Stranger Things Did Happen - SelectiveSilence - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: 1

Chapter Text

Date: 14^th 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 f*ck 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!

f*ck. 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? f*ck, 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 amusem*nt 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.

Chapter 2: 2

Chapter Text

Date: 15^th 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 sad*stic 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 f*cking 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt.

"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 f*cking 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. Do not dare suggest that I hold some sort of affection 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, Dumblef*ck 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.

Chapter 3: 3

Chapter Text

Date: 16^th 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 amusem*nt.

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.

"f*ck! 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 amusem*nt, 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.

Chapter 4: 4

Chapter Text

Date: 16^th 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: 17^th 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 amusem*nt 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 advertisem*nt 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 5: 5

Chapter Text

Date: 18^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 org*smic 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?

Chapter 6: 6

Chapter Text

Date: 18^th 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 peaco*cks? 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, amusem*nt 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 co*ck.

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 amusem*nt, 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 circ*mstances 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.

Chapter 7: 7

Chapter Text

Date: 19^th 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 appeasem*nt. 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 f*cking 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.

Chapter 8: 8

Chapter Text

Date: 19^th 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 amusem*nt 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-f*cking-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.

Chapter 9: 9

Chapter Text

Date: 19^th 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 amusem*nt. "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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 sad*stic 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.

Chapter 10: 10

Chapter Text

Date: 19^th June 1995, evening
Location: The long awaited Amsterdam, Netherlands Branch, Gringotts.

Harry's arrival in Amsterdam left much to be desired for one attempting to land in any passable fashion. Having never been a fan of Flooing, spinning across what ought to have been about three-hundred-and-fifty miles, glimpses of rooms and openings flashing passed, soot shooting into his face, was not his idea of a pleasant experience. In fact, it sucked. The situation worsened when, now tripping his way out of the grate, green flames licking up the back of his trousers as Teyen frantically coiled her way up his body, the world was still spinning!

Boot catching on what he would later realise was a perfectly flat expanse of marble, Harry very quickly found himself sprawling face first on the floor, cheek squished and the floor tipping dangerously to the side, not entirely sure how he ended up in this position. It took a moment for the pain of his impact to realise. When it did, he groaned, a notion that was quickly taken up by Teyen, the python twisting viciously to get her tail out from beneath him and, once she had managed that, veritably attacking his satchel and disappearing into the depths within.

...now that he thought about it, that perhaps was not the best idea because he had no clue as to how the extension charms on it affected animate things.

He could only hope that she came out in one piece.

He coughed and winced when that agitated his side. Ooh, he'd not realised how sensitive his ribs were. Grimir was not going to be pleased. Although...he was not going to see her for a while so maybe she never had to find out...? Yep, perfect, she never had to know and he could continue on living. Brilliant.

Coughing again, the grimy taste of soot coating his tongue and scrubbing the stuff out his eyes, Harry peeked up, casually glancing around to see where he had landed — and if he happened to also be trying to determine just how many people had witnessed his expected but horrendously embarrassing experience, well — and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw nobody.

In fact, the hall that he had ended up in looked remarkably similar to the one he had just left. Fireplace arches covered the length of one wall, whilst a flattened metal out print of the globe was hung upon the other. With the chandeliers above casting that indefinite superficial lighting, Harry could almost fool himself into thinking that he had never left London after all.

That thought, however, spurred him into action, as the last thing he wanted upon arrival in what he hoped would be a large part of his new home was to be found sprawled out on what he had no doubt was centuries old and very expensive marble flooring — was that gold veining? Why yes, yes it was. Clambering to his feet and foregoing the utterly pointless task of straightening out his clothes because he knew full well what happened the last time he used a cleaning charm on himself, Harry was not a moment to soon as a fireplace a little further on flared and a lilac-robe-wearing woman stepped out, briefcase snappishly in hand and hair perfectly curled.

It figured that even wearing heels she managed to keep her feet under her.

Harry resisted the urge to pout. Pouting helped no man! So he busied himself with patting himself down but wished he'd paid a bit more attention as he only barely managed to avoid the garish flash of feathers the flew out after the woman, twirled in the air, and almost collided with his head.

There may have been squeaking involved, but Harry was too busy crawling away from the Phoenix-Dodo-bird Hybrid to care. Priorities and all that. Right now, his life was more important than reputation and why the hell wouldn't the bird leave him alone?!

A sharp trilling pierced the air, echoing in the cavernous space, and Harry watched wide-eyed as the murderous avian stilled, released a despondent twitter and flew away.

The woman, whom had moved closer while he was being attacked offered a small smile while extending a hand. "Terribly sorry about her, never has taken to travel by Floo, are you well?"

Harry blinked at her American accent. He'd never heard an American before. Then he realised she had fallen silent and blushed. Accepting her hand, he once again clambered up, foot tangling in the strap of his satchel. "Fine, thanks." He glanced at the bird. "Er, what type of bird is she, exactly?"

The woman smiled brightly while inwardly she was struggling not to coo because this boy was just too adorable! All covered in soot and looking so young, so cute! "Maia's an Alicanto, I'm looking for a breeding partner for her." She held her hand out. "I'm Jocelyn, by the way".

Harry stared at the hand, and then he realised she had no idea who he was. Possessed by the overwhelming need to go hug his goblins again, Harry beamed. "Rian". Because yes, it was important he remembered the name he'd thought up.

The woman, Jocelyn, made to say something, but the Alicanto shrieked before she could and dived for the door that had opened at the end of the hall, emitting a loud swelling of noise. A hasty good-bye and lilac robes were flying as Jocelyn sprinted after her bird, skidding through the doors. The man she passed on the way didn't even blink, and soon he too was disappearing through another fireplace.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Barely here for five minutes and...no, no. He couldn't get ahead of himself. He needed to make an impartial decision if he was going to stay. Letting stray birds and foreign accents get to him was foolish. Very foolish.

Blinking heavily and biting back a yawn, Harry groaned in exhaustion and looked at the doors. They were tall, imposing, intricately carved with scenes of various goblin wars and so very far away.

He sighed and began walking. Sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could sleep.

Less than ten feet away from where he had first landed (crashed) the Floo flared and a tiny twittering creature zoomed out and immediately zoned in on him. Harry was beginning to suspect that it had something to do with his hair (if this was the reaction he was going to get every time a damn bird came near him, he was so growing it!). Swiping at it, Harry glared at the...paper bird. What?

Somehow managing to avoid certain-squishment, Harry stumbled after the bird as it yanked at his hair, finally digging his heels in when he was back where he had started. As soon as he did, the paper bird shrieked and began rippling itself to shreds. The little curlicues of paper floated down to the ground. Harry could not decide between being horrified or impressed.

Before he could, green flames lurched forth and a folder was hurtling towards him. He caught it, barely, with an inordinate amount of fumbling that was worsened when the folder fell open upon his touch and decided that yes, this was an appropriate place to spill its contents.

And that was how Harry found himself standing there, streaked with soot, empty folder squeezed beneath his arm, clutching numerous sheafs of paper. He could only imagine what Marvolo's expression would be if he could see him now...

Was it wrong that he was itching for a camera now? It really should be. What kind of secret Slytherin was he if he was willingly handing out blackmail material? Not a very good one, that's what...But now he really wanted to see...

It was a good thing there was no camera and no Creevy, but he made a mental note to get one as soon as possible. The camera, that it...not the Creevy...that would just be weird.

Hmm. Moving on! Eyeing the papers and deciding that whatever they were could wait, Harry shuffled everything together and stuck it all back into the folder, pulling the leather cord around it tight as he hastened towards the doors.

The preparatory deep breath left him in a gasp as he revealed the Amsterdam Branch of Gringotts.

Noise swelled around him, spilling out from the clattering of cart-rails that seeped beneath the calls and shouts of worrying women as they grabbed after giggling children running around and between the legs of men laughing raucously, the deep tenor reverberating as heads were counted and expenses paid. Heels and claws clacked against the marble at an uneven tempo as a rainbow of fabrics sidled and snapped between bodies, feathers drooping down from hats and wings alike.

Gulping, pressing against the wall, Harry stared as his heart-rate went through the roof. Don't get him wrong, he loved it; the life was so vibrant, just begging to be joined but...there were a lot of people. He didn't... He really didn't like crowds.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry breathed deeply, steeling himself, before straining up on his tiptoes to see —kind of — over the sea of people and creatures to where he assumed the goblin tellers were and slipping into the stream. Riding the boost of energy that anxiety lent, dancing around everyone was easy. Standing still in line? Not so much, keeping up constant movement to avoid being bumped into. His knuckles became increasingly paler as they gripped his bag.

He had never been more thankful for the efficiency of a Goblin.

Barely raising an eyebrow when Harry informed him of the python in his bag, the little pane of glass of the monocle reflected the image of an indigo-skinned humanoid figure dripping water all over the floor as the goblin's head bowed, swiping Harry's newly minted card and handing it back with a room key, which Harry promptly slipped around his neck.

Braving being crushed, Harry manoeuvred through the crowd until he broke free and came face to wood with the door he had been directed to. Glossy and smooth, the surface was covered in all sorts of locks from floor to ceiling, some old and twisted and some new and gleaming. Harry blinked at it. Then peered at the key in his hand. And then began the arduous task of finding the corresponding lock in the mess.

The following minutes were disorientating at best, and on any other day, Harry probably would have stopped to puzzle it out, but this was not that day, so, like any person too tired to think in more than vague sentences, he merely accepted the fact that the door took him straight up to the 23rd floor.

Wondering down the hall and idly scanning the door numbers as he passed them, he did sort of understand now why the Magical World was so undeveloped when it came to technology. If there were doors that could affect the travel through space, then there really was no need for elevators.

Room located and key inserted, Harry eagerly swung open the door and pushed inside, securely locking the door behind him.

Caught inside glass panes, magically enhanced candles created enough light for the room to detract from the lack of light outside, and emphasised the golden colour scheme.

And for the first time since leaving Claridge's with Marvolo, Harry relaxed. Resting his bag against the wall and hissing for Teyen to come out, boots off, Harry crossed over to the window, almost wanting to moan at how soft the carpet was under foot. Pulling open the forest-green curtains, Harry stood before the towering glass windows and simply looked, folding his arms close as he slowly smiled in astonishment.

The lights of the city sprawling were made all the brighter by the fallen night, the two reflecting each other with the sprinkling of stars. Unfamiliar as he was, he was unable to tell between the muggle and magical districts, but this mattered little to him. He was gone and, for now, he was safe. That was all that mattered.

Letting go of the tight hold on his magic, ash-green ribbons released, prodding at everything it came in contact with. It was a rare talent that had manifested during his second year — being able to see physical representations of people's magic if he was familiar enough with them was a beautiful thing. Grin breaking out, Harry laughed at the content little vibrations thrumming through him and spun around, leaving the window open. The massive bed stood in the centre of the room, bedecked in ivory sheets and a gold throw that held a remarkable likeness to desert sand, while a small seating area sat off to the side, complete with sofa, armchair and table. Curiously pushing open the door revealed a bathroom that was just as alluring in it's resplendent practicality. The desk against the wall held an array of stationary, including some expensive looking parchment that was clear of any identifiers, and Harry made a mental note to write Marvolo as soon as he awoke.

He dropped the folder onto the desk. Flipping it open and spreading the papers out. It took much longer than it should have to understand what he was looking at, and when he did, he continued staring.

Identification papers. Birth certificate. Passport. Muggle and magical schooling papers. Ministry Approved Travelling Papers.

He had the best goblin managers; truly, he did. Be polite, treat them as equals, and this is what they give you: expertly crafted fake documents that he knew would stand up under the most intense of inspections and an upgrade to adulthood — because last he checked, he was not seventeen years old — and all without even having to ask for it. Wonderful.

Eyeing the passport, and noticing that it lacked a picture, he shifted through the pile, plucking up a flattened origami bird which he carefully unfolded to reveal the message within.

"Mister Peverell, as you have no doubt discovered, enclosed within are your identification papers for both Muggle and Magical world's. Two drops of blood are required in order to activate them. Once done, your identification photograph will appear. Grimir sends her regards and reminds you to begin your Potion Regime tonight."

He grimaced at the mention of potions and set about digging one out, but, still...they cared...he felt all warm and fuzzy inside. And now a bit tingly. He extracted the little bottle and set is aside from the others. The bottles were pretty.

Undressing with the clumsy motions of the mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted, mind deliciously blank for the first time in days, Harry crawled beneath the covers, resisting a purr, and burrowed beneath the pillows. Busy day indeed.

In the dark quiet of the room, the scratching sound of Teyen's scales coiling up the bedpost and her hissed expletives were particularly loud.

Date: 19^th June 1995
Location: 12 Grimmauld Place, London
Time: 7:22pm.

Prodding the table with the tine of the fork, Bill Weasley heaved a tired sigh, fixed his gaze on the ceiling, and contemplated the myriad of things he could be doing rather than sitting here, in the gloomy kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

For one, he could be unpacking. Despite what his mother seemingly believed, transferring from Egypt to London required more than just a pack of clothes and his wand. He had had an entire life back there; friends, keepsakes; heck, he'd been in his own apartment for long enough to loose about twenty galleons and six knuts in the back of draws and beneath the futon bed. So, in moving, he had several trunks waiting to be sorted, one of which had to be handled by hand because it was full of priceless and ancient artifices that the goblins had gifted them under the pretence that they 'had ten already'. And then there were photos and clothes and...yeah. Point was, he could be unpacking.

Furthermore, despite incorrect assumptions, Bill Weasley did not like the rain. There was a reason he had requested a posting in a desert, where it was almost always hot and not-rainy. Why anybody thought he enjoyed trecking around in wellingtons and umbrellas was beyond him. So, if not unpacking, Bill could very well be in discussion with his goblin handler, proposing a transfer to Bilboa, or sunny Barcelona. He was a powerful wizard. He could totally make an apparition jump over the Bay of Biscay and the Channel. Pepper-up potions existed for a reason.

And, if that fell through, Cursing Chancellor Constantine, a deliciously salacious romance novel, had recently been released. Frankly, he could care less if the Chancellor ever did succumb to passion, but there was a surprising amount of Curse-breaking know-how hidden between the pages. (A popular theory in the camps during a dig was that the 'Constantine' Chronicles were written by the infamous Curse-breaker Iván Engaño — a man that had buried his team alive in the ruins of El Dorado, simply so that the secret could never be shared. But, of course, this had never been proven).

But no. Instead of actually doing something productive, Bill was sat in the creepy confines of Grimmauld Place, on a chair with questionable stains and determinedly not touching the table with any part of his person because he was sure some of the divots had been gouged with bloody axes, doing nothing as he waited for the members of the Order to arrive for a meeting that was scheduled twenty minutes ago.

Rolling his head to the side and sighing, Bill watched the Twins harass Mundungus Fletcher; not that the rampant drunk was aware of it. He was passed out cold.

From his position, Bill could entertain himself by contemplating what it was his brothers were doing. After a series of poking with the end of a pencil, one would scribble something down in a notebook, while the other snapped a picture, and then swap tools and repeat the process.

He gave up trying to guess though, when George — he suspected — held up a glass jar over the man's mouth and Fred hexed Mundugus, making him burp, then hurriedly screwed the lid on.

"Should I ask?"

Identical looks of innocence were directed his way.

"What do you think, Fred? Think we can tell him?"

"I don't know George. Reckon he'll explode like mum?"

"You mean, like mum will, not mum did?"

"Oh, yes, quite, if mum did, we'd not have a roof over our heads."

"Not that there is much of one, mind, considering the leaks."

"That's true, though I suppose, if someone were let in on the know—"

"Bill here would be the safest bet. Exactly what I was thinking."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Practice for the partnership."

"Ah."

"So," Bill raised an eyebrow, the effect rather cool with the fang earring and long red hair. "Are you going to tell?"

Fred and George circled the table, slouching down into seats on either side of their brother and fixing him with a serious look. "Before we do," George began.

"You have to swear not to tell anyone—"

"Ever—"

"Without our permission—"

"And even then—"

"Deal?"

"Are we talking wizard swear or just a shake on it?"

""Swear.""

"Alright," Bill could admit, he was curious now. He raised his hand. "I, William Billius Weasley, do so swear that I will not speak about, mention, reveal, nor hint at anything which George Fabian Weasley and Fred Gideon Weasley tell me in confidence. So mote it be."

""So mote it be.""

"Well, it goes like this: you know what we were working on—"

"When you came last summer for the World Cup?"

Bill frowned briefly. "The, er, plans for the prank store, right?"

"Ah, they're not just plans anymore—"

"We have found ourselves a benefactor."

"Seriously?" Bill exclaimed, leaning forward in interest. Don't get him wrong: he had always encouraged the twins to follow their own path, but he had never expected somebody else to assist them. "Who?"

"Dear sweet Harrikins, that's who."

"Who?"

George rolled his eyes at Fred. "Harry Potter."

Bill gaped. He'd heard the stories Ron told, of course, and met the kid briefly last summer, but he hadn't realised that the Boy-Who-Lived was on friendly terms with most of his siblings, mainly because, from the way Ron spoke about it, Harry only interacted with him and a muggleborn girl at Hogwarts. "How did that happen?"

"Well, it went like this: Harry's name get's put in the Goblet of Fire—"

"Dear Ronnikins and the rest of the school abandon him—"

"We, seeing an opportunity, starting making betting pools—

"And Harrikins, when he hears about them, obviously asks why—"

"We would do such a thing, so then we tell him about our—"

"Lovely little aspiration of manufacturing pranking products for the—"

"Generally uninspired, Harrikins then wins the Torunament—"

"And, angsty story short, gives us the winnings and calls it even."

"Even for what?"

Fred and George again exchanged looks. Then Fred sighed, scratching at the table. "We — that is George and I—"

"Send him parcels by owl over the summer—"

"Mostly foods and stuff, but sometimes clothes—"

"And books, when he goes too long without sending letters—"

"We saw him in the changing rooms after his first quidditch game—"

"Cleary, he didn't know we were there, because we've watched him—"

"When he's stayed at the Burrow; either changes in the bathroom—"

"Or locks the door to the bedroom. Anyway, we saw him without—"

"His shirt on and, just..." Both Fred and George paled in the face of the memory, freckles stark against their skin and normally mischievous cerulean gaze shadowed.

Fred swallowed, unable to speak, and nodded gratefully when George continued, in a hushed whisper, leaning in close even though the dining room was empty apart from three Weasley's and a drunken sod. "His...he was just...his back was covered in scars. We've seen some of the muggle history books and his back looked like it came straight out of example of excess flogging during the medieval period."

"And we're pretty sure it gets worse."

"He's always been thin, unhealthily so—"

"But, last year, on the train—"

"When we tried to heal him up a bit—"

"There were bruises on his hips that shouldn't have been there."

"And this summer, none of our letters—"

"Are getting through, keep returning unopened."

Bill blew out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. The image that was forming in his mind of the private life of the saviour was...indescribably disturbing. Brows furrowed, he tapped the fork on the table-top. "Who else knows about this?"

The twins scoffed, faces twisting up in disgust. "Who do you think?" Fred demanded, with George mockingly following with, "Harry ends up in the infirmary every few weeks. It's Madam Pomphrey's responsibility to assess the health of all students."

"There's no way she can't have not known. Therefore, somebody has stopped her from doing anything."

Bill was not liking where this was head. "Surely, Dumbledore wouldn't..."

"Dumbledore would, Bill, that's the problem."

"You've not been here for the last few meetings —"

"All he and everybody else in this Order see Harry as —"

"Is a weapon. Not a child. Not a person."

"A weapon," Bill finished. He ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't anything like what mum and dad said the Order was like, back in the day."

"Things change, Bill—"

"And you have to either change with them or hope—"

"To Godric—"

"That you aren't caught in the middle."

Bill borrowed his eyes, glancing between the two. "What do you mean by that?"

"Let's just say—"

"That everybody's Saviour—"

"Isn't as Light as he 'should' be."

Bill was unable to comment further upon these revelations as the kitchen suddenly began to fill with harried-looking Order members, some having just arrived, and others, like their parents, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, coming from upstairs, having abandoned whatever they had been involved with. Other members, though, such as Kingsley, Tonks and Mad-Eye were noticeably absent. He did not miss the identical glares directed towards Black and Lupin before Fred and George turned away from the newcomers completely, swapping chairs until they were sat next to each other, heads almost touching as they muttered under their breath and chatter filled up the quiet.

He didn't know what to think. There was no doubt that his brothers truly had observed all those things. It was just...he had been raised on tales of Dumbledore's benevolence, of how he defeated Grindelwald and instigated a new era of equality for magic-kind before Voldemort's sickened stain swept of over England in a reign of terror the likes of which had never before been seen on these shores. Was the Order not what it appeared? Or had Dumbledore become so enamoured with power, he had deceived them all?

Speak of the devil...

The fireplace flared, spitting out figures that were arguing loudly, notes of desperation in their voices. Immediately, all those around the table quietened in order to hear what the delay had been.

"For the last time Albus," Snape was spitting, gripping his left forearm as if to emphasis his point. "The Dark Lord has not called a meeting."

Dumbledore raised his hands beseechingly, and all those in attendance could see the thick patches of soot that clung to the hem of his robes. "I do believe you, Severus. All I am saying is that perhaps —"

"No Albus, what you are implying is that I can no longer be trusted. What happened? One too many lemon drops, perhaps?"

Dumbledore made to reply, moving aside as Mad-Eye clunked past, headed for a chair, yet was unable to do so, as Sirius butted in. "What's going on?"

Snape sneered, sending a look of deep loathing towards the man. "What's going on, Black, is that your precious godson is missing, his house is naught but ashes and our esteemed Headmaster is doubting my sincerest inclination to voluntarily deal with the likes of you."

Albus gazed sadly at his former pupil. "Was that really necessary, my boy?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY GODSON IS MISSING?!"

