating.
"Indeed. What is it that you require from us?"
"Right." Glancing down quickly at his slanted notes, fingers tapping gently
along Teyen's scales. "What I need is transportation and some way to ensure I
cannot be traced."
"Is that all?"
"For now, yes."
"Where did you have in mind, Mister Peverell?"
Resisting the urge to yawn, Harry blinked against the gradually growing sting
in his eyes. "I was thinking France, but now I'm not so sure. When people
realise I'm missing, the first place they would look would probably be France,
'cause it's so close...Do any of you have any suggestions?"
Furnar stood and began rifling through draws. Nadnok laced his fingers
together. "Would I be correct in assuming you wish to remain within Europe?"
"Yes. And I don't want to be too far away from England. I've got an agreement
with a friend that requires us to keep in contact."
"Hmm. Furnar, could you retrieve the Ma— oh, thank you."
Clawed fingers carefully unrolled a thick scroll of parchment revealing an inky
outline of the continents, labeled oceans and precisely drawn lines of country
designations.
Thin lips pursed as Nadnok studied the map. Then, appearing to have found what
he was looking for, he rotated the map, pinned his nail down on the grainy
surface and looked at Harry.
"Have you thought of the Netherlands?"
"Actually, no." Harry leaned closer. "Amsterdam is in the Netherlands, right?"
"Correct."
"Well, I did have Amsterdam down as a place to visit one day...Yep, that's it.
I'm decided. I'll start in Amsterdam."
"...You do not want to try elsewhere first?"
"Nope. If I don't like it, I can just leave. What should I do about
accommodation?"
Bannot was too busy digging through one of his pockets and getting his long
nails caught on the little chains that crisscrossed his waistcoat to answer and
Furnar appeared to have no idea what they were talking about. Nadnok looked at
his brethren, unimpressed.
"As a capital, Mister Peverell, Amsterdam is home to Netherland’s largest
Wizarding district. There is another, The Hague, but that caters mostly to the
political aspects of the country and is thus unimportant at the present time.
"Prullariumplein — which translates roughly to Trinket or Bauble Square — is a
magical hotspot, attracting many international visitors and is renowned for
their specialty stores. The culmination of centuries of wizarding and creature
influence, the district is an intimate reflection of the peaceful co-habitation
of magicals and the humane leniency of their laws."
Finding whatever it was he was looking for and placing it on the desk, held
under his cupped hand, Bannot sneered. "The English Ministry would do well to
learn from them."
Jade eyes flicked between the two, curious. "Why don't they?"
Furnar snorted, rasp thickening. "They are delusional enough to still think
themselves the center of the world."
"Oh, yeah, that makes sense then. Anyway, what were you saying, Nadnok?"
"Gringotts Netherlands Branch is located in Prullariumplein. Transportation
will be of no consequence. As for accommodation," the goblin pulled open a
draw. "Despite it being rather short notice, rooms are available for booking,
at no additional cost so long as you produce you Gringotts card and may be held
for indefinite periods so long as payment is up to date."
With that, a thin object was slapped onto the desk. Nadnok's expression was
expectant. Harry was confused.
"Er...where exactly will I be staying?"
"In Gringotts Hotel, of course."
"You...Gringotts have hotels? Why?"
"It is not unusual for magicals to travel frequently, youngling, and very few
have the luxury of boarding with family."
Bannot sneered and scoffed. "It is also not unusual for Wizarding Hotels to
have restrictions on creatures, or provide rooms and fail to meet the
requirements specific creatures need, and then try to cause trouble for the
creature in questions."
Nadnok nodded. "For this reason, Gringotts provides accommodations that are
able to cater to varying magical specifications." He smirked smugly and
examined a nail. "It is...pleasing, as well, when a creature hotel outshines a
humans."
Harry huffed lightly, mouth twitching. He gestured to the fact object. "Is that
the Gringotts card?"
Seeing the affirmative nods, Harry plucked it up.
It was the size of a muggle credit card, a thin sheet of burnished bronze that
was heavier than he had expected. The bordering was a pressed pattern of
intricate lacework, interspersed by little planes of clear glass, so that he
could see through it in some places. An elegant G was embossed on both sides,
the calligraphical curls stretching to form numerical listings and
identification codes that were utterly lost on him.
The only difference between this and a muggle equivalent was that it did not
feature his name.
Turning it is his fingers, Harry glanced at Nadnok. "How does it work?"
"That, Mister Peverell, is essentially an alternative to carrying around a
pouch." The goblin handed over a small knife. "A drop of blood in the center of
the card activates the card and binds it to your magical signature. After that,
it provides direct access to your Vault. Now, for those who have multiple
vaults, a series of raised indents, which are..." A gnarled hand reached out
and poked the left side of the card, "...here, signify the vaults at your
disposal. The magical residue on each will be slightly different, so you will,
with time, come to be familiar with the particular denotations."
"Wicked." Harry studied the card a moment longer. A quick nick, a smeared drop
of blood, soft snick as magic connected and then slipped it into his bag and
carefully picked up Teyen. "So...how do I get out of here?"
And that is how Harry found himself standing before an imposing wall that was
dedicated entirely to fireplaces, warily eyeing the proffered powder and
mentally listing all the things that could go wrong with international flooing.