"Yes, Albus, it was. Beating around the bush would have brought us nowhere. And clearly, mutt, I overestimated you, when I assumed that the term 'missing' was self-explanatory to any with an existing measure of intelligence. When I say Potter is missing, I mean that, when sought for, his person cannot be found. In layman's terms, he is either dead, dying, kidnapped, lost or, if none of those are the case, does not want to be found."

Only Fred and George remained silent, rigidly stuck in their seats as everybody else descend into uproar. Sirius had jumped out of his seat, the chair clattering to the ground as he slammed his hand down on the table and began yelling at Snape, who verbally lacerated the escaped convict as Tonks became the focus of several people, inundating her with questions she could not hear and could not answer, while Molly paled and clutched her tea-rag, Arthur ashen as he patted his wife's hand, and turned to Dumbledore for an explanation.

None of them, Bill noticed, asked about Harry himself.

Eventually, the noise became too much. Casting a sonorous, Dumbledore grandly bellowed, "SILENCE!"

The noise tapered off, fading to a mutinous hum that promised chaos should answers not be given. Dumbledore smiled gently, taking a seat and lacing his fingers together in a pose that spoke of wisdom and contemplation.

He lifted a bushy eyebrow, then said, "Now, Severus, as you were so kind as to set us upon this path, would you care to explain, or shall I?"

Scowling, Snape wrapped his robes around himself, hooked nose casting a sharp shadows across his face. "While I do so enjoy tormenting the intellectually challenged, Albus, I do not intend to waste my Monday evening swapping well-wishes and conjecture."

"Very well," Albus sighed heavily. Looking over his loyal people, mouth grave, it was with a heavy heart that he began. "As you all know, Harry spends his summer with his muggle relatives. Several hours ago, some of the instruments I have attuned to his well-being were alerted to a severe damage of his residence. I arrived at the scene alongside several muggle law-enforcement officials, whom cordoned off the site until an investigation had been completed."

Evidently, nobody paid attention to when Snape mentioned that the house was now in ashes, as the first questions were focussed on why the muggles would be conducting investigations.

"It would seem that the house burned down."

That shut everybody up.

Remus was the first to speak. "Burned down, how, Albus? Are we talking about a natural accident or foul-play?"

Mad-Eye, Bill noted, had pursued his lips together tightly, magical eye zipping between faces while his normal eye remained fixed on the table, a vicious twist to his lips. Something was going on there, but the man was paranoid to high Avalon. No amount of questioning would get it out of him.

"We suspect foul-play."

Snape scoffed, shaking his head at the old coots penchant for shallow reassurances.

Black glared at the dour Potion's Master. "Something to say, Snivellus?" He demanded. Then his thin frame perked up and he bent over the table, shirt falling open far enough to reveal the tattoos decorating his chest, and he smirked. "Or has a werewolf got your tongue?"

Lupin smacked his chest, a low utterance of his name the only warning.

Snape bit his tongue; not because he desired to not trade insults but rather because, having spent several hours standing around, he was in no mood to interact with — how best to describe these...? — people. "I have many things to say Black, few of which I would expect you to understand. However, that is beside the point. The foul-play, as Albus so delicately put it, involves one very dark curse and two words. Any guesses?"

Black, along with a few others paled, many mouthing the incantation of the Killing Curse. Bill watched for a moment, before rolling his eyes. "Fiendfyre."

"Ah, I see those present are not complete twits. Thank you, Mister Weasley, for demonstrating to those who seem unable to grasps the concept of 'higher beings'."

Bill absently nodded at Snape's praise, too focussed on the way that, at the mention of fire, the twins had, curiously enough, relaxed some, though they were still tense. Bill was not the only one keeping an eye on the twins, though. Alastor, gripped by the seeping certainty that things just...didn't add up, had looked up from the table, narrowed eye landing on the pair that were slipping under the radar as unofficial members of the Order. The twins know something, for sure. What, though, he knew not. And, with the way Albus was acting, Alastor decided to corner them later. He may not have met the Potter boy apart from a brief glance when he was found in Crouch's trunk, but of what he had seen, he could see the boy wasn't well. Much too thin and much too small for his liking.

Fred and George, meanwhile, oblivious to their observers, looked at each other and saw the truth in the optic reflections. For a moment, they had worried. Aware of the wards they had helped Harry identify on the house, they had worried that Harry had been trapped inside the house, burned alive by a muggle gas explosion. The identification of the usage of dark magic and a fire curse was a weight lifted off them. During one of the times they had proposed escape plans to the boy, Harry had smiled, a secret in his eyes as he bit into a chocolate frog, chewing before murmuring, 'I'll burn them down with fire first'.

"It must have been Death Eaters," Sirius declared confidently, glaring suspiciously at Snape.

Snape rolled his eyes and mentally recounted all the potions he could use to kill the mutt. Would he go for obvious and fast working, or subtle and slow acting? Options, options.

Dumbledore's eye twitched. Really. What was the point of being a powerful and respected wizard if people constantly spoke over you? Not all of those hours standing around waiting for the muggle police to allow them entry had been wasted. He'd had a speech planned, carefully designed to tug the heartstrings and activate the tear-ducts; now ruined because of their impatience.

He could not conceive how his day could get any worse.

First, his lemon sherbets ran out and he discovered that he had forgotten to refill his emergency stores.

Next, the Elder wand goes missing. No, no. It was merely misplaced. But that did not negate the fact that it could be anywhere right now and anybody could be touching it. He shivered. A dark wizard could be touching it. He would need to disinfect it when he found it.

And to top it off, the piece de resistance to the outhouse deposit of his day, Number 4 Privet Drive burns down and his pawn, er — a suspicious glance ensured no one caught that — his Gryffindor Saviour is nowhere to be found. Which was troublesome indeed, fore he had had plans for the boy, first of which was avoiding eye contact, then encouraging general alienation, and perhaps popping in for tea with Dolores.

His itinerary required editing. Sigh.

"We must face the reality that an attack from Voldemort —" Snape hissed in pain as flinches rolled around "— is possible. Unlikely, given the absence of the Dark Mark, but possible nonetheless. However, that does not account for Harry's absence."

...

"Do you think something chased him off?" Hestia Jones proposed.

"Maybe he's staying with some muggle friends, and this is simply a misunderstanding?"

Kingsley leaned forward. "That does seem likely, Albus. You called us," he gestured between himself and Tonks, "to survey the sight for magical residue. And Mad-Eye to see if he could identify any we found, but there was nothing. The fiendfyre curse is classified as an overcast dark curse, because the magical damage it does to surrounding areas completely obliterates evidence of the caster. Whoever did it didn't hang around. It was an in and out deal. They wouldn't have checked to see if the boy was home or not. If Potter was visiting friends..." he trailed off, the conclusion self-evident. If Potter wasn't home, he wouldn't have known.

Sirius was shaking his head, scoffing. "That's no possible. He doesn't have any friends."

Tonks frowned, crossing her arms. Family was a big deal to her, but she didn't particularly like her cousin. "What do you mean, 'he doesn't have any friends'? He's grown up in the area. He can't have spent almost thirteen years in one place and not have made friends."

Sirius shifted, sensing that he had said too much. Fred, disgusted, fingers digging harshly into the wood, spoke up, feeling George's hand grip his knee. "They don't like him there."

Heads turned between Black and the Weasley Twins.

"How's that?"

"They don't like him there—"

"They call him 'freak'—" there were sharp intakes of breath.

"Most of the muggles don't even know Harry by name—" many of them gasped.

"And he's the target of the local muggle gangs."

Questioning faces turned towards Dumbledore. His expression remained serene, but inside he was snarling. He had never imagined that the boy would tell people about his home situation. What else had he told? And who? The youngest Weasley boy and the Granger girl would have told him if they had heard anything.

He spread his hands placatingly, genial smile upon his wrinkled lips. "My dear boys, I know how deeply you care for your friends, but it is wrong to exaggerate, surely...

Fred and George stopped listening, minds grinding to a disbelieving halt. Not that their headmaster had insinuated that they were liars; for reasons unknown, many people believed that they were deceitful, including their parents, but to lie over abuse...that was too far.

"Exaggerate?" George whispered softly. Only those near to them heard the word, but those that did shuddered at the ice that settled along their spines.

The sound of a chair scrapping against the flagstone as it was pushed outwards and George settled his palms on the table, standing. "You think we would EXAGGERATE!" Order members flinched as he shouted.

Molly fixed him with a glare. "Where are your manners, young man?!"

Fred stood up beside his brother with a sneer. "Probably in the same place you lot—"

"Have shoved your common sense and decency!"

"We have listened for years," Fred spat.

"Listening to him," George pointed an accusing finger at Dumbledore.

"As he sung praises about how well a bunch of filthy—"

"Muggles raised the Boy-Who-Lived."

"But what does he do at the mention of abuse?"

"He brushes it aside like it's nothing!"

"Like it's nothing that Harry thought a beating was appropriate punishment—"

"Likes it's nothing that Harry thought growing up in a cupboard was normal—"

Identical glares, weighed down with an indescribable disgust rested on Dumbledore. "You," George hissed, "are just as guilty as they are."

"We know Harry has told you what they're like."

"We know you know exactly what his Uncle does to him."

"And you call yourself a Headmaster."

""How can we expect the likes of you to stand up against You-Know-Who when you're more corrupt than He is?""

In the corner, unnoticed by all, Kreacher's eyes widened.

Fred and George were breathing hard, none knew what to say. Finally, Molly found her voice. "You will both apologise. Right now. And leave. I'll talk to you about your behaviour later."

Fred shook his head. "No."

Molly glared. "Now, George."

"MY NAME IS FRED!" He screamed. He thrust a finger at his brother. "HE IS GEORGE! You of all people should be able to tell the difference!"

George wrapped his arms around him and began dragging him to the door, whispering in his ear. Fred nodded jerkily, allowing himself to be lead away. Neither looked back, disappearing up the stairs.

Tonks swallowed, eyeing the taken-aback expressions. "Is that true, professor?"

"Of course not," Dumbledore answered readily. "The dear boys are mistaken. I have it on good authority that Harry's relatives are lovely people, and care a great deal about him."

"Then what was all that about cupboards and beatings? That does not sound like care to me," Jones put in.

Scoffing, Sirius reclined in his chair. "Please. Harry likes to tell stories. Got a real knack for them. And harsh discipline is good for rearing, everybody knows that."

"Are you serious?"

Black chuckled at the pun. "Yes, yes I am."

"That is not what I meant," Tonks snarled, pushing away from the table. "I refuse to sit hear and listen to this. I have work. Dumbledore," she couldn't even look at him, implications sickening as they swirled through her mind. "I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future."

The assembled sat, stunned, as the Auror rounded the table, taking the long way to avoid moving any closer to Dumbledore than necessary. Moody's electric-blue eye swivelled around.

"Take care of yourself, girlie."

"I will, Moody, you to."

With that, she made her leave, nodding respectfully at Great Aunt Walburga when her curtains ripped open, a move which abruptly silenced the portrait. She even managed to avoid the troll-leg umbrella stand, although her sleeve did get caught on the coat rack, and pulled that down behind her.

Order members sat in shell-shocked silence.

In his corner, safe behind his Occlumency shields, Snape felt the first stirrings of doubt as he recalled his past interactions with the Potter brat, analysing them in a new light. It was true that the boy had been awfully small compared to the other first years, stood as he was in the hall and swamped by the school robes. And he continuously came across as flighty at the beginning of the year. Could he have been mistaken? Dumbledore had always assured him the brat was spoiled, knowing that Snape had to consciously keep his end of the Vow he had made for Lily.

"It is sad to see some are so self-absorbed they refuse to give aid to those who need it," Dumbledore mused. He dismissed the perplexed looks on the faces of his followers. "Moving on: it is imperative that we locate Harry. He is in grave danger with the return of Voldemort —" cue collective flinches, "— and I fear what sorts of trouble the poor boy may find himself in. I was informed before we returned that a squib, Arabella Fig, had seen Harry's relatives preparing to leave, she believes, for a holiday. We may hope that he is safe and well with his loving family, but nevertheless, he must be found. Molly, Arthur, I would appreciate it if you could speak to your children, ask them if they've heard from him. Perhaps send him a few letters."

"Oh, Albus, of course we will. The poor dear. Lord only knows what he's going through right now," Molly sniffed.

"Thank you. Severus, if Voldemort summons you, I ask to be informed immediately."

Oh how he hated being reminded that he was but a servant to a master. At least the Dark Lord had always made that very clear, refusing to give the illusion of autonomy.

"Hestia, my dear, you, Kingsley and Lupin shall keep an eye on Diagon Alley. I doubt Harry will go near Knockturn but, just in case, keep an eye on there too. William, there is the possibility that Harry will attempt to access his vault at Gringotts, so if you will..." Dumbledore trailed off, seeing the way Bill was shaking his head. "What is the problem with that? It is but a simple request, for Harry's sake."

"No," Bill raised his hands, shaking them. "I'm sorry, professor, but I can't. The goblins don't tolerate being spied on. If I get in the way of business, it will be my head on a pike."

"Surely, you jest."

"I don't," Bill said firmly. "I'm sorry, sir, but you are asking for the impossible. I transferred from Egypt to be closer to home and assist in the coming war. I did not transfer to betray a race of creatures I have great respect for nor commit a suicides endeavour. What happens in the hall's of Gringotts stays strictly inside Gringotts. I couldn't even tell you if I saw him, so I suggest you find something else for me to do."

Dumbledore sighed despondently, internally cursing those bloody gnats. "Very well. I shall contact you when I do."

The meeting concluded shortly after, the unaddressed members leaving with the instruction to continue on with previous tasks and to keep Harry's situation as hush-hush as possible. It would not do to have the Wizarding public in an uproar, just yet, supposedly. Dumbledore was quick to depart, deftly ignoring Black's whining over how useless being cooped up in Grimmauld was.

The man was, as always, ignored as Molly took over the kitchen to begin preparing a late dinner. Seeing his chance, Bill slipped out before he could be roped into further conversation with people he could barely stand. He climbed the stairs until he found Fred and George's room, knocked, then entered before any could see him.

Fred and George only briefly looked up from what they were doing; Fred was packing vials into straw lined crates while George systematically emptied out draws into separate trunks.

Bill leaned back against the door, arms crossed. "You leaving, then?"

Fred fitted the lid on the crate, gave it an experimental shake, then shrunk it and put it with a growing pile of shrunken objects. "What do you think?" He muttered.

George snorted. "She did tell us to."

"Granted, she probably didn't have this in mind—"

"But we're not going to stay here any longer."

"Where will you go?"

"Lee's got a spare room."

"He's already offered on more than one occasion—"

"It's just that this time, we'll be accepting."

"...Need help?"

"Thank you," George closed the trunks after Fred carefully packed away the shrunken items, "but no. We're done."

"Right." Bill scratched his jaw. "Well, look. If things don't work with Lee, owl me. I wouldn't mind having you guys to stay while you sort yourselves out."

""Will do.""

Bill sighed and asked what was bothering him. "You two didn't seem all that concerned about Harry downstairs."

"We aren't."

"Not overly."

"If his house burned down with fiendfyre—"

"It's likely he's the one that did it."

"I...see."

"Yeah."

"Do you need help getting to Jordan's?"

"Nah, we got it—"

"We've been apparating for years now, anyway—"

"Round trips to London and back every Hogsmeade weekend are good practice."

A smile twitched Bill's lips. "Of course you have. I'll be seeing you, then."

"Yeah, take care of yourself—"

"If you get attacked by a goblin—"

"Send us the pictures, why don't you?"

"And give you two pranking material?" Bill mused, narrowing his eyes. "It'll depend where the wound is."

""Fair enough.""

"Come. I'll walk you downstairs."

"Ah. Is brother dear—"

"Thinking he can kept the big baddies away?"

"So cute."

"So true."

"Alright alright. I haven't seen you guys in months. If I want to spend more time with you I can."

"Well, that makes one of you—"

"Everybody else can barely stand—"

"Us being in the same room."

"Who else is there?" Bill asked as they started down the stairs.

"Not many. Mainly it's just Ron —"

"Who's always playing chess with Lupin —"

"And Hermione Granger —"

"Ron's muggleborn friend —"

"And since she came here, she's been trying —"

"And failing —"

"To get into the Black Ancestral Library —"

"Even Black can't get her in —"

"Something about the house finding him offensive —"

""And let's just say, that girl can give mum a run for her money.""

Hand outstretched, Bill summoned his coat and shrugged it one while the twins took theirs off the fallen coat rack, checked it, swapped them, then pulled them on, doing up the buttons.

"What about little Ginny? I haven't seen her around."

"You won't have—"

"Got a harem of boys after her —"

"That one has, and an —"

"Unhealthy ambition to become the next —"

"Missus Potter."

Bill gaped. "She's only thirteen!"

""Yeah. Try telling her that.""

"Mum encourages it, of course —"

"And dad doesn't say anything."

Bidding each other goodbye — Bill, recalling how explosive Fred had gotten in the kitchen making sure to offer separate goodbyes, even though he suspected he mistook the two, though neither flagged him on it — the three Weasley's brothers disappeared on the footsteps of 12 Grimmauld Place, only a few minutes ahead of their mother starting up the stairs, yelling for them to come down.

"My Lord," Snape spoke, kneeling before the cloaked figure. There was a poignant irony that allowed him to believe that for the first time since the Dark Lord's rebirth, he had been summoned.

"Tell me, Severus," was it his imagination, or did the man's voice sound less...hissy? "What news have you for me?"

Resisting the urge to shift his position —the floor was unbearably cold and he was no twenty year old anymore — Snape debated his best course of action. The Order meeting had ended but he had lingered, thoughts heavy and dark eyes watching. How he would have liked to peruse through those unprotected minds; it was unfortunate that Albus had let slip seven years ago his mastery in Legillimency. So he had made do. And while limited, the spying charm on William Weasley had revealed enough to give food to thought.

"Harry Potter is missing."

There was a sharp intake of breath. An exorbitant reaction, judging by past experience. "You're thoughts are busy, Severus."

Quite pointedly not swallowing, Snape mentally cursed; he'd forgotten how eery that particular habit of the Dark Lord's was. He took a chance, knowing this would not end well if delayed too long. "My Lord, if I may be so bold..."

There was a noncommittal hum, then, "You may."

"I believe there may be potential to convince Harry Potter to join your cause."

He couldn't see it, of course, but Voldemort had raised an eyebrow, lips quirking up in astonishment. When he had summoned Snape so as to keep an eye on the old coot and his merry band of morons, he had not thought that Harry's disappearance would be found out so quickly. He had anticipated at least a week. And now his Potion's Master was proposing an idea he would have previously found ludicrous.

"And what makes you say that?"

"I believe he burned down his house, my Lord."

Voldemort paused. Of all the things his wraith could have done...

He lost the fight against the burgeoning amusem*nt, because, really, he should have expected something like this.

And he threw his head back and laughed.

Still kneeling, Severus Snape freely shuddered and wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Chapter 11: 11

Chapter Text

Date: 21^th June 1995
Location: Room 2319, Gringotts Hotel, Prullariumplein, Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Humming along to the radio he had discovered packed away in the side-table drawer, Harry eyed the various portfolios he had scattered about his person. It had been two days since he had received them from Gornuk, two days since he had left behind Britain and Floo'ed to Amsterdam. During that time, he had done many important things. Like sleeping for a solid eighteen hours. And eating. And keeping up with his potions regime.

As he said, very important.

The time spent 'recuperating' had done wonders for his physical state, though. His magic was no longer fussing at sporadic and unreliable moments, now coiled up neatly around his core and calm. His muscles, he would swear, had never been so relaxed, there was no lingering pain that plagued his every move. Hell, the only thing he had to complain about was an obscure pinching in his lower stomach, but he amounted that to the nutrition and restructuring potions.

He was in heaven, plain and simple.

But even the heavenly became restless so, in attempts to appease both his need to do something and general disinclination to leave the hotel room just yet, Harry had settled for going through his accounts.

The morning after his first night here, he had pulled out that stationary, brandished a pen, and wrote out an overdue missive to Marvolo that described, in great detail, his interaction with the goblins — though he gave no names, as per the goblins request — and how it felt to burn down Privet Drive. Signing the letter to 'Lord Voldemort' — and wasn't that just peculiar? — Harry had slid it into the labelled slot in the desk, feeling the faint thrum of magic as it disappeared off to wherever the Gringotts Owlery was.

It was disquieting, when he thought about it, but it still felt nice to know that one person was waiting to hear if he was safe. If he was well.

With that done, Harry was able to cross that off his list and wait for a reply.

So now here he was, sat cross legged on the bed, Teyen around his shoulders, cinnamon-topped hot-chocolate in hand —because he could — trying to decide where to start.

The song came to an end, the channel host continuing in a language Harry didn't understand, but an English speak-over soon thanked the 'Echoed Sirens' for their latest release.

Ooh, so that's who they were. They sounded nice. Better than the Weird Sisters, at least. They screamed a lot.

...He was procrastinating.

Sighing, Harry reached for the Peverell Portfolio, then hesitated and instead reached for the Potter one, before hesitating again.

§Choosse one already,§ Teyen hissed, annoyed at the jostling.

§For Merlin's sake I will, alright,§ Harry snapped, snatching one at random on a trigger reflex. His familiar's hissy chuckles were overly self-satisfied as she settled her head on his shoulder. Opening the folder, Harry groaned. He'd picked up the one for Black. The one he had been avoiding because the very name brought a sour taste to his mouth.

f*cking wonderful.

At least, if he got this over with first, better things awaited him.

The contents sheet was as to be expected, providing a clear delineation of Vaults, Properties, Holdings, Shares, Political Paraphernalia, and Familial Contracts.

Figuring he'd best start at the beginning, Harry selected Vaults, feeling the magic take effect and the accompanied pages shifting beneath his fingertips as he flipped over the contents page. He read through the vault listings, seeing which one belonged to who and what it contained and so on. Most of it registered as gibberish, seeing as Harry had either no experience with, or no interest for, fine arts and expensive jewellery. What he could conclude, however, was that the Blacks were incredibly well off. So well off, in fact, that he reckoned they gave the Malfoy's a run for their money.

His hand drifted to the chain around his neck, playing with the Lordship rings he had hung there. They were beautiful, enchanting in their simplicity, but by Merlin; wearing them all the time was bloody annoying. Seeking to rectify the annoyance, Harry had pulled out 'Charms For the Traveller That the Traveller Will Always Forget',' because this seemed like a commonplace issue, and paged through until, through the sensible application of the author, he come across a chapter that was devoted to working through the steps of transfiguring and enchanting sickles into wearable chains. Perfect for hanging miniaturised possessions off of.

He'd read the instructions — nodding along when it explained why using goblin-crafted silver coinage was best for the transmutative properties of the transfiguration — performed the spells, enchanted for permanence and offensively charmed to remain on his person, and was soon slotting the irksome rings onto a chain that cost him five sickles plus labour.

And if, perhaps, Harry had taken to wearing the chain at all times, the fact that it meant Marvolo's horcux rested near his heart was pure coincidence.

Returning to the Contents page, Harry next selected Properties. The results were surprising. Seeing how many Black properties were in Russia made him wonder how large the Black family was. A lot of Pureblood families were dying out, he knew, but he'd never given much thought to international branches. Which seemed shortsighted. Until he considered what he knew of the marriages between families over the last century. And realised they were all between wizards hailing from the British Isles. And maybe France.

When he considered that, it did seem rather far-fetched that family would exist overseas.

As the categorisation was by age, it took a while to reach properties in England. He frowned when he did, bringing the page close to ensure he was not mistaken.

A number 12 Grimmauld Place, in a suburb he'd never personally been to but heard was quite well-to-do was listed with the parenthesis of Order of the Phoenix Headquarters. Inhabitants currently amounted to eight people and one house-elf.

It took a second to sink in that the house-elf was listed as property. This realisation was not pleasing.

What most trouble him about this property, however, was the fact that printed next to it, in unmistakable capitalisations, was UNWARRANTED INHABITANCE.

Thumbing through the pages, muttering under his breath about the nuisance of terms he didn't know, he stopped on a page that looked promising. Finger trailing down he paragraphs, Harry located 'Unwarranted Inhabitance', read through it, and then read it again.

'Originating through the opening and usage of a property without the consent of the either a) the original owner, or b) the House Head, Unwarranted Inhabitance of a property is heretofore considered illegal and can be subsisted as unlawful appropriation. As by the Proprietorship Acts Amendment of 1921, Section 5 subsection c, the unwarranted inhabitance of a familial property was created to prevent what was previously considered lawful breaking and entering. Under the ordinance, trespass upon property without consent can be upheld in a court of law, thereby circumventing the grey zone of legality, wherein property owners frequently found themselves answerable for damages done by wronged familial members that gained access to said property via blood relation.'

Uh...huh.

Yep, just as convoluted as the first time he read it.

He dropped the portfolio, rubbing the bridge of his nose. From what he understood, unwarranted inhabitance only applied to properties opened by a blood member of the family. Now, obviously, this could get a good deal more complicated but, and he was working with a narrow field of knowledge here, the only living members of the Black family were Narcissa, Bellatrix and Si—

Oh, he was an idiot. Sirius Black. That man would have known where all of the properties were and — he double checked — yep, the place was in London.

He'd known when he'd seen the animagus in Diagon that he must have succeed in squirrelling himself away.

But, that only accounted for one person. Leaving another seven. And whoever the Order of the Phoenix were. Weasley and Granger had been with Black and Lupin in Diagon, along with Molly. Perhaps they were also staying there.

If that were so, and considering the offical sounding nature of the name, along with a questionable scooping of Coot-Glorification, Harry concluded that people he no longer liked nor wanted anything to do with, were now living in one of his properties.

A devious smirk twisted his lips and it was only Teyen's grumbling that prevented him from rubbing his hands together.

He could use this.

For what he had in mind, he would need a spy. A spy the likes of which could not be rivalled by any of human background.

And that's where the house-elf came in.

Ohh, this was going to be brilliant.

Following the asterisks beside the creatures designation down to the summoning instructions, Harry removed Teyen, laying her gently on the bed — history having taught to to be prepared for rapid and unfortunate movements when it came to house-elves — and cleared his throat.

"House-elf of number 12 Grimmauld Place, London."

There was an expectant pause during which nothing happened. Confused, wary eyes cautiously peered over the side of bed, just in case the creature decided to creep up on him. He had heard enough of Dudley's horror movies, thank you very much. Nibbling his lip, then realising what he was doing and substituting the poor flesh for the cream off the hot-chocolate, Harry slumped with a dejected sigh. Now how was he going to —

Harry could easily admit that he shrieked. Scrambling back on the bed, hand clutching his chest, eyes unnaturally bright in alarm, thanking Merlin for containment charms otherwise his drink would have been everywhere...

He stared at the creature as he overcame his shock. The house-elf sneered. Harry frowned and took in its miserable state. Overly-worn pillowcase that was so old, it was literally rotting where it hung. Grey fluff that looked more akin to wiring found in dump-heaps sticking out of wrinkled and pockmarked ears. Leathery flesh hanging in greying folds on a much to skinny frame.

The image was lacklustre, frankly. And left much to be desired. Harry would have to fix this.

"Hello."

There. Safe start. The following response would give him a hint on how best to proceed. If it burst into tears and insisted that horrific happenings were for his own good, he would have another Dobby on his hands. If not...he would not have the experience to work off.

"Filthy mud-blood callings for Kreacher. Dirtying noble house of Blacks! Oh, what's woulds Mistress say!" The creature promptly began muttering darkly, tugging its ears and ending with a wail.

"Well," Harry mused. "That was rude."

The elf angled away, glaring at the bedpost. "Listen to filthy, foul mudblood, speakings as though it knows manners."

Harry was quickly getting the picture. The house-elf was a fanatic, despised his kind, thought him a stain upon the family, blah blah blah. What was it with these things? Honestly. How could Purebloods find this appealing?

He let the creature continue for a while, hoping that it would eventually run out of steam. Unfortunately, this seemed to have the adverse effect of giving the elf more material to systematically debase. It was impressive, almost. Or would have been, if he had not been on the receiving end.

"That is enough."

With an indignant, if not surprised, expression, the elf snapped its mouth shut. Harry counted this a success. And accredited it to the magic of being a Lord.

"Thank you." The scowl deepened. Harry twitched. Why oh why did he have to find this adorable? "Now, let's set a few things straight. Firstly, I am not a mudblood. I am a halfblood. Nod if you understand this." Sage eyeing the jerky dip of the head, Harry distractedly wandered how a move could be so insulting. It simply oozed derisive undertones. "Okay, good. Also, the term is muggleborn, not mudblood. So if you could desist ruining the noble image of Greatness the House of Black must uphold, I would appreciate it."

Hook.

"After all," Harry continued, casually shrugging as though it were not a big deal. "You are a member of the Black Family, aren't you? Your behaviour reflects poorly on all of us. I would...hate, to have to go through the trouble of finding another house-elf simply because I found you unsuitable."

Line.

He felt a bit bad, seeing the tears welling up in the corner of those overly-large bloodshot orbs. But he crushed that feeling and soldiered on. "You have shown a commendable amount of loyalty to the family, however, so, here's the deal: I don't want to hear any more spewing of insults unless I specifically say so. It's rude. And uncivilised," he briefly scrunched his nose up. "In return, you will stay on as the Head House-elf of the Black family in England and not be given a sock. Sound good?"

The elf appraised him with a speculative gaze.

Harry presumed the delay in answering was the result of shock, perhaps awe. Otherwise, Harry would have to contemplate the likelihood that he was being silently insulted seven ways to Salem, and that was just a mood killer.

Finally, the elf nodded, ears flapping. "I's be's agreeing."

Sinker. He repressed the urge to cackle. That could come later.

Harry beamed, shifting excitably onto his knees. "Lovely. What's your name?"

"...I's be Kreacher."

"Well, Kreacher, I am Rian Peverell." Kreacher eyes bugged out of his sockets. Harry held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Kreacher eyed the appendage disbelievingly. Then, shuffling forward, warily wrapped his own hand around it. Smiling, Harry shook firmly. Kreacher took a hurried step back when he was released — but that was fine. Harry would work on him in stages. And slowly. So that he didn't realise what was happening until it was too late...that sounded horrifically insidious.

Clearly, Kreacher had opted for the silent approach, busy sussing out the human.

"I do have some things I want to ask you, but before I do, I'm just going to set out some groundworks. Firstly," Harry ticked off with his hand, "there will be no self-punishment. At all. I'm not sure what I will do if I see you punishing yourself, but I promise it won't be pleasant. I might make you list all the nice things about muggles, for instance. Got it?"

"How will's I's be's knowing if I's be's disorderly?"

"If something's wrong, I'll tell you. If I don't think something is wrong, but you do, then you can tell me. In short, Kreacher, I don't want anybody I know to be hurt for no good reason. I know you now, so that applies to you, too. Secondly, from hereon-out, you will answer to, listen to and obey only me. Nobody else," Harry stressed, "is allowed to order you about. That means no listening to whoever is in Grimmauld Place."

Was that the slightest beginning of joy on Kreacher's face, or was Harry over-analysing?

"Lastly, and remember Kreacher, these are groundworks, so we might gain some and we might lose some but these three rules are standard, 'kay? I want you to get some clothes and —"

Okay. There were obviously better ways he could have phrased that, seeing how the elf, newly restricted as he was, appeared to have an apoplectic fit where he stood, jaw grinding back against the insults and fingers violently twitching to go grab something whackable.

"Wait wait wait! I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. Let me rephrase that. Kreacher, what I want is for you to buy a uniform befitting your role as servant of the Black House. I will give you the money, and then all you have to do is find something to where in the Black Family Colours," of a delightfully sharp silver and, surprise surprise, black. Apparently senses of humour was severely restricted in the Wizarding world, because whomever designed the Black Banners had really had an opportunity to screw with people's minds by making it purple or such. But no. They settled for plain and predictable. "The only stipulation I have is that it must be clean and neat."

Kreacher fiddled with the, well. Harry supposed it had been, once, the hem of the pillowcase currently being worn. He fixed Harry with a shrewd look, as though the following minutes would make or break their relationship. "Could's I's be's making mine's own uniform?"

Harry grinned happily. He was making progress! "If you can sew, by all means, sew away."

"Then' I's be's making mines own."

"Out of curiosity, where would you find fabrics?"

Kreacher appeared stumped. But then he brightened. As much as he poor thing could brighten. "I's be's scouting first."

Harry nodded, glancing out the window. It was a few hours before noon, and, much like the soft morning light struck the shingled tiles of visible buildings, an idea struck him. "We're currently in Amsterdam, so you know. I'm going out later to look around. You can come along, if you like." He wouldn't mind the company, either.

"...Master be's wanting's strange things."

He would not pout. "Oh, none of that master business, either. Call me Harry."

And he winced; what a stupid slip of the tongue.

Once again, Kreacher's eyes bugged. Tentatively, as though fearing retribution, Kreacher asked, "Would's youse be's Harry Potter then?"

"Yes," Harry sighed, shooting a dirty look at the coverlet as though it were at fault. "Look, my name was Harry Potter but I've changed it now. Which I can do. It's allowed. I am legally a Peverell, and also a Black, so I am now Rian Peverell. Officially." He then continued in a monotone, "For what to call me, you can call me Harry, Hadrian, Rian or Peverell. Take your pick."

Making a small, astonished sound, Kreacher considered. "I's be's calling's youse Master Peverell. Youse be's Lords Black but not Black. Youse be unlike any Master before. I's be's having question for Master Peverell."

Evidently, Harry was fighting a losing battle on the Master front. "Ask away."

"I's be's being's youse house-elf, yes?"

"Well," Brows furrowed slightly, Harry blinked. "I mean, technically, you belong to Grimmauld Place, which bonds you to me anyway. Why do you ask?"

"If I's be's being's bounds to house, I's not's being able to fulfil mines duties. If I's bonds to youse though, I's be's safer; I's cans leave house without youse calling."

New as he was to the political machinations that empowered his three Houses, Harry would not realise until later that he was, in effect, being swindled. By a house-elf. A house-elf that was very much aware of the — if somewhat decaying — power of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and how far down the ladder it sat in relation to the the Most Noble and Most Ancient Olde House of Peverell. A Black house-elf was to be respected. A Peverell house-elf was to be revered.

Oblivious to the schemings of the elf, Harry accepted this reasoning as fact. "Ah, well, I have no problems if you want to bond with me. If you bond with me though, I will be paying you."

Kreacher's eye twitched, thin lips turning down. "Fine's," he grumbled. "I's be's agreeing."

"Thought you might," Harry smiled, legs shuffling to make room, then he patted the freed space. "Come here then. Might as well be comfortable, this may take a while."

Grumbling in reluctance, Kreacher hesitated then proceed to pull himself up onto the bed, grey flesh contrasting peculiarly with the ivory sheets. The elf paused when he spotted the Green Tree Python, holding still when the snake fixed slitted yellow eyes on his being, flicked her tongue, and slithered beneath the pillow in order to drown out the conversation that was moving closer to her.

For a moment, Kreacher was unsure what to do with his legs, then he looked at his new Master, taking in how the human had crossed his legs, and mimicked the move, spindly long-fingered hands folded in his lap. Harry was relieved to find that the elf was wearing a loin-cloth beneath the pillow case. He was thankful to not have the mental scarring. On top of what he already had.

Harry held out his hand, palm up. In this position, when Kreacher wrapped his own hand once again around his, the fingers overlapped in circumference, and Harry could feel the tips of the nails pricking his skin.

"Right, erm." Harry bit his lip as a he realised he ha no idea what to do. Making magical vows with Marvolo was different; he had just gone with what felt right and done his best to not get tangled in loopholes and quibbles. This, on the other hand, was official. "How do we do this?"

Kreacher lifted an eyebrow. "Youse be's stating's youse name and youse families, then's mines name, then announce youse be's binding I's to youse person and youse Houses."

"That's it?"

"Youse be's wanting's more?"

Harry was rather tired of being the focus of those incredulous looks. He narrowed his eyes and huffed. "No, I do not want more. I, Rian Liri Peverell, Lord of the Families Potter, Black and Peverell, with the acceptance of Kreacher of the Black House, do bond with Kreacher and join him with my Houses of Potter, Black and Peverell."

"I's be agreeing to bonds with Master Peverell."

"So mote it be." The magic snapped into place, zinging up his arm. Harry shook out his hand, watching as the magic took effect; now that he was connected to him, Harry could see Kreacher's magic, and it wasn't what he had expected. His magic, although sickly, drooping languorously, was a rich bronze, flecked through with silver.

Harry blinked when it flared suddenly, feeling it brush up against his own, and focused back on the elf, in surprise. There was a healthy pallor to the grey folds now, the eyes a bit brighter and back less stopped. "That worked fast."

Kreacher, too, seemed taken aback, examining his hands, taking in the nails that were no longer cracked and chipped.

"Okay, first things first, what can you tell me about the people currently living in Grimmauld Place? Feel free to use as many insults as you like," Harry added, sipping his cooling hot-chocolate, which had miraculously survived business thus far.

Sneering, Kreacher abandoned his inspection and gripped his rags. "Filthy muddy-blood's—"...Harry should have seen that coming... "— in the noble house of Blacks, no good traitors spreadings his taint. Betray's families, he does. And the Weasel lady's be's takings over mines kitchen! Be's ordering hers brood to cleans up messes, takings things out of places, puttings in the attic or throwings away. No no no I's be sayings, but I's be ignored, so I's be —" Kreacher suddenly broke off, gulping as he realised who he was speaking to.

Harry waved away his worries, motioning for him to continue.

Hesitantly, in a conspiratorial hush, Kreacher revealed that, "I's be's stealings things back and hiding's them."

Harry sat back. There was an acidic burn in his chest, indignant that Missus Weasley would throw away his things — regardless of if she knew or not — and barely surprised that Black allowed this to happen. Mostly though, he was pissed off. After his childhood, he was territorial of things he considered his.

Running a hand through his hair, deep in thought, Harry flashed a reassuring smile at Kreacher. "I'm pleased with your actions, Kreacher. You did good." The elf relaxed, even if his eyes were still wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry could empathise. "Would you like something to drink?"

Kreacher looked around for a kitchen, halting when, for the first time, he saw out the window and realised how high up they were. "How's?"

"Ah, here," leaning over, Harry nabbed the Hotel Menu, handing it to the elf. "Look in there. If anything catches your fancy, just press it and it will appear over there, on the coffee table."

Kreacher peered at the menu, curious. Two minutes later, he was back on the bed, delicately sipping condensed milk out of a fragile china teacup. Harry took a moment to simply stare at the bizarre image before him, cup pressed against his lip. Then he cleared his throat.

"On a whole, how much are they getting rid of?"

"They'd be's leavings the furniture."

Harry internally scowled, glaring at nothing. "Is it possible for you to access the Black Vaults at Gringotts?"

"I's be's doing's thing's at Gringott's for Mistress before she's dies."

"How's this then: 816 is a relatively empty Vault, according to this," Harry tapped the portfolio. "From now on, everything they throw away, I want you to take it all to that vault, and then we can go through it together. Actually, on second thought, I want you to take everything valuable out of the house. You can leave the furniture, if you like, but take everything else. Although leave the paintings, they can be useful later on. And then we'll go through it, see if any thing is broken and what's worth keeping."

Kreacher twisted his fingers. "What's about mines things?"

"Whatever is yours stays yours. I'm not going to take your things away, Kreacher. Although, I would recommend that you ward your possessions to keep them safe."

"They's already be's protected."

"Good. Now, who, exactly is it that's living in the house?"

"There's be's blood-traitor Sirius Black," ticked of on a spindly hand, "wolf-man Remus Lupin, Weasels lady and Weasels man and two Weasels children's and a bushy muddy-blood. There's were's twinsies, and they's were nice to I's, but they'd be's leaving to stays with friends."

So. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Molly, Arthur, Ron, and Ginevra Weasley and Hermione Granger. He wondered what could have happened to make Fred and George leave. They'd probably gone to Lee Jordan's, but nonetheless. He hoped they were okay.

"And the others? How do they treat you?"

"Bushy muddy-blood keeps tryings to give I's beanies. The blood-traitor yells and...I's be's beings disciplined."

"What do you mean by that?" He didn't like the sound of this.

"He's be's liking 'corporal punishment'." Knobbly fingers made the quotation marks. Never let it be said that house-elves were not intelligent.

Harry bristled, a mixture of shock and fury. "He hurts you?" He rasped, clenching his fingers in the blanket to hide his shaking. He had thought, when Sirius first proposed living with him, that he would be safer than at the Dursley's. If this was how Sirius treated House-elves... "Are you hurt now? Do you need healing?"

Kreacher shook his head. "I's be's knowing healing salves."

"I don't want him hurting you anymore, okay?" Images of Dobby came to mind. "I know you are probably used to that kind of behaviour, but I won't accept it. Next time he tries, you are to protect yourself, understood?"

"I's be's understanding."

"How do you feel about revenge?" It was sudden, he knew, but he thought he'd throw it out here. Test the waters, so to speak.

"...There's be's laws sayings house-elves canst be hurtings people."

Harry smirked, green eyes alight with mischief. "That's not a no."

Kreacher shrugged. Actually shrugged! "There's be's loopholes."

"Perfect," the teenager purred, mind working over all of the possibilities.

With foundations dating back to its establishment in 1283, Prullariumplein is considered the seventh oldest longest-lasting European magical settlement. During a time when vessels of wood and canvas flew upon seas, the magical district was a source of safety and comfort, offering shelter from persecution and prohibition practiced by magical and non-magical alike.

Non-magical development of the channel's rings, along with the heightened influx of non-magical trading communities, soon made the once magical district an undesirable place to upkeep permanent residence. Histrionic reports reveal that, despite the hidden nature of their existence, increased exposure with non-magical objects in such close confines proved ill-fated, with several aspects of the magical world being revealed. In one such instance, Resfeber, a Swedish passenger ship that was in the process of relocating several species of magical creature from areas that had become uninhabitable with the expansion of non-magical empires, was speared by the prow of a non-magical cargo slash military vessel. Accounts are unclear as to how such a situation occurred, but what can be determined is that majority of the members aboard Resfeber were killed in the resulting fire whilst the non-magical's succeeded in capturing a mermaid specimen, upon which experimentations were supposedly conducted.

Today, Prullariumplein is Europes leading example of magical and non-magical co-existence. Upon cessation of the Second World War, the Humanitarian Integration Accords were signed by the IWC and UN (United Nations) Representatives, establishing this magical district as the fore-leading hot-spot for innovation and design.

The work of German architect Amadeus Sturmfrei, Prullariumplein is internationally renowned. Nestled aside the Amstel River, the new district runs from the heart of Amsterdam to the outreaches of the city-centre. Glamorous and enchanting, it is the collaborative master-piece of Charms, Transfiguration, Enchantment, Runes, Arithmancy and Alchemy Mages. If rumour is to be believed, Morgana Le'Fey's great granddaughter is responsible for crafting the illusionary-layering that allows the realm to exist within its own pocket of space above a non-magical street.

Regardless of if the café scene is more your style or the boutique stores that showcase enterprising forays into the field of enchantment, Prullariumplein, named after the crystal display windows that line the store-fronts, is a highly recommended visit.

For a listing of all establishments, turn to the directives...