According to the Goblins, international flooing was reserved and staunchly
monitored by the Ministry of Magic. Their serious words, however, were quickly
contradicted as they led him through the bank to the International Departure
Area. Or, The IDA for short.
Evidently, even criminal transgressions could be waived aside if one supplied
the right price.
Harry really, really liked these goblins.
He turned around, rocking back slightly on his heels. On the opposite wall, a
gigantic metallic contraption of the globe stretched across bare stone,
flickering blue lights marking the world's capitals, while unmoving white
lights hovered over smaller cities.
Hefting the strap on his shoulder higher, feeling Teyen coil tighter around his
waist, Harry smiled weakly at Bannot and Nadnok.
Furnar had begun snoring in the office. They had decided to leave him there.
The enormity of what Harry was about to finally, finally do, was looming over
him.
"Guess this is it, then."
The two goblins nodded. Bannot looked pointedly at the pot of floo powder he
was still holding.
Harry took a deep breath. He could do this.
Nadnok eyed the human. Sensing the faltering determination, the tentative
actions, he, against his better judgment, reached forward and awkwardly patted
the human on the elbow. "We will see you in three days, Mister Peverell. You
will be fine."
Harry exhaled shakily. "Yes, of course. You're right. Nothing to worry about.
It's just a new country, new language, new everything. I won't know anyone, or
anything, and I only have a snake to talk to. But I'll be fine. Absolutely
fine."
"That's the spirit, now off with you."
Unable to keep from laughing in a way that was not hysterical, Harry reached
for the floo powder only for Bannot to suddenly yank it back, proclaim that he
had forgotten something, and run out of the hall.
Harry and Nadnok were left blinking at his vacant spot.
"Is that normal?"
"No."
"Should we worry?"
"No."
"Alright then." Bannot returned a minute later, looking impeccable as usual,
and if the clock faces appeared to be ticking faster than normal, nobody said
anything.
"Got what you forgot, Bannot?"
"Indeed." The goblins mouth twisted in displeasure. "We overlooked the matter
of securing your safety, and negating the ability to trace you."
"Oh...yeah, that was rather important."
"Rather."
Bannot opened his hand and offered his solution up to Harry. Plucking it up and
bringing it close, dark green eyes examined the little copper clasp. It was
unadorned, large enough to circled his pinky but too wide to be worn
comfortably as a ring and was open at the base.
It was only when he adjusted the angle and it caught the light that his human
eyes picked up the faint shadows that indicated a horrendously complicated
webbing of goblin runes inside the band.
Bannot puffed his chest out in pride. "It is exceptional, is it not?"
"Yes it is...did you make it?"
"Indeed. It is the pinnacle of revolution among out kind."
Harry smiled. "Good for you, Bannot. What does it do?"
"Apart from masking your magical signature and rendering all forms of tracking
magic useless, it also makes you impervious to potions like Veritaserum."
Harry chocked, to hell with poise. Bloody hell... "And you're just giving it to
me?"
Bannot looked as though the very idea repulsed him. "Of course not. You may be
bearable for a human, but that is expensive. Consider it part of the payment
for the basilisk."
"Aw, you think I'm bearable? I'm touched, Bannot, really."
Nadnok chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Enough. You need to go, youngling. You look
dead on your feet. We shall...negotiate the purchasing of the basilisk on
Thursday. Now, that band is to be worn at the top of your ear, just below the
height of the curve. Is assistance needed?"
"Yes, please. If you don't mind."
"Not at all." Nadnok elbowed Bannot in the side. "Assist him."
Bannot scowled but did as ordered. Taking the band out of his hand, Harry
crouched down when the goblin motioned for him to do so.
"Ear?"
Now, Harry knew there was something about which ear a guy pierced but he could
not for the life of him recall what it was, so he shrugged. "Right, I suppose."
"Fine, hold still."
Harry did so, unmoving as a gnarled hand brushed lifted his hair out of the way
and a talon scrapped across the sensitive flesh of his ear.
He felt the cool metal against the skin, the magic tingling at its proximity,
and then he was shrieking and wrenching himself away from the goblins.
"The hell Bannot! You never said you were putting it through my ear! Holy
Merlin! What is wrong with you!"
His hand moved sharply to protect his poor, poor ear before he had to rip away,
yelping as he made contact, and wide green eyes began watering. He bit his lip
to hold back the trembling and inhaled slowly, determinedly not thinking about
how his ear felt like he had just shoved a burning hot needle through it.
Bannot gaped at him incredulously. "What did you think I intended to do with
it?"
"I don't know! Use a sticking charm!"
"It is an earring! It goes through the cartilage!"
"Well I know that now!" He leveled Nadnok with a venomous glare. "Do not even
try it. No chuckling!"
Nadnok coughed, his voice sounding suspiciously strangled. Harry narrowed his
eyes. "I believe it would be best if you depart now, Mister Peverell."
Harry sniffed, picking himself up. "Couldn't agree more. You guys are mean."
Walking back to Bannot and scooping out a handful of floo powder, Harry
inwardly smirked as an utterly devious idea came to him and, before the goblins
knew what had happened, they were being hugged by a tiny human.
Shuddering in revulsion and breathing roughly at the sudden release, Harry
laughed at the twin looks of horror and stalked towards the fireplaces.
Tossing the powder in, he threw the little slip of paper that precisely spelled
out his destination down onto the coals and stepped into the green fire.
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