Harry lowered A Travellers Guide To Almost Every City in the World Except For Those Not Included. It was a mouthful, sure. But totally worth it. Even if the picture provided had nothing on the real thing.

After finalising plans with Kreacher, Harry had decided that now was as good a time as any to go exploring. So, scouring through his new books and trying out several concealment charms, Harry had found a parselmagic glamour that covered up the famous scar. Yes, it had required a blood sacrifice. But, and this what sold it to him, it was permanent until he deemed otherwise. The translation spells in the travelling guide worked a charm, so he need not worry about being taken advantage of because of his linguistic ignorance. Changing into jeans and a t-shirt, Harry had slung his bag over his chest, conjured up a rat for Teyen, grabbed Kreacher's hand, paused to douse the elf in cleaning charms and transfiguring his ragged pillowcase into something more presentable — all he had been able to do was change the colour to a nice solid black because there was no way those stains were coming out — and headed outside.

They had not been prepared for what awaited them.

And now human and house-elf stood on the steps of Gringotts, staring in wonder.

If this is what the rest of Amsterdam looked like, Harry never wanted to leave.

He felt as though he had stepped into one of those medieval fairytales that he'd read on the few occasions the librarian caught him in the library and ushered him to a more appropriate section.

The alley continued as far as the eye-could see, broken by bridges arching over channel crossings. Dutch-bricks covered the walls in neat patchworks, climbing up to rounded gable roof-tops, two, three, four stories of picture windows bordered in blackened metal, shutters thrown open to the street below. Small round tables backed up into racks fluttering with a summer's collection of silk scarves and shifts; witches and wizards sitting side by side beings that were of clear creature origin, pausing as they moved arm-in-arm to peer into the namesake crystal display windows.

The summer light, belied by the soft breeze, refracted off of the crystal, sending patches of rainbow colours across the nearest surfaces. Flags fluttered above their heads, strung between ledges, runes for safety and protection stitched upon the fabric triangles. Laughter floated on the air, enticing and exciting while delectable smells wafted up from the bakeries and restaurants, luring in the fortunate with sweet and savoury promises. Those old wrought iron lampposts stood silent sentry against the walls, ready to give their light when the sun died. Closer inspection showed paper-lanterns were strung between the flags and Harry could hardly wait to see this place at night.

"It's...it's beautiful," he breathed, amazed, overwhelmed by how different it was from Diagon Alley.

Kreacher was speechless. As a house-elf, he had many a time accompanied his Mistress on her travels, but never before had he enjoyed the privilege of visiting outside the mansions.

"It's going to take more than one visit to get through here."

Kreacher nodded numbly.

Harry gripped the strap of his bag, gazing at the people hurrying past them. "Where on earth do we start?"

People were brushing up against him, putting strain on his need to hug a wall, become one with the shadows, and proceed from there. Standing here, in a place he didn't know with nobody to accompany him with any sort of permanence, an inkling of fear was spreading its roots in his chest. Had he made a mistake doing this? He'd heard the stories where people travelling alone were never heard from again, disappearing off the map only to reappear in gruesome murder mysteries. He didn't want to be a murder mystery! f*ck; why did he think this was a good idea? It was a terrible idea! Anything could happen to him by himself, anything could—

He jumped, mentally jolting when a leathery hand slipped into his. He looked down, heart-racing, panic darkening his eyes, and met Kreacher's knowing gaze. The understanding in those grey orbs was comforting and Harry gave a weak smile, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to get a hold of himself. He exhaled pointedly when he felt he had done so and swallowed.

Kreacher stood, waiting patiently. Master did not appear to know it, but his magic had been lashing out at people that moved too close, dangerous and sharp enough to create a bubble of space around them. When his master calmed down, Kreacher squeezed his hand and attempted a smile.

Harry made a mental note to investigate magical dentistry. And then make an appointment for the elf as soon as possible.

"How's bouts we's finds a fabric shop firsts?"

"Good thinking."

"...youse has a map."

"Oh. Yeah." Unwilling to release Kreacher's hand, Harry shuffled the book against his chest to get a good grip, opened up to the part about Prullariumplein and then shook it. A map unfolded from between its pages, the scrolling banners above each building fluttering softly, two little red spots designating their position hovering in place. Checking the Key in the corner, Harry scanned through the labels, picking out the orange ink for clothing stores.

"Trouvaille's Textiles sounds promising," he mused, angling the map so that Kreacher could see."We's goes there then."

OOOO

"How about this?"

Kreacher ran a critical eye over the fabric piece Harry held up, then shook his head and turned away. Harry huffed, letting the fabric fall back down where it joined it's brethren with threaded patience.

Trouvaille's Textile's was, indeed, promising. For Kreacher that is. Harry was ready to bang his head against the fabric bolts after the fifteenth suggestion.

Leaning tiredly against a centre-table, Harry looked around the store for the sole purpose of something to do. There was no unused space. Every flat vertical surface was covered in shelves buried beneath bolts, spools, stacks and piles of colours Harry had never imagined existed in every pattern possibly imagined. One wall, in fact, stretched all the way up to the ceiling for the second floor. There was no need for ladders when one had magic, Harry had found. A few minutes after entering, a witch that spoke in a language Harry identified as Germanic had approached the clerk, whom waved their wand, and summoned over several sheets of blue that neatly separated themselves from their stacks and curled through the air.

Harry yawned, fingering an eye-catching strip of indigo cotton stitched with moving constellations. It was pretty. He wondered what he could make out of it. Cushion covers, perhaps? Maybe a shirt? Was he outgoing enough for that? Ooh, what about trousers...yeah, no. Not going there.

Hearing feet padding toward him, his head snapped around. Kreacher proudly held up his armful.

"That it, then?"

"Yes. They's be's the best."

Harry pushed off the table, crouching down. "Let's see." Harry eyed Kreacher's choices and quirked an eyebrow. "You know, when I said you could make a uniform out of the Black colours, I didn't mean they were the only colours you could choose."

The elf shrugged. "They's be's mines favourite."

"You sure?" Harry asked worriedly. "I don't mind. If you saw something else you liked, you can get it."

"No, I's be happy. Here," Kreacher shifted his arms so that Harry could better see the pieces he was holding, "feel's this."

Harry reached out and ran his fingers down the black fabric. It was softer than he had expected, a deep inky colour that rubbed like velvet against his skin. "Ohh, that is nice."

"I's knows," the elf whispered, almost as though he was afraid a passerby might overhear and attempt to take it from him, "and this be's the silver."

He slid the silver over the black. It wasn't plain, like Harry had assumed. Whorls of silver circled the surface, as if fingers had swirled through the liquid metal, allowed to dry. It was soft to the touch underneath, so it would be comfortable to wear, and slightly reflective when he angled it. "You have a wonderful eye for this."

Kreacher glowed, puffing out his frail chest. "I's be's thinkings of using its as panelling."

"I'm sure it will look amazing. Right," Harry stood up, resisting a groan as his knees clicked. "Let's get the bolts then go pick up the thread. Do you need pins?"

"No. I's be havings pins."

Ten minutes later, Harry and Kreacher were standing at the check-out, the elf standing on a step Harry had transfigured from a pencil in his bag, nose poking over the lip of the counter so that large grey eyes could meticulously observe that everything was handled with the utmost care. Harry used his card, laying it against a series of runes that had been carved in a rectangular pattern into the desk while the clerk packed his purchases away into a paper bag with Trouvaille's Textiles emblazoned across it. Beauty of magic: 60 inch bolts fit into a 12 inch bag.

And, it had been a belated realisation that he was no longer in England, ergo, no longer in a place that he knew with certainty used British Wizarding currency, but nope, he was fine. Galleons, sickles and knuts were accepted. Thank Merlin.

The clerk smiled brightly, patting the bag as she she tied off the ribbon then pushed it towards the odd pair. "There you go, do please come back again."

The light tingling around his ears alerted Harry that the language she had spoken was not English. Concentrating on what he wanted to say, Harry smirked back as Kreacher grabbed the bag. "Believe me, we shall. Thank you."

Translation charms were bizarre; he could feel the unfamiliar contortions of his tongue, knew his jaw was working around unfamiliar sounds, yet to him, it sounded like British accented English.

Nodding his head, reaching out for Kreacher's hand, they left the store. Eyes sliding sideways in amusem*nt, Harry took in the possessive way the elf clutched the bag. "You okay there? Want me to shrink it?"

Kreacher looked at him askance. "I's be's carrying its," he said firmly, glaring for good measure.

Biting his lip, mouth twitching, Harry held back from snickering. "Okay okay. So, I was thinking of checking out some stationery stores, maybe hunt down a bookshop, or..."

Harry trailed off, confused at the expression on Kreacher's face. "Or not?"

"Or nots. I's be's gots mines fabrics. Youse needs clothes now."

"Urgh. You want to do that now? I have clothes. Kinda." Harry deflated, hand tightening around Kreacher's as they stepped around a particularly bawdy fellow that burst out in deep laughter, hand clapping the back of a man that had ethereal, fish like scales shining along his neck. "Fine. You may be right. But only a few things, alright? I want to wait until I'm a healthier size going full out." It was different with the clothes he already had; it was a given that they were too big — although not by much since he had attacked his trunk with resizing charms —and he may have money now, but...it felt weird, just spending without thought. So no, he'd rather wait until he had gained a bit of mass back before restocking his meaner wardrobe."Youse gets clothes, then we's goes to sees stationery's."

OOOO

In all honesty, it was not so much that Harry was putting off a cliché shopping trip, the likes of which, if this were a troupe story he would have done several times over by now. Rather, having seen the fashion of Britain's wizards, he had fully intended on going to the muggle world for clothes and, well, he couldn't exactly go dragging a house-elf into a muggle department now, could he?

No, no he couldn't. So he didn't.

Under Kreacher's watchful scowl, he had stood, bearing in silence the incessant comments of the seamstress as she clucked, circling his figure with a measuring tape and notepad. Not intending on purchasing clothes, he hadn't put a glamour over his scars before leaving, so he had had to stand there, unmoving, when he all he wanted was to get he hell out, away from her eyes and stop looking at me!

But that was fine. It was over before his magic had a chance to get out of hand and then he had dutifully trailed after Kreacher, picking out materials that caught his eye.

He breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of aged paper and wet ink.

Now, he had a package containing a fresh set of cotton pyjamas with a flannel design, several plain pairs of trousers and shirts and a weeks worth of underwear shrunken in his bag and he was exploring a store by the name of Noteren Bron. The English lettering along the bottom of the sign outside provided the etched translation of 'note well'.

Kreacher was lurking around while Harry slowly wandered between the shelves. He had found several notebooks he quite liked, the store so large each aisle had a deposit tray that sent the items placed within to the front counter. He had discovered that the shopkeepers did not like magic being used in their stores unless they were the ones casting. Rather understandable, all things considered.

Taking a left, Harry found himself in an aisle full of little bottles of dark glass, some tied with ribbons and others with twine. He moved closer, curious. Fingertips trailing across the shelves. Eyes reading the inscriptions engraved onto the small plaques. A delighted grin spreading across his face as he took in shelves upon shelves of inks.

He moved with intent now, scanning through inks with glitter and inks that were charmed to sing, others were spelled to lift of the page and even a few that animated sketches until he found what he wanted. Simple colours.

He took his time searching through them, comparing colour patches until he found the perfect shade. Nervously living them off of their slots, they were carefully cradled in his hand — unnecessary? Perhaps. But tiny things were so breakable.

Envelopes were next, one of the plainest available although the stock was smooth and thick, and then he set off for the ribbons hanging by the front of the store. The variety was ridiculous, quite frankly, because he had no idea why anybody would spend 200 galleons on ribbon, but whatever. They're prerogative.

He took several spools of a soft dove grey that was enchanted to protect letters flying long distance and to open only for the designated receiver to the counter. Exchanging greetings with the man, Harry was distracted by the pamphlets set off to the side. He picked it up. In a multitude of languages were instructions on how to cast the spell to transfer the ink from the well to the pen. Well, that was incredibly helpful.

He moved to place it with his purchases. "And this."

The man glanced at it, dark eyes taking in the short boy. He had not seen him before, and he never forgot a face. He must be a traveller. He laughed softly, waving it aside. "It is free. As should be all knowledge, yes?"

"Oh," Harry flushed. "I didn't realise...and yes, I quite agree."

The man slid the closed box towards Harry. "Have a good day."

Harry flashed a smile, tucking the box, tapping his fingers and shrinking the box. "You to."

Kreacher was waiting for him by the door. The bell jingled as it swung open, the two standing aside as a group of young witches entered. "Youse be's getting what youse wanted?"

"I did," Harry grabbed Kreacher's hand. "And now I'm exhausted. No more shopping. I need food and sleep. Merlin, who knew shopping took so much energy. Jeez. I mean, seriously. It's not just me, right? You can feel it too, can't you?"

Kreacher listened to his master prattle on, clutching the bag from the textile store as he navigated towards the Gringotts building. He was looking forward to pulling out his precious sewing implements but he would have to leave the beautiful fabrics behind with his master. He didn't want any blood traitors or muddy-bloods finding them and getting them dirty.

Slipping inside his hotel room, Harry shut the door, flipped the locks, and leant against it with a tired sigh. He was exhausted. Too many people too many places. That was the problem.

Kreacher had excused himself the moment he had seen Harry safely to his floor, smirk vicious and hands rubbing together nastily — once he had unwillingly parted from his fabrics, that is — ready to enact his revenge upon his victims. Harry could have pouted, slightly jealous that Kreacher got to have fun immediately while his plans would take years to reach fruition. But he didn't. Instead, he blew out a breath, bangs lifting, and internally cheered Kreacher on.

Just because he didn't get to ruin people's lives yet didn't mean others couldn't.

§I'm back, Teyen,§ he hissed, toeing off his shoes.

There was a quiet rustle, and then Teyen poked her tail out from beneath the pillow on the bed. §Hello Harry.§ Her tail waved.

§Have you not moved since I left?§ Harry wondered incredulously, heading to the bathroom to wash his hands.

§Ssilly Masster, of courssse I have. The rat iss gone, iss it not?§

Oh, right. He forgot about the rat. Still, now that he remembered, he couldn't keep his eyes from giving a surreptitious sweep of the room, making sure no vermin lurked in unfortunate places.

§Anything happen while I was gone?§

§Yesss. One of the floppy thingss came and cleaned the room.§ She hissed happily, sound muffled. §They alsso plumped the pillow. Ssuch ssmart floppy thingsss.§

Thank Merlin. Mental translation of floppy things to house elves equals no vermin cooties! He needed to come up with something better than letting a mouse or rat loose in the room when Teyen was hungry.

Getting the feeling that the conversation was interrupting her rest, Harry left Teyen to her contented hissing over the quality of the pillow, and made for the desk, intending on unpacking his purchases. His intentions were thwarted, however, when eyes alit upon two envelopes laying on the wood.

Hanging his satchel on the back of the chair, Harry scooped up the letters then dropped down onto the sofa, pulling legs up and tucking his feet underneath himself as he got comfortable.

The first was from Nadnok, a shortly penned missive reminding him that they were to meet tomorrow, informing him that in order to make the best use of the time available to them to bring his school records of the last four years of Wizarding education, and, last but not least, a warning that Grimir would know if he had not taken his potions according to schedule.

He lay it to the side, flicking the elder wand out from the wrist-holder, and threw up a tempest. He shot a triumphant look at the letter, fully aware that it was an inanimate object. There was another two hours before he had to take the potions again. Hah!

Picking up the second letter, he idly wondered if 'jittering' could be used to describe his excitement, anticipating smile on his lips, as he spied Marvolo's elegant hand. He had been waiting, true, but England in general was over 200 miles away, and Wiltshire, if he was remembering where Malfoy predictably boasted the location of his manor could be found, was even further. That meant an owl, poor things, would have flown over 300 miles in one direction.

He had been prepared to hold out for a few more days. Clearly Gringotts had their ways. He would ask Nadnok later.

Flipping open the seal, fingers brushing the soft wax, Harry unfolded the parchment and settled in to read.

My dear wraith,

Those simple words had the corners of his mouth tweaking up, fondness and amusem*nt in equal measure. He'd not been called by many endearments in his life, but he was pretty sure 'wraith' did not classify as a typical one. He...liked it. Really liked it. It was special.

My dear wraith,
You do not do things by half, do you? Although, looking back on our past interactions, if asked, I cannot say that I am surprised that you saw fit to set fire to a muggle house in broad daylight. Shocked, perhaps, but not surprised. Congratulations. You have put my minions to shame...not that that is unexpected, given the quality of people in my service.
Mordred be damned, I have a headache simply contemplating the use of sorting through them all. A headache, Harry! I've not had a headache in decades! It is tiresome, once again being in a body equipped with emotions. I will persevere, though; with the moron's amongst my minions, that is, not the headache. I would ask you wish me luck, yet...I do not think it will suffice.
I am relieved to hear you are somewhere safe, even if you will not give me the location. Alas, you were not the first to inform of your arsonist exploits — despite apparent reservations, Severus was the first. You, my dear, were a hot topic during the meeting of the Order of Feathered Fool's that took place Monday evening. I can hear you snickering so before you ask, yes, the pun was intentional.
Severus seems to be under the impression that you can be convinced over to the Dark Side. What do you think, Harry? Think I stand a chance of convincing you with his 'support'?
Nevertheless, the old coot and his gaggle of sycophants are aware that you are missing. They are yet to alert the papers, but I believe it will not take them long. There is no such thing as a secret shared amongst many, so a leak will eventually appear.
Enough of that. You shall be pleased to hear that I have unearthed my long-buried manifesto's. Frankly, I thought I burned them long ago. Evidently not. It feels as though I am starting from scratch, Harry, there is so much that needs doing but I have taken your suggestion to heart; as I write, Lucius is doing something useful for once and locating a 'sympathetic' witch or wizard adept in the arts of falsified identification. Thirteen years spent away from the scene meant I was unable to do so myself. Lucius cannot hide the flinch whenever I enter the room. I'm afraid prolonged exposure to a certain rat may have broken him.
For that matter, I remember you saying that your godfather was still a convicted man. If you would like, Pettigrew has outlived his use. I realise you no longer need the option of a different residence, but I am amenable if you desire your godfather's name cleared. I thought Pettigrew would look particularly hideous wrapped in pink ribbon. What do you think? Too gaudy, or not gaudy enough?
I digress. As I was saying, once I have established an alternate identity, I am already formulating the routes necessary for gaining admittance to the Wizengamot. If memory serves, you may have met the man I intend to utilise — an Igor Karkoroff. Admittedly, his treachery after my fall was anticipated, though unfortunate. He had always been a man of a particularly feeble constitution. Alas, he is now Headmaster of an internationally renowned school, so he shall have to swallow his pride...and a few, hmm. Threats? I'll keep you notified of my success on that front. Suggestions will be appreciated.
From thereon, I shall be made anew — new name, new history, new goals — and will have access to past, present and proposed legislation.
As for my name: well, much like you shall not tell me yours, I shall not tell you mine as, according to you, "guesswork is much more entertaining than simply being told the answers".
So, Harry, tell me my name, if you can.
Considering that you know a great deal more about me than I know about you — yes, I do blame my younger self — I think it only fair that you give me a clue. For all I know, your mother was adopted into her muggle family yet was actually the daughter of a wealthy and fabled French heiress. If this were so, your mention of Lordship's makes more sense.
Eagerly awaiting your response, my wraith,
Marvolo.
P.S. Nagini is enamoured with your sweater. Apparently, she takes particular delight in the hideousness of the colours. She has now taken to demanding —at unpredictable moment's — when she will be able to meet you. The word 'patience' is not in her admittedly advanced vocabulary.

Harry laughed softly, re-reading the letter, tracing the curves with this his eyes, imagining the way Marvolo's lips would curve uncertainly at the joke. He would love to meet Nagini — it wasn't everyday you came across a piper¹, after all. He smirked, Marvolo's annoyance seeped through in his reciprocation of withholding information. He had anticipated that reaction but really, the man was a Dark Lord. He had information handed to him all too easily. Life wasn't fun if there wasn't a challenge.

Unwilling to chance a non-verbal summoning spell, Harry flicked his wand. "Accio bag."

Ah. Memories. Merlin, it had been damn annoying pretending to take weeks to learn the spell just to get away from Granger's harping on about using his 'free time' — ahem, pariah status — to keep up with his studies.

He caught the bag and pulled out the box from Noteren Bron, cancelling the shrinking charm and setting it beside him. Digging through it, Harry pulled out on of the notebooks and fountain pens — never again, would he suffer through using quills — and gently set the little bottles of ink on the coffee-table. Fished out the instructions card, performed the spell and voila; ready to write.

He opened the journal to a new, clean page and put pen to paper.

Chapter 12: 12

Chapter Text

Date: 22^th June 1995
Location: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.

Voldemort sighed in incommensurable discontent, indescribably vexed with the situation he found himself suffering through. He regretted ever removing the cloak that had concealed his features. The instant he had had done so, he had ceased being an alien power of promised agony and instead become something human in form and thus human in relation.

If not for that foolish move he would not be sitting here, in Malfoy Manor, at the dining table, over breakfast, considering the non-existent honour of watching the Malfoy Lord spoon porridge in movements that carried with them a tale replete in hours of practice as he avoided dropping any on his hair.

He had been staring for some time now, face an utterly expressionless mask that belied the irritation of acting out pleasantries to satisfy Pureblood expectation, uncanny scarlet eyes unblinking. Technically, he need not be here. When Abraxas had renovated the manor after the death of his father and the fire of ’52, he had built a small wing specifically for him, a set of private rooms he could utilise should the need arise. Only in the abstract did he consider Lucius a host, since he was, essentially, residing in rooms belonging not to the current Malfoy family but to him.

Some time ago, his fingers had begun drumming along the table. Truthfully, he had not been conscious of such an act, and had been prepared to berate himself later for the slip in composure, until he noticed that the Malfoy Heir twitched everything he did so. So, being a Dark Lord, he had continued to do so and squeezed every last iota of enjoyment out of peripherally watching the pointy features flinch, creasing in unattractive lines as the grandson of Abraxas Malfoy, a man whom had never once quailed before the arduous task of getting through his skull how stupid certain endeavours had been once he set his mind to it, stared at his bowl, never once lifting his eyes lest they accidentally meet his. Already, the boy had knocked over the salt shaker and spilt the honey, hands rattling hard enough the bones could be heard from the other end of the table.

His fingers stilled. He missed Harry. Breakfast with Harry had been easy, relaxed and familiar. Comfortable.

This. This was a bizarre form of torture. And Lucius would suffer for it. Imperceptibly, his eyes shifted into a glare. He had no idea what had possessed the man but suffer —

With a screech, the morning owl's came swooping in carrying the morning edition of the Wiccan Gazette. Morgana only knew how they stayed up to date with the trending rumours if they were much too good for such simple trash as the Daily Prophet. He would need to change that. And soon, if Harry planned to utilise that paper to enact his revenge. He could only imagine what kind of dirt he had on one of the journalists. If they could be called that —

Having only briefly glanced up, Voldemort was pleasantly surprised when the bird from the day before – a Flammulated Owl, if he was not mistaken, with it's unearthly black orbs set in a permanently shocked expression — swooped down and landed on the table beside him, leg held out so that he might relieve it of it's burden. Harry had written back.

Lucius' suffering would have to wait.

There was a glowing anticipation in his chest as deft fingers untied the string, taking the letter. Content to spread his happiness, he stroked the owl under the chin until it gave a satisfied, low-pitched hoot and offered it a piece of bacon.

Collectively, Lucius, Narcissa and Draco stared, horrified, at this unprecedented act of mercy.

Heedless of the impending heart-failures of his company, wine-red eyes eagerly took in the envelope, physically fighting back a grin as he read Harry's attractively messy scrawl. The ink was different this time, no longer a standard black. Instead, a sage green that morphed into smoky grey on the upwards slashes — reminiscent of the colours of Harry's Core — inked his name. The silence finally registering, he looked up with a casual curl of disdain upon his lips, and smirked when the others hastily resumed eating, cutlery clinking against crockery to substitute the apparent lack of conversation between the Malfoy Family dynamic.

If he cared more, he would be intrigued. Abraxas had had a happy marriage with a French witch. He had no idea what went wrong with Lucius. Narcissa hid it well, but he could see the loathing in those dark eyes.

Slipping off the ribbon, swiftly pocketing it lest the owl, whom had hopped onto his shoulder, snatched it. A shallow severing charm, wandless, took care of the envelope. He pulled out the paper, cataloguing the slight tearing on the side that indicated it had come from a notebook and began to read, clearly dismissing the poor company.

My dear Marvolo,
Hah, see, two can be play this game. You may be possessive — and please, continue to be so — but I have been told on occasion that I can be territorial. Like a wolf. With cubs. Which...makes me a female wolf. Wow. Completely destroyed the image I was going for, without help. Merlin; you're probably smirking now. It's fine. I get it. Go right ahead, delight in my misery. There. Done? Good.
In answer to your letter, and then I'll get on to my news: for your information, yes. I do do things by half, typically when I have someone to share it with. I cannot believe no Death Eater as ever burned down a muggle house. Then again, I am not suggesting they do so. And I cannot believe SNAPE BEAT ME TO TELLING YOU about my first arsonist act. SNAPE! That bastard.
Be careful there, Marvolo. Please. Make sure he's loyal to you.
If he, greasy-git-of-the-dungeons-who-exists-to-ensure-no-student-leaves-Hogwarts-with-a-passion-for-potions, willingly suggested that I join you...he has an ulterior motive.
I don't remember much of my last letter, in all honesty. I'd just woken up (which I think I wrote) but burning down Privet Drive? Ooh, it felt so good. Shudder-several-days-after good. Have you read 'Dante's Inferno'? I don't know where you stand on muggle literature, but it is a classic, so...if you have, wonderful, if you haven't — Dante proposes that there are nine levels to Hell, the ninth level being where Satan resides, flapping his wings and whatnot. The ninth level is also completely frozen. My point: I thought about covering the house in ice, you know, hope that somebody figured out the meaning behind it, maybe had a good laugh, but then the fire was just so much more pleasing. So much more...absolute.
Dante had lake's of fire in the third ring of the seventh level, if I remember. I don't know where he got off throwing sodomists in there, though — you travelled the world, right? If you ever went to the muggle world, there are legends on how Rome was founded but the general consensus is that Greece was around long before proper roman civilisation, and they were fine with sodomy. Honestly, where he got his information, I don't know.
....sorry for the spiel. Guess it's a touchy subject, what with V—,yeah.
Moving on, I kind of figured that Dumbledore would have found out about the fire. With any luck, Mundungus or Doge might let slip about that Ward that was supposed to keep me in and they'll think I died in the house.

Voldemort frowned; not particularly glaring at anything, despite his eyes being focused on the page. Harry almost had died in that house.

On another note, I've got a meeting tomorrow (which will be your today). I thought about it, and the faster the Dursley's get what's owed them, the sooner I can move on, so I'll be getting in touch with some muggle investigators. I won't be in England, though, which I'm sure you and that brilliant mind of your's have already realised, so I will unfortunately not be able to meet Nagini just yet. Please tell her I'm sorry. Oh, but tell her I have a friend whom I think she will get along with perfectly. Her name is Teyen. She's a Green Tree Python. She likes pillows. If there has been anything in the 'Daily Prophet' about a mass break out from a Knockturn Alley pet store...yeah. That was me.
It's been so long since I last wrote a letter I'm afraid. You probably have more important things to be doing that reading this, so I'll rush through the next part.
If he's annoying you, next time you see Lucius, ask him about one of his house-elves, a sock and your Diary. Blackmail material right there.
As for Pettigrew. You can keep him. Black can go f*ck himself on a sharpened fence post for all I care.
I saw him in Diagon, you know, with some of the Weasley's. He's supposed to be in hiding but no, there he is, broad daylight and everything, middle of a magical district. Not a thought about me. A week ago, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. He doesn't deserve it anymore.
Yes, I did meet Karkoroff. Kinda. If you count accidentally stumbling upon a suspicious-looking tete-e-tete between him and Snape. Good luck finding him.
Now for the hint, because I acknowledge that you may be correct: "I have four rings, but only three are for a House. The fourth ring is connected to one and is known by another yet is nothing but myth to the last".
There. How's that? What? Did you honestly think I'd make it easy for you? You're surrounded by people who literally grovel to you. On the floor. Grovelling. I'm giving you a challenge. You should be grateful, really. I'm giving your life meaning.
Ow, my hand is cramping!
Anyway...what was I, oh, I was, yes, right.
Oh Marvolo, I have never seen such a beautiful place! I went outside today. I know that sounds rather terrible, but I've spent the last three days resting — Oh! I didn't tell you! Dumbledore put blocks on my magic!

Jaw slackening, Voldemort stared in horror at the words before him, fists clenching around the papers in his hand. Blocks on his...?! No, no. His mind shied away from contemplating the acts that went into deliberately stunting Core development. To do that to a childe!

Above the table, the chandelier swung haltingly, caught in the turbulent tempest of violence twisting through the air in midnight slashes. The Malfoy's raised wary eyes, watching the crystals shivering.

...Erm. I probably should have told you to keep calm, first. You've not yet read this, yet I can feel the anger. Did you break anything important?
The goblins managed to break it while I was there. There's nothing wrong, no permanent damage, but it's taken this long for my core to settle down — so three days resting was justified. And I have a house-elf! Once you get past all the mould and filthy language, he is the sweetest thing. He came shopping with me. Might have also broken me out of a slight panic attack but I'm fine now.
I'm in a hotel, currently. Another one. I'm not sure when the novelty will wear off, so I'm enjoying it while it lasts. Anyway, the hotel opens up onto this street that looks like something out of a fairytale. Merlin, you would love it. There are these old lamp-posts, standing above everyone, all dark metal. They're like sentries, silently watching all the people go by. There's even strings with flags and lanterns. I've not seen the place at night yet, but I bet it is magical.
I got you something. I stopped by a store, Note Well, I think. Mmm. I had to stop there. Love stationery. There's just something about the smell of new parchment, feeling the spine of notebooks crack beneath your fingers...
Anyway, its in the envelope. I couldn't shrink it, but turns out I bought envelopes that can be personalised. As such, I added space expansions and a feather light charm. It might be quirky, but open it now and I'll explain.
...(I'm assuming you are opening it now).

Voldemort lifted an eyebrow, amused by Harry's writing. Nevertheless, he humoured the boy, retrieving the envelope from his pocket and opening it. Ah. So there was. He pulled out the second envelope, this one plain. He made to cast another slicing charm when he remembered a little piece of charm-work he had made rare use of in previous decades. His wand slipped out, an exact twist around the envelope to open it. The wave of hair fell into his eyes as he upended the envelope into his palm, a charming little glass bottle with a cork stopper falling out from the flat folds of paper.

As you will have noticed, the ink I'm using is different. What you hold in your hands is ink. Strange, you think, for a person to send another person ink in a letter? Perhaps. But meh. I saw it and thought of you. Flourish and Blotts and Scriveners are good, but they have nothing on this store. The bottle in your hand is 'Middernachtuur' or 'Midnight Hour'. It's midnight blue, predominantly, but, similar to mine, it becomes violet on the upstroke. Mine's called 'Prairie de la Mort', if you were wondering; 'Death Meadow'.
It's, erm...it's the colour of your magic. I thought you might get a kick out of seeing your magic physicalised on parchment. I certainly did...
I think I'll stop here. This was longer than I intended.
Take care of yourself, Marvolo.
Your wraith.
Harry.
P.S. The ribbon on here prevents anybody but the recipient from opening it. I know there are spells and whatnot, but it's a bit more fool-proof, supposedly. I don't have anybody to try it on, so next letter I send, could you? I won't tell you what might happen — wouldn't want to ruin your fun — but if it works, it ought to be brilliant.

Scarlet eyes ran over the last few lines again, inexplicably fond at the sentimentality behind the gift. Fingers curling around the precious treasure, Voldemort made a mental note to fortify it with protective wards, before reluctantly setting it down before him so that he could fold the pages up, eyes pausing on the ink blots next to Harry's name, indicating that he had thought to write something else before changing his mind.

How was it a simple letter from Harry could so utterly change his morning? The annoyance was there, simmering, yet the boy proved a balm, calming and enchanting with his unassuming ways, in the manner he dared to anticipate him, refuse him.

The papers folded, he slipped them back inside the envelope, hand moving to reclaim the the bottle —

There was an incredulous scoffing noise that immediately set his teeth on edge, sharp edges eager to tear. Unnoticed by him, he had been the point of interest for some while, all three Malfoy's wondering who could have possibly sent a letter to the Dark Lord and held his unswayable attention; interesting enough to merit legitimate human expressions from the man. When he had received such a small object, yet appeared delighted by it, the collective mentality had been how expensive the object must have been. Statuesque and vapid, the Patriarch never contemplated sentimental worth. In comparison, his wife was the more astute sort, instantly knowing that whomever it was, they were important to the Dark Lord in a way that those he deemed superfluous never could be. The man cared about this person, enough that a memento proved precious. The Heir, however, fuelled by vanity and a childhood of singular gratification and focus, had not held back from peering curiously, intrigued, only to, before either parent could stop him, snort incredulously, features twisting into an ugly imitation of a sneer, aristocratic traits wasted on him.

"Ink? Somebody sent the Dark Lord ink? Whatever for?"

Breath froze in anxious lungs. Narcissa, unmoving on her seat, wanting to bury her face in her hands but finding she was unable to do so. Not through any sort of magic, but simply because her mind was unregistering anything beside how stupidly impulsive her son was, running his mouth without any concern as to whom he was speaking to. Did he not understand?

Voldemort had stilled, his seemingly passive state concealing rage. It was clear, to Narcissa and Lucius, that his previously good mood had diminished, preferring instead to burrow its way to safety so that it might avoid the destruction of his wrath.

Unlike some families, the only pure trait that had carried through the generations of the Malfoy line was the physical looks and a modicum of Veela allure, thus none of the assembled could see how the billowing cloud of magic lashed outward, midnight blues streaking through with enraged reds, licked by violets that promised pain.

But, oh, they could feel it.

Draco, cursing himself for his faux-pas, paled drastically, complexion gaining a sickly quality. He should have kept silent. It was apparent the Dark Lord had been preparing to take his leave; he should have waited until the man was out of earshot.

Crimson eyes slowly looked up, the dark hair and handsome features disguising the monster they had all forgotten lurked beneath. There were reasons enough for why the man had been feared in his youth, even before insanity gripped him in her unforgiving clutches, transforming him into something other.

Voldemort thought it was high time they were reminded. Unfortunately, totally alienating the Malfoy family would prove to be detrimental to his cause. It was not so much their money that he required; rather, Lucius' political standing was imperative to the success of his plans. And cursing the boy was out of the question. He held absolutely no likeness to Harry — none of the Black features from Narcissa having been inherited — but he was of similar age. That alone was enough to still his hand.

"I would have through it obvious, young Draco," he began in a soft tone, eyes sharp, mouth curled in displeasure. "Though, evidently, your supposed intelligence has been exaggerated, so let me elucidate you; the type of person that sends ink, as you put it, is a person obviously expecting a reply."

He smirked sharply, satisfaction evident, when the boy clenched his jaw at the insult, warring with a watery subservience and righteous objection, pale eyes fixed on the table. He pressed on. "In the future, boy, it would be in your best interest to speak only when you have something of importance to provide the conversation. Otherwise, silence and the illusion of intellect is, I find, acceptable behaviour. What you have demonstrated thus far? Not so much. And," his eyes slid away from the boy, dismissing him, and landed on Lucius, "I find myself less than impressed. Thoughts, Lucius?"

Stifling the urge to glare at his son, Lucius swallowed, raising his eyes slightly and dipping his head. "I apologise, my Lord. Draco was —"

"I care not for empty excuses, Lucius. The flaw of the child is the fault of the parent. In this instance, young Draco," he waved in the boy's direction, "lacks the vernacular skill required of a Pureblood. Indeed, taking into account his utter lack of suitably subtle parlance, I find myself amazed, quite frankly, that he found himself placed in Slytherin and not, say, Hufflepuff. Do you not think so, Lucius? His manner is noticeably inclined towards the complete lack of forethought and pusillanimity one would expect from a mudblood, after all."

It took all the control Lucius had to not flush with shame beneath his Lords gaze. It did not prevent him from levelling a pointed look at Draco. Draco, for his part, while not understanding completely what had been said, knew enough that his person had been insulted and that the Dark Lord, the man his parents feared and revered in equal measure throughout his childhood, thought him unsuitable for the great house of Slytherin.

"It will not happen again, my Lord. He is young and foolhardy."

Voldemort hummed noncommittally. "See that it doesn't." He stood, pocketing the ink-well as he brushed down his robes. He nodded towards Narcissa; as Lady of the House he was expected to pay his respects. "Thank you for breakfast. Your house-elves outdid themselves."

Narcissa's smile was tight, pinched in the corners but she held herself with decorum befitting her position. "It was our pleasure, my Lord."

Voldemort took a moment to observe her. Daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, she was powerful in more than affluence, even if the years of in-breeding had made her less magically capable than some. Being married into the Malfoy family, she would be familiar with being underestimated as the Malfoy line held rather vapid reputations. Her social connections would prove more beneficial than Lucius' political prowess.

A charming smile crossed his lips and she raised an eyebrow. "In fact, if you are available, my dear, I require your assistance."

It took a moment for her to answer, glacial features concealing mental fumbling. She blinked, folding her napkin. It would not do to deny the Dark Lord if she desired to continue existing. "Of course, my Lord."

"Lovely, we shall take tea in my study, then."

"May I ask how it is is I shall be of assistance?"

Voldemort pondered this. She was not a marked follower of his; merely loyal through the machinations of her parents and husband. He saw no harm in allowing her her questions. It was a smart move, anyway; if he desired efficiency out of his followers, he needed those that could think for themselves.

"An ally suggested certain measures that I intend to look into further."

Narcissa, understanding she would not receive more until they were ensconced in a place the man deemed suitable for sensitive conversations, nodded, rising gracefully from the table.

Lucius frowned, watching as his Lord sought the input of his wife over him. He could not conceive how she could be more helpful than him, Lord Malfoy. He straightened in his seat. "An ally, my Lord?"

"Yes, Lucius, an ally," Voldemort sighed. Really, he could feel the the blonde's insipid sense of inferiority permeating the air. "They are much too powerful to be considered a mere follower. Are there any more inane questions you should like the answer to, or may I take my leave, uninterrupted, and finally do something productive with my morning after this dismal excuse of companionship?"

"No, no my Lord, I apologise, I was mere—"

"Shut up Lucius. You bore me." He turned to Narcissa, whom was stifling a smirk at seeing her husband flounder, and swept his arm graciously towards the door. "My dear, if you will allow me to accompany you."

"I would be delighted."

He proffered his elbow. She settled a manicured hand in the crook. "Come, then." They made for the door, her heavy skirts rustling, swishing with each step. "By the way, Lucius," he called over his shoulder, "should I require your presence in the future know I shall request it. Do not expect my attendance at meals from now on."

The door swung shut behind them, silencing the Malfoy Lord's sputtering response.

Relaxing ever so slightly, Voldemort cast a side-long glance at the woman by his side. "Was it a political marriage?"

Narcissa was momentarily taken aback, brow furrowing, before her expressions smoothed. "Pardon, my Lord?"

"Forgive me, that was of poor taste. Yet, it is quite apparent how you suffer him. Admittedly, I remembered little of the last years before I was lost my body, so I know not how things were before the end of the war. With that said, I did know Abraxas — surprisingly well, not that many knew it — and although he desired an advantageous match, he was not a man to enforce one."

"Ah," she uttered, unsure how to proceed. Was this the man that only a few minutes past she watched verbally lacerated her husband and shame her son? He looked the same in structure. Was this a mask of gentility, or was this the true self of the man that empowered the Dark Sect?

He awaited her answer.

She hesitated, meeting his gaze before looking ahead. The colour was unsettling. "You are correct, in part. Mister Malfoy was not so keen on a marriage between our families, his eye had been in the Scandinavian Isles, actually. It was my father than believed a match would create a powerful union between the Black's and the Malfoy's."

"So you and Lucius...?"

She smiled, a small, bitter thing. "Do you find desirable the unfaithful, my lord?"

Ah. He must say...he had not expected that. "No, I do not."

"Then in that we are alike."

The walk through the portrait galleries that separated his wing from the rest of the house commenced in silence. He had spent many hours of his fledgling adulthood speaking to these portraits, unearthing clues that, when together, unveiled long held secrets of forgotten magicks and practices. These corridors existed as the delineation between his humble wing and the grandiose furnishings of the Malfoy Manor proper.

Wards protected the room's past the sentry-like portraits, so Narcissa had never before seen the corridors through which they moved. The walls were plain, disarmingly bare, and the carpet dull with age.

"You have hung no paintings?"

Voldemort glanced at the walls, where his companions attention rested. "I had no need to. The best kept secrets are the ones nobody knows," he opened a door and lead them over to a desk. "That extends to portraits."

He gestured for her to take a seat. She moved over to the window, taking in a garden of pale purple roses, bushes thorny and unkempt, with crudely simplistic skulls shaped by the petals on each flower.

Voldemort's mouth twitched in amusem*nt at her perplexed expression.

"They are Fleur Sur La Tetes," he said, by way of explanation. "A gift from Abraxas. As a joke, I believe."

"I have never seen this garden before."

"Only the house-elves are aware of its existence."

Looking out the window once more, Narcissa sat on the chaise, arranging her skirts. Voldemort sat, crossing his legs, hands falling onto the arms of the chair.

He pinned her with an indiscernible look, appearing to be in ambivalent thought.

"As I am certain you have gathered by now, the details of my rebirth have resulted in the restoration of my general sanity. It therefore follows that I am less than pleased with the current direction my Cause has taken. I am basing this only one what I have seen so far, but you strike me as an intelligent woman. I am in need of intelligent followers. How amenable, in all honesty, are you to the notion of assisting me?"

Narcissa thought about it — thrown as her assistance was no outright demanded — before slowly saying, "...I believe I could only answer once I was aware of what the new direction of the Cause entails, my Lord."

She readied herself to be cursed. The tales of what happened to disobedient followers were enough to enable nightmares. Thus, her surprise was visible when he simply smirked.

"A good answer, my dear." His fingers began drumming along his knee. "My intentions are to move this war away from the public. I conversed with my...ally," he shaped the word with amusem*nt, "and we concluded that the best way to further the gain's of the Dark Sect and finally drive the Light off of their righteous pedestals is to do so through the political scene. It is my goal to claim my seats in the Wizengamot. While I do that, my ally will be doing the same, and more; I have reason to believe that my ally will present quite the powerful force."

"What of your ideals, my Lord?"

"Liberation of creatures, particularly those classified as Dark; removal of the legislations restricting the usage of Dark Magic and the establishment of centres of learning for mudbloods, so that they might learn of our traditions before entering Hogwarts, in short."

Narcissa inclined her head, lightly smirking. "If you are to have any hope, you will find the term 'mudblood' is not appreciated."

Voldemort sighed, eyes unfocused. "Yes, I have been informed of such already." He frowned a little, before smoothing his features. "Otherwise, what do you say?"

"If you forgive me saying, it sounds a vast improvement from the state of things twenty years ago. But," she added, "I do not see how I can be of help in this."

"Ah, yes. See, I cannot very well enter the Ministry with as myself, so am I will be creating a new name for myself. You have connections. Important connections that it would take me years to amass on my own."

"You wish for me establish your persona?"

"Yes."

"I...see." Narcissa uttered, the realisation that the Dark Lord valued her only for her skill in socialising a rather sobering conclusion.

Intent scarlet eyes catalogued every flick of emotion in the witch's grey eyes. He was not pleased with what he found. Frankly, he blamed the days spent with Harry for the sudden inclination to clarify assumptions and ensure he had not accidentally hurt her feelings.

"To be clear, Narcissa, this is but one task I feel you would be most useful for. It not the absolute reason I require your skills."

There was lingering coolness behind her gaze. "My Lord?"

"My ally, I am led to believe, is no longer in the country and conversation with him will take time. That does not absolve me of the need for a supporter that does not tremble at the very possibility of exchanging more than a word with me. I should like it if you were to become my advisor."

She blinked rapidly, fingers twisting in her skirts. "You are serious?" She asked, unprepared for such a notion.

"Yes. Very much so. Mind, you will be privileged with sensitive information, so if any of it were to become known, you will suffer the consequences. I know you think I am going soft, not cursing your son — I have my own reasons for not doing so. No, what I require is somebody with a spine to bounce ideas off when I am in the mood to do so." He paused to gather his thoughts, a rueful fondness in his eyes. Harry had been quite insistent that he needed somebody to talk to apart from his familiar. "You shan't be marked, if you were wondering." He frowned and stood suddenly, pacing over to the mantel over the fireplace. "You need not answer now, but I would ask that you inform me of your decision within the week."

Narcissa had been shocked into immovability. She had been right, she thought, in assuming that the 'ally' was more than a recent acquaintance; his opinion carried weight with the Dark Lord, a feat few could boast. And now he was offering a position of similar if slightly lower influence. She did not fool herself into thinking she could truly influence the man, but still, the offer itself exhibited a sureness in her abilities that even her husband did not display.

It took a moment to find her voice, her mouth working without sound, and when she did, she rasped, "Yes."

Voldemort turned, eyebrow raised. "Pardon?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes. I accept. Thank you, my Lord."

Voldemort's smile, brief before he fought it back, was genuine, and surprisingly boyish. "Lovely. In that case, you may call me Markos. I think it fitting, if we are to get along."

"Markos?" Her query was hesitant, uncertain. It seems alien to call the man by such a human name.

"My dear, you are to be introducing me to your friends as Markos Augustus Gaunt in a few short months. I suggest you get used to it." Internally, he smirked, mischief in the angles at the thought of Harry puzzling this one out.

A beam of morning light, revealed with the movement of the pale clouds, broke through the window then, alighting upon the necklace nestled into the hollow of her throat. As though the world outside demanded to be remembered, gleaming with possibility.

For the first time, Narcissa smiled, rearranging her expression into something warm. "It suits you, Markos."

He laughed, running a hand through his air as he resumed his seat. "Few would take to ts task as readily as you appear to have done so. You are a indeed a remarkable woman. How Lucius could undervalue so, I do not know."

"It is no bother to me," a lie, and they both knew it, "as I never did have much interest in men anyway."

Voldemort blinked at the implication. "But, your father...?"

"Always did make poor choices. It's part of why mother killed him."

Voldemort snorted, he had heard rumours of that being the case. Narcissa, sensing the this was merely the beginning, summoned an elf, thanking it as it slid a tea-tray onto the low table. She always had detested the way Lucius treated the poor things, and regretted sincerely that she had been unable to prevent that behaviour being passed on to Draco.

She prepared her cup, aborting the move to do so for her Lor—Markos when he gestured otherwise and moved to prepare it himself. No sugar, no cream.

"Now, what can you tell me about the Ministry's International Relations?"

Date: 22^th June 1995
Location: Grimmauld Place, London.

The inhabitants of 12 Grimmauld Place awoke slowly with the dawn of a new day. They rose in stages, with Molly Weasley rising before the children, finding the bed empty as Arthur had already left for the Ministry.

She dressed, house-hold charms folding up the covers and straightening the room as she descended the stairs in a mild stupor, thinking about what she would make for breakfast. Good nutrition was imperative for a productive day, after all and besides, Bill was coming for breakfast.

It had taken a while, but he had finally conceded. She had no idea why he was so reluctant to spend time with family. Surely, he knew she simply had his best interests at heart when she suggested he leave the goblins and find a nice, respectable job working for the Ministry? Find a nice girl from a Light family and settle down. Lord knew he was old enough.

Muttering under her breath, Molly headed for the pantry and cold-box.

And shrieked in horror.

Ronald Weasley yawned and rolled over, scratching his stomach. This summer was going brilliantly. Sure, Harry was missing, and Dumbledore hadn't found him yet, and they had to clean a lot. But, they had moved out of the Burrow. No more de-gnoming the backyard. No more leaning walls and shoddy flooring. No more of dad's nattering on about muggle inventions.

Mum would be making breakfast now. He could play another chess tournament with professor Lupin. Work on getting the courage to ask Hermione out later. Maybe they could even convince Sirius to come with them to Diagon Alley again

The twins had left, not that he missed them — he didn't know why they always tested their new products out on him, but it was bloody annoying! —and since Harry wasn't here, he had a room all to himself. He felt a bit bad, not sending a letter to his mate, but Dumbledore had said it was better to just leave him alone for a bit, let him get over seeing a schoolmate die...

He opened his eyes, blinking against the blurriness.

And lurched out of bed, feet tangling in the covers and hitting the floor hard, mouth gaping open in an unattractive sight, a tortured sound in his throat as wide eyes gawped at the room.

His posters.

His Chudley Cannon posters!

His Chudley Cannon Orange Chudley Cannon posters!

They were Slytherin green! They were slimy snakes!

Where was the orange?!

And, oh god no!

They had all been defaced!

Hermione Granger stared up at the ceiling, arms folded behind her head as she lay in bed. It was fascinating, living in a Wizarding home. She was glad for the chance to get away from her parents. Don't get her wrong, she did love them, but they were muggles; they didn't understand her.

And there were only so many times you could holiday in France and still find it interesting.

Being able to use magic out of school was wonderful, and, being a Pureblood house, she had access to books the stores didn't sell.

It was unfortunate that she couldn't get into the Black Family Library. Honestly, some of the Pureblood traditions were so out-dated. Knowledge should be shared, made public. Who cared if some magicks could only be inherited? It's not like it was dangerous to use or anything. Honestly the muggle world was so much more advanced. There was no paganism or blood sacrifices and it was just wrong nobody thought it unnatural at school when boys held hands and kissed.

Purebloods were so backwards.

She didn't say anything when she saw Sirius or professor Lupin sitting much too close together to be proper but she figured, after twelve years in Azkaban, Sirius probably liked the physical contact with a real person.

With a sigh, she sat up. Missus Weasley would be busy in the kitchen, so she had some time before she had to get up. Reaching over to the bedside table, she lifted the top book and settled it on her lap.

Plumping up the pillow behind her, Hermione made herself comfortable then cracked the book open.

Only to blink in confusion. The page was blank. She turned the page, and then another, and then flipped through the entirety of the book. It was all blank. Heart racing, She grabbed another book, and then another. No no no no no.

All the words were gone.

Distraught eye's landed on her trunk, where she kept all the expensive books Dumbledore had given her when she brought to his attention how unfair the conversion rates between muggle and magical currencies were. Kicking back the covers, she ran over, throwing her trunk open, grabbing books by the handful, hastily skimming through blank pages.

She gasped, sitting back on her heels, covering her mouth as the horror sunk in. They were all blank. Oh, what was she going to do now?

"Moony," Sirius whined, fidgeting on the bed, "how much longer are you gonna be?"

There was an unintelligible mumble on the other side of the bathroom door. Sirius huffed, flopping backwards. Last night had been fun. He'd finally gotten through to Remus, whom had been unreasonably upset with him after the comments he made during the last Order meeting. He didn't know what he had done wrong — Remus' comments about thinking about Harry hadn't made any sense. His godson was fine. Sure, he wasn't at the house, but he was probably with his relatives, enjoying his summer. Dumbledore wouldn't leave him with abusive muggles so of course he was exaggerating!

He and Remus had agreed to disagree, and then Sirius had eagerly dragged the werewolf to bed.

He jerked up when he heard a muffled yell. There was some clattering, and then the door was thrown open and out came

Remus. There was blood running down his chin, lips inflamed and cracked, toothbrush grasped in his hand.

Golden eyes glared at him, contrasted between pain and outrage. "Is this a joke? He snarled, flinching through the agony in his mouth.

"What the hell happened?!" Why was there blood? What the hell?

"THERE IS SILVER IN THE TOOTHPASTE!" He roared, spittle and blood flying.

Sirius winced, ears ringing. Hands raised, he vigorously shook his head, backing away from the enraged werewolf. "I swear, Remus, I don't have anything to do with it. I wouldn't do something like that to you."

Merlin, how Remus wanted to believe him. Unfortunately, he knew the kinds of pranks his lover enjoyed. "Then how do you explain it?" He demanded, crossing over to the draws where he kept his potions, yanking them open, only to slam them shut, running a hand through his greying hair, uttering a low, "f*ck".

Sirius grinned goofily. "Love to."

Remus rounded on him with a growl. "Not now Sirius. All of my potions are gone!"

"There's more downstairs."

"Oh yes, and how do you think explaining why I need them will go down? You know they don't like being reminded what I am!"

"That's their problem. It's my house. If they have an issue, they can get over it."

Remus glared at the door, thinking it over. Then he sighed, nodding as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Put some clothes on first."

Sirius swiped up a robe, pulling it on, dragging Remus out of the bedroom. Trotting down the stairs, the pair paused, listening to the odd sounds coming from the children's bedrooms.

Almost at the same time, two doors slammed open and Ron and Hermione came storming out. It was impossible to understand what had happened amidst the indecipherable yelling and shrieking.

"Green, it all" "gone, empty" "their faces" "gone!" "poster" "hell happened"

For a time, Sirius and Remus simply stood there, taking in Ron's pale face, the freckles stark, and Hermione's frizzy hair as she clutched an armful of books to her chest. But then their noise seeped downstairs and Walburga's portrait flew open, her screamed profanities too much on top of everything else.

"What they hell is going on?!" Sirius yelled, grabbing the two teenagers that seem prepared to fight each other.

"Mayll posoterf, thmey'vye beboenks mesarsede wiemptyth!"

Sirius frowned, head turning between the two. "What? And separately this time. Ron, you start. Why is your hair green?"

"WHAT?!" Ron shrieked, and took off sprinting for the bathroom.

"Okay. We'll ask him when he comes back. Hermione, why are you screaming about books?"

She flushed, wanting to insist that she was not screaming, but there were more important matters. "My books. All of the pages are blank. There's nothing left."

Frowning, Remus stepped forward, holding out his hand. "May I see one?"

"Yes, of course." She handed over the top text. "Professor, why is your mouth bleeding?"

"There was silver in the toothpaste."

"...Oh."

Remus turned the book over in his hands, thumbing through the pages. There was no residual magic on them, no sign of a spell.

At that moment, Ginny stepped out, night-gown wrapped around herself, hair sticking up from sleep. "Is everything okay?"

"No, everything is not okay," Hermione snapped. "Every—MOTHER OF GOD!" She jumped, against the wall, hand clutching at her heart as a, a thing, went scuttling by.

"Sirius Black, you better have a good explanation for this!"

"Merlin, what now," Sirius groaned as Molly appeared at the top of the stairs. "What? What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?!" She screeched, arms waving about. "Everything in the kitchen is covered in mould! All of the food! All of the plates! All of the pans! What do you have to say for yourself?!"

"I don't know. How about I DON'T f*ckING KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON!"

"DON'T YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME!"

Sirius through his hands up in the air with a wordless scream. "f*ck this. I need a drink."

He pushed passed the Weasley Matriarch, pulling Remus behind him as he headed for the living room on the ground floor.

"That man," Molly tutted, fuming, hands on her hips, "has no manners. Couldn't even answer a simple question."

"All of us have had things of ours sabotaged, Missus Weasley," Hermione supplied.

"How do you mean by that, dear?"

"Well, all of my books are blank, professor Lupin had silver in his toothpaste, Ron has green hair but he said something about his posters and Ginny — actually, I don't know what happened to Ginny," Hermione finished, shooting the girl a quizzical look.

"Nothing's wrong here."

"Are you sure? Have you checked everything?"

"Yeah. I mean, it'd be pretty noticeable if —" she choked, eyes widening in alarm, paling drastically. "Oh no."

Spinning sharply on her heel, Ginny tore back into her room, rushing past her bed, tripping over to the wardrobe. Only to sink to her knees with a desolate cry when the doors opened, revealing their butchered contents.

Her photos. All of her photos of Harry Potter. Shredded. Clawed apart as though some animal had rampaged through them. Hand over her mouth, shaking fingers lifted a picture that had come free. A strangled scream escaped her, picture falling as she scrambled back, terrified.

Harry, her beautiful Harry had been mutilated, his charming smile contorted into a crazed grin, bright red blood leaking from the corners of his eyes, soft green a poison as they stared at her.

Hermione raced in, jerking to half when she saw the collapsed girl. "Oh, your shrine."

Ginny nodded numbly.

She had to be dragged away.

Sirius burst into the living room. "Can you believe that woman? Her audacity! I am getting bloody sick of her," he mumbled darkly, zeroing in on the liquor cabinet.

Remus remained silent, wincing at his tongue brushed against his gums. Thank Merlin he had realised what was going on before the toothpaste had access to the rest of his mouth.

Throwing open the cabinet far harder than necessary, he yanked out a bottle, hands shaking as he unscrewed the cap, grabbing a glass and pouring.

Only...nothing came out.

Stupefaction mangling his features, he snarled, hurling the bottle at the wall then grabbed another bottle. Which came up empty. And another.

Hands planted on either side of the cabinet, Sirius shook, frame shivering from the consuming need to break something. What the f*ck was going on? There was nobody in this house aside from them and...Kreacher. It was the elf's fault. He knew it. It had to be. He'd always hated the f*cking thing, the way it favoured his brother, the slimy snake.

"Kreacher!" He yelled, expecting the thing to pop in immediately. When it didn't, he bellowed for it again. He would teach that piece of filth a lesson. A long overdue lesson.

"Is this a bad time?"

Head snapping to the side, Sirius stared at Bill Weasley leaning against door-frame, red hair tied back, dragon fang through his ear, leather jacket half-open, all suave and debonair intrigue.

Outside the living room, the group descending the stairs spilled out into the hallway and paused. Molly was flustered, fussing over her daughter's comatose state, hushing Ron's complaints over his hair as Hermione supported Ginny's weight, blushing when she spotted the handsome figure of the oldest Weasley brother.

Eyebrow arching, Bill uncrossed his arms. Whatever was going on —from what he had seen — they all deserved it. "Well, it's about to get worse."

He handed this mornings edition of the Daily Prophet over to Sirius, figuring the he had the most right to it. Everybody rushed to crowd around the escaped convict as he un-rolled it. And wished he never had.

In the corner of the room, unseen by all with the cunning application of concealing charms, Kreacher watched. And he grinned. And yes, he rubbed his hands together in a decidedly villainous manner. Revenge was delicious. Master Peverell would be so pleased.

Harry frowned at the goblin behind the counter. The goblin stared back calmly, a smirk twisting his lips as he beheld the more adorable sort of human. Harry frowned some more. And then he huffed.

Glancing over his shoulder, brows furrowed, Harry looked back at the goblin and pointed at the door that was at the root of this dilemma.

"You want me to believe," Harry began disbelievingly, "that all I need to do is walk through that door," the door in question was relatively unassuming, considering the exorbitant luxury of the rest of the furnishings inside Gringott's Hall, "and I will be in England?"

Lacing long fingers together, the goblin revealed pointy teeth as he spoke. "I do not care if you believe it or not. It is fact. If you want to go to the British Branch, you will walk through that door and go there."

"But how?"

"Oh, by Grinard..." the goblin threw his hand up in the air, exasperation a palpable thing. "You will walk through that door. You will be in England. You will walk through it again when you want to come back. As if, as you humans like to say, by magic."

Harry levelled the goblin a look — the look said it all, except for the current irritation at being barely two heads above the top of the desk. He had tried being polite, using the standard greeting expected when one wanted to show respect. Yet, the goblin seemed intent on rebuffing him. Narrowing his eyes, Harry delicately unravelled an inch of his magic, satisfied when the goblin shivered.

"Despite your presumed beliefs, I do, amazingly, understand how the concept of a door works. What I do not understand — and can admit that I do not understand — is, essentially, why, if that door creates a link between England and the Netherlands, there is the International Floo Network when you have that!"

"Is that what the problem is?" The goblin asked incredulously, having assumed that, like most wizards, the boy was upset with the plainness of the door, or doubted Goblin magic or was in a way expected from most magicals, dissatisfied with their expectations.

"Yes!" Harry's finger's twitched, resisting the urge to pull his hair. It was bad enough he was so short; there was no reason to further the child-like image he suffered.

Grunting, the goblin reached below the desk and pulled out two empty pen — or quill, Harry supposed — holders. He set them upside down on the desk, a distance apart.

"This is how it works — and listen carefully. I shall not repeat myself. — This," one gnarled finger pointed at the holder on the left, "represents the Amsterdam Branch. This," a yellowed finger-nail tapped the holder on the right, "represents the British Branch. The action enabled by that door is called temporal dis-location." He enunciated carefully, laying emphasis. Harry nodded, to show he understood. "What that means, is the space in-between each branch is essentially compacted down to nothingness." He stacked the quill holders on top of each other. "Relativity exists on a simplistic level. All time is space and space is matter. As for why it is not used to travel: it is too complicated for one such as yourself to understand —" how rude "— as you do not have decades of goblin teaching." Okay. That was kind of reasonable. "In short, however, despite having travelled between branches, you have not travelled between places. You may be in the British Branch, but you are not in England. You may stand on the doorstep, but no part of your body shall be able to pass through onto English soil. Therefore, temporal dis-location is not a suitable method of travel because you are not truly travelling in a way that the International Floo or International Portkey allow. Do you understand?"

"I do," Harry flashed a grateful smile, "thank you. Out of curiosity, what would happen if I did try walking outside into England?"

"Nothing."

"Oh?"

"Because there would be nothing left of you for anything to happen to. It is impossible."

"Right." Harry adjusted his bag, uncomfortable with how pleased the goblin looked. "So, you mentioned a key, earlier?"

"Indeed." A small rectangular stone was slid across the desk, attached to a simple cord of leather. "This will allow you to pass. Insert it into the designated area. Do not lose it."

Harry turned the key over in his hand, eyes trailing over the illegible inscription etched upon its surface. "What is the inscription for?"

"Designation. That will take you to the British Branch and bring you back to the Amsterdam Branch. Going elsewhere comes at a higher price."

The implication sinking in, Harry blinked — the only physical sign he gave that it had just dawned that these 'temporal dis-location' doors likely connected at advantageous points all around the world.

"I see. Thank you for your help."

The goblin waved a hand. "Travel safe, human."

Harry hummed, turned away from the counter and headed for the door. He paused before it, deep breath, then thought to hell with it. Inserted the stone. Inhaled the sharp flash of magic, hanging the key around his neck. Prepared himself for the sickening experience he had come to associate with magical travel, and stepped through.

He'd closed his eyes at some point. Which he realised when he wandered why it was so dark.

So he cracked them open nervously, sure that nothing had happened. There was no dizzying experience, no moment of oh-look-the-floor's-coming-up-to-meet-me.

It was anti-climatic, frankly. And furthered the niggling belief that the goblin attendant had been feeling exceptionally cruel and decided to take it out on the unsuspecting human.

Jade eyes fully open, pupil dilating then contracting at the following influx of light, Harry simply stared as he registered the fact that it had worked. He was standing inside the hall of Britain's Gringotts. The colourful and exuberant aggregation that crowded Amsterdam's halls was gone, the deafening commotion and sudden absence that had his ears ringing slightly.

The door had worked. Just like a door! He been on one side and now he was on the other side. Only, instead of a mundane threshold, these places had been separated by a fairly substantial body of water. And he was standing on the other side!

Standing...in plain view of of a community of wizards and witches he was proactively avoiding.

He twisted — those pillars would be good to hide behind, nice and wide, solid. Nobody could see through seven feet of dense stone —

Breath hitching in his throat, a strangled sound that substituted an abandoned shriek and come out as something more resembling a distressed squeak, hand flying to stop his heart from leaping out of his chest, Harry jumped when turning brought him face to face with Nadnok.

Nadnok smirked. That's it. No concern, no worry for his poor constitution. Just a smirk. How insidious.

Harry sucked in a breath, convinced that doing so would give him the will necessary to cease looking like a child that had just been informed that, yes dear, there is a monster under your bed. I'm going to turn the lights off now, okay? Sleep well.

When he once again had control over his blood-pressure, Harry expelled the breath and smiled at his Vault Manager. "Hello Nadnok."

Smirk widening into something less cruel and more welcoming, although, with the scar twisting his mouth it was just as frightening, Nadnok dipped his head. "Hello to you too, Mister Peverell."

And then, recollection in his eyes, he remembered how their last encounter had ended. He pointed a warning finger at his charge. "No hugging."

Blast. Harry gripped the strap of his satchel to give his hands something to do. "How else am I supposed to get in my quota of physical contact?"

"Make a friend."

"It's not that easy! I can't go up to someone and propose friendship! Look at me!" Enigmatic hands gestured towards himself. "I'm tiny! I'll be taken advantage of!"

Nadnok raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You are a wizard."

"Well, true..."

"You are an incredibly powerful wizard."

Green eyes narrowing, Harry sniffed. "See, I know what you're doing. I can tell you now: it won't work. I refuse to allow you to sway me on this with pure logic."

"..."

Harry twitched, attempting to remain placidly nonchalant. But. No, it was too hard. "Please? One hug? I'll even let you have your pick of something in the Black vaults."

Nadnok considered this. It was a reasonable offer, a valid repayment for being touched by a human.

"Fine. But not here. Come with me."

"Yes!" Harry cheered, hurrying after the goblin, messing with his fringe so that it covered his eyes a bit, watching the British magicals they walked past.

Talk about culture shock. He had never truly comprehended how dull their fashion was. Of the wizards loitering around the desks, not one had an identifying feature, all dressed in monotonous black robes. The witches were a bit better, but still. It was beside the point. In Amsterdam, you couldn't move more than three feet without discovering a new shade of colour, or running the risk of being tripped by a vibrant creature scurrying across the ground, wings of rainbow feathers flapping above heads and men with canes and monocles, embroidery along the hems of their suits and fantastic hats sat upon the women's hair-do's.

He had been in a world of black and white photographs, interspersed by brief moments of sepia, before throwing himself into a world that wore colour like it was going out of style; a palette that would make that most dedicated artist envious.

"You were busy during your last visit," Nadnok commented, polished shoes tapping a steady rhythm.

"Hmm?"

"Indeed." Casting a sidelong look at the young Lord, one heavy with the weight of 'I know what you did', the goblin snorted. "Even muggles find house's spontaneously combusting, leaving nothing but ash, interesting enough to write it their papers."

Harry blushed, fidgeting with the ties on his bag. "Oh. That."

"Yes. According to the papers, muggle authorities appear to be quite perplexed. Rarely do they find instances of fire so controlled; the neighbouring houses not once being touched."

Was it appropriate to preen? Meh. He preened. "Thank you."

Nadnok chuckled, pushing open the door to his office as Harry blinked in surprise, the journey shorter than the last time he had made it. "And with fiendfyre, no less." He sobered. "Grimir was not pleased that you had so expended your core when she had only an hour previously informed you specifically not to."

Wincing, Harry sank into the chair before the desk as Nadnok shut the door and rounded the executive monstrosity.

"She's not here to yell at me over it, is she?"

"No, she is in America."

"Really?"

"Indeed. As Head-Healer, my bonded is often sought to provide assistance in times of need."

Harry frowned, dropping his bag as he crossed his legs. There were various newspaper subscriptions available back in the hotel room in the Room Directory. He had paid for the local paper, 'De Dagelijkse Schrijver' and slowly worked his way through it. "There was nothing in the paper about any international incidents."

"There would not have been. We goblins are a private people's," Nadnok smirked sharply, lacing his fingers. "Which is why we have survived the various idiocies of man-kind. Unfortunately," he sighed heavily, "no thing is completely exempt, as we have experienced. Some muggle mining crews worked with faulty equipment and tunnelled through a cavern, bringing down it and several adjoining tunnel routes. Grimir is assisting the American Branch Head-Healer in dealing with the injuries my brethren sustained."

"I'm so sorry," Harry breathed, the image of walls caving in as ceilings fell, air clotted with dust and debris horrifying. "If you don't mind my asking, though, how could that have happened? I mean, you lot have the most advanced magical protections I've ever seen."

Nadnok made a rumbling sound, darkness in his eyes as he stared at the war-axe on his walls. "It is not clear. They were muggles, using muggle machinery. At this stage, we have no option available than to suspect treachery amongst our kin, an internal sabotage, though to what ends is unclear." He fell silent, jaw clenching as teeth ground down. Then, the nicitating membrane blinked down over his eyes, and he focused on the boy sitting before him. "Enough of that. This meeting is for business, not to gossip like hut-dwellers. Before we begin, was there any matters you should like taken care of, Mister Peverell?"

"Erm, yes. You implied earlier that you have access to muggle newspapers, right?"

"Correct."

"Does that mean you have contacts in the muggle world?"

"...Yes."

"Perfect." Lifting his bag onto his lap, Harry dug through it and pulled out the notebook he had taken to writing his schemes down in. It was important these things were kept in the same place, after all. It wouldn't do too forget a brilliant plot of retribution simply because he lost the napkin he scribbled it on. Notebooks. They existed for a reason.

"Now, this newspaper, did it say anything about the Dursley's response to the fire?"

"Not as yet."

Wonderful news. "Good. Right. This is what I want — and tell me if you can do it or not," Harry added, paging through the notebook. He should invest in tacks. Make it easier to find things. "Ah, here it. Okay. So, the Dursley's have gone up to the sea-side resort down in Eastbourne, Sussex. Why? I don't know. Considering the size of Vernon and Dudley, I would imagine this was some I'll-intentioned design of Petunia's." He paused thoughtfully, having always wondered why they so enjoyed displaying their flubber in public. It was a beach, for Merlin's sake. People went there to relax — not run away screaming 'it's coming towards me!'

Oh. Hah. He got it now. Natural environment and all that.

"Anyway," he shook himself out of his daze. "I'm pretty sure they didn't tell anyone where they were going but even if they did, Petunia is too good to provide contact details that extend further than her personal phone, which Dudley broke just before they left, so it's likely people have been unable to contact them. Just for laughs, I would like you to organise a person to go down and tell them of what has happened, and get a picture of their expressions."

Chuckling at the human's thought pattern, a harsh, rasping sound, Nadnok shook his head fondly as he wrote down the instructions for when he was available later to organise such things.

"Furthermore, I would like you to hire some private investigators and have them look into Vernon's dealings with a muggle company called 'Grunnings'. They make pipes, I think. Or machinery... nope, don't know don't care. What I do care about is any suspect-looking finances that Vernon may have been involved in. He's filthy enough that I wouldn't put him past laundering money from a company he's employed at." As Harry spoke, he had located a particular page and had been busy copying the contents onto a new page. When he was done, he ripped the page out then handed it to Nadnok. "Those are all of the passwords, security codes, banks, credit card details and business partners — that I know of — that Petunia and Vernon use."

"You are organised."

Harry laughed harshly, a broken sound, eyes stinging. Organised. The risks he had taken to find this information would make the most iron of stomachs cringe and look away. "I have had years to plan this. I made damn sure I was as prepared as possible, and even then."

The commiserating look Nadnok sent him made an ambivalent felling linger in his chest. "Was there anything else, youngling?"

"Yes. Next, I would like an anonymous tip left at the Police Department that Dudley Dursley and Piers Polkiss are complicit with the drug ring in Surrey. The group meets every second Tuesday evening in the park near Wysteria Lane. Then, I would like to submit accusations of child-abuse, child endangerment, attempted murder and paedophilia for Vernon Dursley and child-abuse and child-endangerment for Petunia Dursley." Chewing on his lip, Harry tapped his pen against the page. "You wouldn't happen to know a squib doctor that could testify for a medical, do you?"

Laying the quill down, Nadnok made an uncertain sound. "I can make enquiries."

"Brilliant. That it then, for now."

"I see nothing we at Gringotts can not accomplish. I shall inform you once it is done."

"Thank you." Then, he smiled, light and eager. "Now on to business!"

Nadnok was amused. It was in the way he raised his eyebrow. It said it all. "Few humans are eager to conduct business with a goblin," he commented.

"Well, go on, prove them wrong."

"It concerns establishing sufficient timetables for you imminent tutoring."

"What?! No! It's summer!"

"Therein lies a standard response."

"But, like..." Harry's eyes travelled around the office, hoping for salvation from the mean Manager. Eyes alighting on...nothing,

Harry grasped at proverbial straws. "Come on, I've suffered! I deserve a break. I've got a new city to look around! I need a house! I'm living in a hotel for an indefinite period!" His arguments were flimsy at best, he knew, but, "why must you be so mean?"

"It brings me great pleasure."

"There's no swaying you on this, is there?"

Nadnok pretended to ponder this. He wasn't very believable. "No."

Very much not pouting, Harry blew out a breath, catching his fringe, and rolled his eyes. "Of course not. Fine. What do we need to talk about over my 'imminent tutoring'. Wait, shouldn't Bannot and Furnar be here for this?"

"They are indisposed, currently. This is predominantly a preliminary reconnaissance, of a sort. To begin, by what Wizarding standard have you successfully surpassed?"

Harry looked at him, intrigued. "Doesn't Gringotts have offical records like that?"

Nadnok shook his head in the negative, busy retrieving several portfolios from the draw by his knee. "Education falls beneath the Ministry's jurisdiction, so, no."

"Huh. Erm, I just finished my fourth year. I haven't taken the O.W.Ls or N.E.W.Ts yet, but, I've read ahead two years at least in theory. If I had practice on the practical, I could write my O.W.Ls next month."

"That is...unexpected. We had planned for at least half a year of delay. This is most beneficial." He paused, slashed something across the page. "What subjects have you studied?"

Stifling a sigh — because he was grateful, very much so. He was just so tired. He had hoped for a break. — Harry counted them off, mentally listing them because there were not so many that he needed his fingers to keep track. "Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination — which I regret — Herbology, History of Magic and Potions. I've been studying Arithmancy and Ancient Runes by myself."

A rumbling was Nadnok's response; a sound Harry had come to associate with serious deliberation. Long nails clacked across the wood. "You are confident you could pass the O.W.L. testing in two months, with practical study?"

"Yes, I am. I dislike exaggerating my abilities." More like, had had it physically whipped into him to underestimate, if anything. It was a concerning character flaw he had spent the last four years quashing. As it was, humbleness had been such a popularly received perception, Tom had theorised, once he finally discerned the cause, that Harry had managed to rearrange his psychological make-up into a type of persona-based safety function, of sorts. At school, he could be the Harry Potter everyone wanted him to be, without the stress of worrying over being something he wasn't. That way, they never had to see what he was like, out of school.

At twelve, Harry had been confused but humouring. At fourteen, it made a lot more sense.

A curling piece of parchment was pushed towards him. He lifted an eyebrow, pulling it closer and smoothing it out. "Look through there, Mister Peverell, and mark the ones of interest to you."

"Oh, erm, alright." He glanced at the list. "I thought you would have already decided for me?"

Nadnok gave an amused-looking tweak of the mouth. "We have. We are curious to see what a youngling would find interesting."

"Like a social...thingy? I forgot the name. What is is when people go around conducting — ah! Got it. Social survey."

"If it pleases you to consider it so, then by all means, do."

"Mm. No. Don't think I shall. I'm going to look at this as the fallacy of choice." Harry tapped the pen against his lip, then smirked slyly. "Its more comforting than acknowledging that my educative-life is in the hands of goblins."

Nadnok gave an appropriate affronted look, before chuckling and waving his hand for the young Lord to get on with it.

Which Harry hastened to do. There was a gleam in those dark beads that set him on edge.

His first thought, reading through, was bloody hell there are a lot of options.

His second thought, unsurprisingly, was why. It was dragged out. And pathetic sounding.

His third thought, eyes stuck on the fifth option, was what had done to give the goblins the impression he would voluntarily want to learn how to hunt, gut, and skin a boar. He was, quite frankly, perplexed. For more reasons than he was sure only the muggle world had boars.

But, he wasn't going to judge. For all he knew, boar hunting was an important part of their traditions. Don't knock it till you know it...or something like that.

The next few minutes were lacking in terms of rousing conversation, but filled with the soft scratch of a pen-tip against page. At some point, a sharp pain alerted Harry to the fact that he had bitten through the soft flesh of his lip in his deliberation. Ow. How annoying. Poking it softly with his tongue, wincing, he sucked on the wound, scrawled a last arrow, checked it over, then gave the list back to Nadnok.

Nadnok held it up, eyes scanning quickly with a contemplative grunt.

And then he smirked, sharp twists and devious angles, and Harry could have sworn ice ran down his back.

He narrowed his eyes.

Nadnok chuckled in victory.

Harry failed to abate his curious ways. "Alright," he began warily. "Why are you smirking like that?"

Remembering that he was not alone in his office — and with a client, at that — Nadnok attempted to wipe the smirk of his face, rearranging his features into something disarmingly pleasant. He failed miserably. Pleasant was not an adjective used to describe goblins by any means. Unless you wondered how it felt to die by torturous regret.

Harry gave him an unimpressed look, folding his arms back and reclining in the chair. He had seen parents, particularly mothers, do this in stores when their children were acting up. It had appeared to work, then.

Nadnok twitched, then grunted and caved.

Success! Unimpressed Look #3 strikes again!

"Bannot now owes me the deeds to his bog."

Jaw dropping open, incredulity on his eyes. "You bet on me?!"

Shrugging carelessly, Nadnok cleared his throat, unapologetic. "Indeed." His eye twitched. "Grimir will never hear of this."

The unimpressed look continued. "Grimir is going to find out. You're married."

"Hmm. Yes, she will."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Organise another bet with Bannot, but this time, intentionally lose the deeds to the bog. A pity, that; it had remarkably course sludge."

"Yeah, alright," Harry allowed with fake confidence, then chirped, "when you die, can you leave the contact details for another Accountant? Or should I just ask Furnar, 'cause at this rate, he's going to be the only one left unharmed?"

"Funny."

"Not kidding here!"

"Moving on," Nadnok announced loudly, waving a hand so that the parchment lifted into the air, hovering vertically off of the desk, slowly turning so that Harry could see it. "These are the subjects that myself, Bannot and Furnar shall be instructing you in."

Black Magic Theory. Harry's lips pressed together. Yeah. He had not forgotten what was written on the Inheritance Test — learning that he had the aptitude for necromancy was not, in fact, easily forgotten. Dark Arts. Yep, chose that one. Finally, somewhere he could practice. Duelling. Goblin Runes. That one...that one he was looking forward to. Healing. Ritual Magic Theory. Spell Crafting. Hmm. Luna's mother had created spell's, hadn't she? Had to be honest, wasn't so keen on that one. But...well, he'd see how it goes. Warding. And Wizarding Politics.

It was a lot.

"Grimir shall be the one to instruct you in Healing."

"Yes, I remember the conversation." He frowned slightly. "She said I wouldn't be very good at it, because of my magic. Would that be the necromancy at work, like, they aren't compatible Arts, or something else?"

A contemplative expression crossed the goblins features. Combined with the militaristic jacket and his scars, he looked much like a General assessing the most likely outcomes of a tactical effort. "You can see magic, correct?"

"I can, yes. Not on everybody, mind," Harry quickly added, "but on some people, I can."

"That is...peculiar. But beside the matter at hand. As you will have discovered, every individual has a mixture of colours that are idiosyncratic to their person. We goblins call this the Webbing Effect. Are you familiar with the theory of 'tabula rasa'?"

"Erm. No."

"Tabula rasa was proposed by the muggle, John Locke, to describe the condition of a person at their time of birth. It translates to 'blank slate'. Essentially —" he paused, nicitating membrane making a slick sound. "Yes?"

Harry lowered his hand. "Should I be writing this down?"

"...Yes."

"Right." Harry spun his notebook around, opened to the back page, turned it upside down, and began writing.

Nadnok eyed his progress, and when he was done, he continued.

"Essentially, tabula rasa implies a being is born with no preconceptions, no concept of good and bad, and so on. Rather, their experiences and interactions with others as they age creates these perceptions, melding that person into an individual acceptable by the standard of the social construct of the time. Where this applies to the Webbing Effect is this," holding up his hand, Nadnok splayed his fingers, then pointed at his palm with the feathery end of his quill. "At the centre of the Web is this, the palm, or the Core. It is the focal point purely distinct to the individual. Now, keep in mind, youngling, that, with intrinsic research into the Forbidden Arts, magicals have discovered every being is born with certain predispositions. They do not agree with an utterly 'blank slate', but do agree that experience and interaction are imperative to the cultivation and continuance of these predispositions. Do you understand?"

Chewing on his lip — really, there was no getting rid of this habit — Harry slowly nodded. "You're saying that the, erm, Web, is basically the 'predispositions' but they aren't certain. They can be changed by external influences? Right?"

"Indeed. So, where the palm represents the Core of the Web, the fingers represent the outer circles of the Web. These areas are thinner, more interspersed and less densely concentrated, but important. It is here that external factors first touch. This area is most susceptible to change during childhood, as, though they remain malleable throughout life, they are more so as the individual first establishes connexion. Insofar as the palm is composed of the individual, the fingers —" he snapped his fingers, and Harry watched lines of gold, glittering and dancing through the air like dust-motes, weave between the goblin's outstretched fingers, "— are representative of connexion. The reason this is important is that a magical Core is not absolute. The categories are thus: Light, Grey and Dark. Suffusions between are the norm as no person is ever truly light or dark or neutral, but it is easier to classify by extremes, according to Wizards.

"When we consider the effect of external influences on the Core, we look at the outer-reaches of the Web. If the child grows in a nurturing environment, the influence will be positive and provide no extreme disparages. If the child grows in an undesirable environment, however, it can result in extreme deviations from the sapling Core and the disposition may change. Moreover, throughout life, severe experiences can further effect the Core. Although, as the adult magical will have already surpassed magical maturity, changes in the Core classification are less common, as they take longer to fully realise."

Harry swallowed warily. "...Oh."

"Yes," Nadnok shifted, mouth a grim line. "In your case, you would have been born with a predisposition towards the Black Arts, because of your blood. However, both James and Lily Potter were Light inclined and affiliated. Should your childhood have continued with them, or continued in a similar fashion, it is likely that this predisposition would have remained inactive. Unfortunately, given the circ*mstances, we both are aware that that was not the case. So, what has happened is you went from having a Light core, presumably, to having a Dark Grey Core affiliated with a Blood Line magic. Hence, the poisonous shade of green that makes up your Core."

"That," Harry said, "is a lot to take in." He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking it through. "Considering it's necromancy, wouldn't my core be Dark?"

"No, not necessarily. Firstly, you have the affinity for necromancy. You have not actually practiced it. Secondly despite being classified as Black Magic, necromancy is...ambivalent. It is life and death. They are simply states of existence. One can not exist without the other. It cannot be said it is dark when there is no light to explain the absence of it and vice versa. Thus, it is a neutral magic, with macabre consequences if handled improperly."

"Uh...huh. You know, this is very philosophical."

"I am over a hundred and forty years old, youngling. I have had time."

Jaw dropping open, forming a perfect 'o', eyes blinking. "Wow. You look good for a hundred and forty-ish."

"Thank you."

Harry took a moment to regained his thoughts, looking over the notes he had taken. "Erm...ah. Right. Okay, so that accounts for my colour of the centre of the Web. How does connexion effect the colours of the—" he paused, checking the terminology, "—outer-reaches?"

Nadnok shifted, finding a more comfortable position, clearing his throat. "The connexion is more complicated. It is difficult to outline definitive shades of influence. Suppose we were to have a model before us, the outer-reaches would be variegated in colour — like a refracted prism, if you will — to such a degree that it would be next to impossible to accurately identify the influence accredited to a single person or experience. This is the standard. And it does not apply to you."

Harry rolled his eyes, pen moving quickly as he muttered, "Of course it doesn't."

"You have four very distinguishable colours. The focus of your Core is a poisonous green. That particular shade is telling. While not the tell for your Blood Line gift, it is an indicator of the nature of your magic itself. Many, be it creature or wizard, will find it alluring, almost addictively so, and in being so, fall victim to enchantment. I would imagine that this is a safety mechanism established during your childhood, as it is superficially defensive in nature while conversely being, in reality, surprisingly offensive." Pausing, Nadnok levelled a serious look upon the boy. "It is imperative you continue exercising control over your magic. As it is, there is room for improvement, which we shall develop during our lessons, but you are fairing well in doing so."

That was good to hear. For a moment, Harry had been worried that Nadnok and the other goblins had only been so nice to him because of the 'enchantment'.

"Now, the aspect of most concern with this type of Core — which is while not similar to that of a Veela's, with their allure, is at the most basic level similar in concept — is that it is incompatible with others. This — are you well, Mister Peverell?"

The word rang in his ears, a horrid sound, as sourness coated his tongue. "Incompatible?"

The goblin sighed. He had hoped to bury that particular word beneath an onslaught of information, knowing that the young Lord would not react favourably. It was unfortunate that humans craved even a modicum of companionship. As it was, he had succeed in way-leading the boy from hugging him.

"Correct."

Oh. So...he hadn't heard wrong. Swallowing, staring at the page, voice small, Harry asked, "what does that mean, exactly?"

"All it means, youngling, is that many magical may find your signature overbearing. It is not the be all and end all of companionship."

"Really?" Looking at the boy, Nadnok arrived at the, quite frankly, shocking retaliation that he had forgotten how young the human before him truly was. Fourteen. His manner was deceiving, as was the way he thought, but still. He was little more than a child.

"Think of it as this: only those worth knowing will linger."

Harry gave a small smile, little more than a curve of the lips, but his eyes were lighter, less shadowed. "I never took you for an opportunist," he teased, tucking the word away in the darkest parts of his mind.

"Then we are agreed, for I am not one. I am a realist. Reality suffers neither optimism nor pessimism, and defeatists are tolerated as they show that life has won."

"Can I quote you on that?" It was a bit long, but it would look brilliant on a t-shirt.

"You can."

"Thank you. So, my core?"

"Given the nature of your core, the lack of colours can be accredited to its behaviour." See, he could totally explain such a delicate process without using the word 'incompatible'. And Grimir told him he wasn't subtle. "Indicative of your affinity with necromancy — although, in general, it is indicative of the affinity for Black Magic, but in your case, we have identified it — is the grey. The most telling feature of this, as some Cores can be grey and not be affiliated with Forbidden Magicks, is the way it interacts with the green. Instead of standing alone, it acts much like ash, coating the edges.

"And those are the colours idiosyncratic of you. The final two colours account for the connexion. Midnight blue and transient violet — often times appearing as lilac — are representative of either a person, people, or experience that has left a fervid bond within your psyche. It is likely that, at some point, you had developed an emotional dependence upon whomever or whatever this is representative of."

Harry could not contain the grin, incredulous. He ducked his head, feeling oddly possessive of this realisation. Midnight and violet. He couldn't believe he hadn't realised that before. Although, to be honest, he'd always assumed that the colours were indicative of a person's behaviour.

"I admit myself curious as to the identity of the experience that left such a strong impact upon you, Mister Peverell. Would you be willing to indulge my curiosity?"

Harry looked up, running a hand through his hair, hand twitching to flatten his fringe. There was laughter in his eyes, supposing it to be ironic. "When I was twelve I met a...boy. By the name of Tom Riddle."

Nadnok blinked, the suctioning sound expressing it all. Even goblins knew by what name Voldemort had once gone by.

"I suppose it's ironic, that the only one to leave any lasting impression on my magic is the one to leave such a lasting impression on Wizarding Britain."

"Metonymic expressions do tend to do that," Nadnok smirked, chuckling lowly.

Harry huffed, amused with him, writing down 'metonymic' to look up later, though he could make a guess as to its meaning.

"Okay, how does all for this come into my not being able to do healing magic? I know from experience that I can do healing magics. Typically, on myself. So...I don't understand."

"Hmm. It is not so much as you being unable to perform healing magics, I think, but it requiring a higher form of concentration of your magic, a more concentrated stress point on your Core, in order for you to do so."

"But...why?"

"Offensive dispositions contrast with defensive Arts. Not only is your Core's function inherently offensive, it conceals itself with the deception of defensive."

"Well," Harry mused, dropping his pen. "That sucks. I was kind of thinking of becoming a Healer. Maybe. I mean, it was more appealing that becoming an Auror."

"You can still be so, it will simply take an exorbitant dedication on your part."

"Yeah...I suppose so."

A quiet befell the office.

"So..." Harry began. "Where were we?"

Nadnok frowned, eyes sweeping over the desk in front of him, before, alighting upon the sheaf of parchment that had been slowly rotating in mid air whilst they consumed themselves with a deep and long winded explanation on the nature of magic that could have probably taken place some other time. "Your tutoring, I believe."

"Ah, so we were. How is this going to work? Will I come here everyday or..." Harry trailed off, not quite sure where the options extended.

"No. What we are going to do is focus primarily on your Wizarding education. The sooner you complete the O.W.L testing, the sooner we can commence the N.E.W.Ts."

"And the sooner I can start working on getting into the Wizengamot." It was a logical move.

"That to. Moreover, what many are not aware of is, the O.W.Ls can be taken in parts. We will utilise this. While you continue study of standard subjects, we shall begin your instruction in our chosen subjects. Those, you can complete testing in before you take the standard N.E.W.Ts. Now," Nadnok ducked below the desk only to resurface with a stack of books that made Harry's eyes ache merely by thinking off reading it all. "We shall begin with these."

...of course they would.

Harry had two choices. He could contend this matter, citing undue underage labour or...he could roll with it.

He'd go with the second one. He did not want to face the goblins wrath. Or worse, revisit the Wack-Me stick.

"Alright."

Nadnok grunted suspiciously, eyeing the boy. He had expected a bit more opposition than simple acceptance. "You shall come here every two days, unless otherwise stated, for practical lessons or quizzing. In you own time, you are expected to read the requisite chapters and study the theory, keeping aside questions you should like to ask or require further explanation on, and complete set activities. Weekends are your own to do what with what you will. In the meantime, I shall submit the paperwork to the Ministry to allow you to fall under the Self-Study sector of the Department of Education."

Eyeing the stack, eye twitching at the ink and amount of words enclosed within, Harry hummed. "I'm going to need a lot more notebooks, aren't I?"

Nadnok response was to grin sharply, a slashed thing that involved a lot of teeth as he pushed the stack of books towards Harry. They were soon packed away in the satchel, waiting to be looked through later —

Harry jumped as a previously unnoticed paper-origami bird screeched to life, hopping around the desk in a papery embodiment of a migraine. It was a dreadful little thing, and Harry very much wanted to squish it. But he withheld the impulse when he saw the look of adoration upon the fearsome goblin's face. He was man enough to admit it was frightening. And vaguely concerning.

Soon enough — although, by any sane reasoning, it could have happened a great deal sooner — the tone-deaf avian released a noxious fume and began, of all things, bubbling.

Harry was lost. Nadnok, in comparison seems to understand this.

"Also, Grimir says you are to refrain from potion-making until the potion regime she has instructed you to follow has concluded. Evidently, contact with a concoction even the slightest bit faulty could have severe, adverse side-effects. She is not willing to take this risk. So, for the time being, you shall be studying theory only."

Harry simply nodded, showing he had heard, but...he was rather preoccupied by the gruesome death the origami-piece had suffered.

"How does it do that?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of melted bits and small puff of smoke as he scooted closer in his seat, wanting a closer look.

Nadnok, pleased by the show of interest, lifted an eyebrow, adjusting the cuff-links on his jacket. Absently, Harry noted they were tiny motif's of skulls. How...cheery.

"The animation or the combustion?""Erm. Both. Definitely both."

"The animation is relatively simple, requiring a combination of transformative transfiguration and a delicate piece of charmwork that enables the voice box. The combustion is a tad more difficult, as it is an alchemical curse tied to a time-release."

Yeah, okay. They sounded atrocious but that was bloody awesome.

"Do you make other creatures, or only birds?"

"I admit, I am an avian enthusiast." He certainly preened like one. "I have a nest."

"You," Harry lifted an eyebrow, "have a nest?"

"Indeed. It is precautionary. I do not always find that I have the time to create an avian reminder, so I have a nest prematurely prepared."

"Do you mind if I — I mean, can — would it be terribly rude to ask I could see it?"

Nadnok ruminated upon this. Deeply. Hands clasped in the universally recognised repose of consideration. And then he dipped his head. "I do not see why not." He motioned toward Harry. "Come around the desk."

With child-like eagerness, Harry bounced out of his seat, bag thumping against his hip as he rounded the desk. He almost squealed, he was that excited.

"I can't believe I'm seeing the other side of a Goblin's desk," he whispered loudly, the moment seemingly requiring a sort of reverence. He paused, taking in the office from the other side. "Huh. It doesn't look all that different from here."

Nadnok scowled, equal parts amused at the human and perturbed that a human was behind his desk. "Nobody may know of this," he warned.

"Promise. My lips are sealed. Don't think anybody would believe me anyway."

"Hmph. Very well." Beady black orbs measured the boy. "You will need to kneel," he pronounced, before cranking the lever on his chair and dropping down about three feet.

Harry lowered himself, keeping an eye on the draw-handles so as not to bash his head on them. Crawling forward awkwardly, because, despite appearances, it was not easy crawling around behind a desk whilst also avoiding falling into a goblin, Harry slowly neared as Nadnok, with obvious care, pulled open the bottom draw.

The soft cacophony of dozens of little beaks filled their ears. Harry blinked, taking in the creations. Tiny feathered bodies crawled and flopped over each other, many squawking indignantly as their roosting places were disturbed by an obnoxious foot or claw. In one corner, several had even started a choir.

The sound the made were unfit for the swell of hearing.

It was ghastly.

Harry wanted to coo. So he did. As did Nadnok, sticking in a gnarled finger and chuckling when it was viciously attacked.

They were the cutest freaking things he had ever seen.

"They. Are. Adorable."

Nadnok grinned a grin of grinch-like proportions, utterly smitten, and not one nicitating membrane was blinked when the largest origami bird zeroed in on the cuticle and harshly began attempting to separate it from the rest of the finger.

Well. That determined that then. Harry was going to awe and make infatuated noises from a distance.

Nadnok turned, mouth opening to launch a spiel on the history of each individual creation —

A bell, propped on the corner of the desk, trilled twice; short bursts that had the goblin stilling immediately. Harry shot the bell a confused look, then turned to Nadnok.

Instantly, Nadnok was a rush of motion, gently closing the draw and cutting off the outraged chirping before shifting away from the desk as hands busied themselves above the desk, clearing away everything they had been busy with. "Under here," he grunted, pointing briefly had the space under the desk. "Quickly."

Flight or fight mechanism kicking in, Harry scrambled under the desk — idly noting that it was surprisingly spacious — and tucked himself away in the corner, knees pressed against his chest.

Nadnok pushed the chair in, hiding away the notebook and pen the boy had been using in a top draw.

Harry didn't mind the cramped position overly much — the highly polished shoes that were in danger of poking his eyes out provided a remarkable contrast from his cupboard as nothing had ever been that clean in there — but he bemoaned the fact that it dampened the noise he could faintly hear clamouring in the corridor. Stupid desk. Completely ruining eavesdropping.

Almost as if he sensed the boy's pout, Nadnok scrawled down a goblin rune — all sharp lines with no curves — applied a sticking charm, and slapped it on under the desk. Harry tugged softly on his trouser leg to show his appreciation, belatedly realising he could have done so himself, and folded his arms up against his chest just as the doors flew open —

"Sir! You are not sanctioned! You may not venture any further!"

— and Albus Dumbledore swept in.

Chapter 13: 13

Chapter Text

Date: 22^th June 1995
Location: Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland.

This was bad.

Amidst the gentle whirring and frequent ticking that perforated his office, Albus sat, upon his chair — it is a throne! We have been over this! — and he puzzled. His sky-blue eyes were grave as they stared over the rim of his half-moon spectacles at nothing in particular. Actually, he was staring out the window, and had been admiring the grounds of the kingdom of which he was King, but recently, his thoughts had taken a darker turn, and he was left arriving at a rather daunting conclusion.

This was bad.

He was wary of using the word 'dire'. No, no, he was much too optimistic for that. After all, he chuckled, the Griffon feather pausing in the ponderous tracing of his lips, he had accomplished many things many would call dire, yet here he was, Leader of the Light, the last frontier for the redemption of wizards that had fallen to the Dark.

He heaved an aged sigh, turning away from the scenery to instead look upon his Phoenix. In times such as these, his beloved familiar was a balm to turbulent thoughts, in a way that, regrettably, lemon sherbets simply weren't.

Only to find that Fawkes had absconded, perch bare and gnarled, at some point during his musings.

Sometimes — and this was only the idle musings of an old man, that had seen much, and was beloved by many — sometimes he could not help but sense that the Phoenix did not...like him. In some way.

But of course, this was preposterous, so he discarded the errant thought and instead returned to his pondering.

Harry Potter was still missing. His relatives could not be located. He had had to resort to eating the laced candies on his desk. So, he was now riding an externally influenced wave of calming peacefulness.

...his bushy eyebrow raising, he deduced that that may be why he seemed so...at ease, with the rapid deterioration of his days.

And perhaps the reason for why there was that funny swirly shape in the corner. A benign smile gracing his lips, he lowered the Griffon feather quill. Such attractive colours. He could just sTaRe aT tHeM fOrEvEr.

Oh, and his wand was missing. The fabled Death Stick. The unbeatable wand. The wand he had Gellert imprisoned for. Missing. But that was okay...it would all wOrK OuT iN ThE eNd.

Mm. There were such delightful sounds, all soft and cottony. They tasted like lemons. Ooh. Lemons. He liked lemons. And sherbet. Lemons...sherbets. Lemony sherbet.

He straightened in his chair, pausing to giggle at the little bell in his beard — ooh, he had a beard. Where had that come from? Was...was he old? Gasp! Had he and Gellert not achieved immortality, like they'd planned? What happened there, they had...made plans — hadn't they...they had...beneath the, the lemon tree!

Ooh, lemons. Lemons! He had a brilliant idea! It would revolutionise the candy would! Sherbet lemons. Perfect pairing, right there. Surely, they would award him an Order of Merlin for this...although. He frowned, blown eyes narrowing on a shelf. That looked rather Order of Merliny.

Maybe he already had one.

This was most concerning.

His lips smacked together, making a popping noise.

He jumped, looking around in alarm. What was that popping noise? CONSTANT VIGILLE —nooo. That wasn't his saying. He had a saying? How...strange.

Suspicious gaze sweeping over the room over the rim of his spectacles — why was he always looking over the rim? Why didn't he look through...ooh, magic, simply delightful. Ah, he remembered now. He had charmed them to see magic because he wasn't powerful enough to! Hah!

He laughed, mirthful and cheery, wiping a manicured nail under his eyes. Such good times.

Bit of a headache though. Sometimes he suspected he had gotten the spell wrong. But..that couldn't be right! He was Albus Dumbledore! Headmaster of Hogwarts; Supreme muggy-Mugwump...and something else...but it couldn't be that important...he was Albus Percy- Perce...Pearce?

He was Albus Pearce Wul- Wool...Woolfram? Br-by-Burke...no, no that wasn't right.

Oh, who cares. He was Albus Dumbledore and he never forgot anything!

...

What had he been thinking about?

Above his head, the Portraits of deceased Headmasters and Headmistresses glared mutinously. He had silenced them all a little over three days ago. Again. Frankly, they were all quite used to this. Dumbledore and his tantrums. They were like frogs and chocolate. You simply could not have one without the other, in their unanimous opinion.

Except for Jacques Lovegood. He thought the chocolate ruined the frog. He had been excommunicated from their Confectionary Committee.

Sipping from his goblet, Phineas Nigellus Black — a man whom simply did not sound as magnificent without the entirety of his name spoken — shared a commiserating look with Walter Aragon, whom, in his distraction, allowed Brian Gagwilde's pawn to take his Queen, placing him in Check. The other portraits had been tempted to lay the blame on him for laughing so loudly. However, he was not a Slytherin for nothing, so he had successfully managed to out-sneak, out-speak and generally slither his way out of the spotlight and then swing that glaringly bright beam onto the man that ought to be blamed. The silencing charm was irksome, though. He had no idea how long he would have to wait before he could share the exploits that occurred that morning within Grimmauld Place with his colleagues.

Meanwhile, in a lonely, neglected little corner, Armando Dippett sat, contemplating his incredibly poor life decisions. The cold and glaring spotlight had been shone upon him. As a result, considering that he had been the man to appoint the Barmy Old Coot deputy-headmaster when he had run the school, the other portraits were shunning him until they felt he properly regretted his dimwitted actions.

Albus stood, annoyed when the world spun — honestly, so rude. He was great! The world ought to stop for him! — and moseyed his way over to corner by the shelves. He had decided, quite suddenly, and with little in the way of validated reasoning, that he wanted a closer look at the swirly shapes.

He was positively merry by the time he reached the swirly shapes. There were bells in his beard and there were bells on his shoes! Who'd have thought?

Albus leaned forward, peering, but reared back when his long nose smacked the wall. Ow. Mean wall. He glared at the wall, clearly staking out his zone — he was in the ZoNe — then dismissed it in favour of looking back at the swirly things. He wanted to touch them. In his humble opinion, he designed simply beautiful robes, and those colours would look utterly perfect on his new sketch.

A wizened hand stretched out, swaying a little in his loopy state, and reached and...knocked down a shelf.

Jumping, hiking up his robes and revealing ankles that, despite being a common site, still had the revered portraits blanching, Albus avoided crashing into any of the fallen items with an unexpected dexterity. Which was, in many people's opinions, highly unfortunate.

Although, these people were really quite pleased when the hem of his robe caught on the leg of a table, yanked him forwards and he did, indeed, lose his footing, tripping over the very items he had just succeeded in avoiding.

He went down with a clatter, a curse, and a mentally-scarring image of his gold-silk loincloth.

Around the room, several portraits, those of poor constitution, dryly retched into desk-drawers as they were short of buckets.

Clutching his head, Albus blinked in confusion, unsure as to how he come to be on the floor amidst the shapely graveyard of his fallen possessions. The memory was fuzzy. And his mouth was dry, so he would need to call up an elf for a pot of tea, but otherwise, he distinctly remembered contemplating how he was to find he wayward pawn, Harry Potter.

Truly troublesome, that.

There were ways, but, unless the boy happened to be residing in his bathroom, Light searching spells would reveal nothing. Which meant he would have to turn to Dark Magic.

He ran a hand down his beard with a tremulous sigh. He really didn't want to have to go through a sterilisation ritual for the brat.

It was bad enough he had to sterilise his office whenever a Slytherin came up seeking his assistance.

Yet, it seemed he had no option. How else was he to find the brat? How —

His gaze alit upon an oblong object that had been resting upon a gold-encrusted podium until it fell to the floor. A dismal puff of smoke emitted from its spout, a soft churning sound within.

That was it! Oh, the answer had been there all along! The trinkets he had linked to Potter's life force! All he needed was an object holding the boy's magical signature and the goblins could locate him.

He would leave immediately! The sooner he found the brat the sooner he could get him back under his control. He would need to be punished, of course, with benevolence. And the boy would have to buy his relatives a new house, as there was little doubt in his mind that he was responsible for the house burning down. But it would all work out in the end. The Greater Good was unappealing to many but it was, in the end, for the Greater Good.

He stood, sneering as his knees cricked with the movement and hips pinched, before pasting on a benign smile and reinforcing the Twinkle Charm.

He had to speak to Minerva.

What had been a relatively peaceful morning for the goblins of Gringotts was shattered with the unwanted visit of the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

He came in a streak of garish robes, hideous in their unnatural yellow colouring and nightmare inducing with their pimply-coloured faded salmon tassels.

There would be many a story told about this particular moment, as goblins, for the first time in recorded history, abandoned their classifying and measuring of precious stones and metals to duck behind their desks, pull out some cleansing wipes, and begin vigorously trying to rub the image away from their poor, tortured eyes.

And he went, in robes that encompassed the definition of poor life choices, non-existent fashion sense and possibly hinted at chronic Barminess, without pausing to speak to a single goblin.

There was a collective sigh of relief as no goblin found himself the victim of tooth-rotting conversation.

This relief was but momentary, however, when they realised that the man had just bypassed their counters and set off to walk their private halls unattended.

Sneer etched upon his face, Griphook jumped down from behind his counter after hitting the bell that would alert all kin to a wanderer, gave a tug to his deep-red cravat, snatched up a pair of goggles the metal-smiths used to protect their eyes, and hurried after the...man. Honestly, he was hesitant to call him such. Slime-ball, was more appropriate.

"Sir! You will stop immediately!"

The garish blob moved further away. Griphook picked up his pace, trying to deduce where the man was heading. The Managers residing within the offices along this corridor were, in terms of concerning matter, insignificant in comparison to the Managers that resided in the East Wing. They were the ones responsible of the accounts of the Sacred Twenty-Eight

In fact, the only Name that was of any interest along this corridor was Potter.

...

Oh, dear Gornuk.

This was most unfortunate.

The human boy had left a rather memorable impression upon him; what with remembering his name despite one meeting nearly five years ago. Quite impressive, that. And brethren Bannot had been more than willing to run his mouth over a tankard of Rumble. The rumours had spread.

Rian Peverell, formerly Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and whatever other ridiculous titles the humans had bestowed upon, had become the darling of Goblin Accountants.

Praying to the Grundlelark that none of his kin would see him, Griphook ran ahead of the man, cursing his shorter legs and thus shorter stride and the obnoxious stubbornness of wizards. Throwing himself before the door — in a way he hoped was not too suspicious and appeared rather as an orchestrated deduction and expected amount of irritation, as it would not do to give away that the young Lord was within — he spread his arms and growled.

Dumbledore pulled up short, concealing his sneer at being so near to a gnat behind a benevolent smile. He leaned down a little, so that the creature might hear him.

"May I help you?"

Griphook scowled, sneer twisting his lips and revealing pointed teeth. "Mister Dumbledore, you are not allowed in these parts without authorisation. You are breaching the Gringotts Sanctums, against the stipulations of the Accords! Return to the Main Hall immediately."

Dumbledore chuckled gently, amused by the gnats bossiness. "My dear goblin, I'm afraid you have no authority here. Now, please move aside."

Griphook fixed him with a look of pure hate. Truly, there was no way to confuse it for anything else. Unfortunately, given the thickness of the goggles, the internal fire behind his eyes could not be properly expressed. However, he was unwilling to remove them and suffer a clear view of the man's robes, so he instead settled for baring his teeth. Oh, how all goblin-kind hated being reminded that they could not forcefully remove a wizard from their Banks without provocation.

"Sir, you will turn around immediately and return to the Main Hall. Otherwise, I will have you escorted from these premises."

Stroking his beard in faux contemplation, Dumbledore hummed, then shook his head. "I think not, goblin. I have business with another of your kind and you are in the way."

A flick of his wand — dark-stained applewood and unicorn-heartstring core — and Griphook was seized by outraged incredulity when he found himself lifting off the ground and floating through the air away from the door.

"Sir! You are not sanctioned! You may not venture any further!" He hollered in a final attempt, but he was ignored as the man threw open the door and stepped inside.

At least, the Goddesses be blessed, brethren Nadnok had had enough time to hide the boy.

If not...well. He shuddered to contemplate the possibilities. Undoubtedly, the wizened wizard would attempt to take the young Lord from the premises and many of his kin would contest this, himself included.

They were on perilous ground as it was, with the wizards. Muggleborn's were kicking up a fuss with the muggle to magical exchange rates of gold. It wouldn't be long now until those Briavror-damned nuisances were approaching the King's Court with legislation demanding reduced rates. The slightest infraction could tip the scales to another clan war with conquest in mind.

It would be bloody, and would not end well.

No sooner had the spell ended, he was hurrying away to gather the guards.

Nadnok scowled as Dumbledore walked through his door. He allowed a small flicker of satisfaction to flash through his eyes as the man took a visible step back when his pale eyes alit upon the savage scar that spoke of days spent in battle and blood beneath his nails.

It was simply another thing that set the young Lord apart from others of his kind. He had seen, and simply accepted, not once lingering in shock over his features. This wizard, however, was like so many others. A careless look of disgust as gaze focuses on the torn flesh and scar tissue, thoughts mulling over the obvious barbarity of their inferior culture.

Lacing his fingers together — a practiced move, nails catching the light from the chandelier above and emphasising just how long they were — Nadnok pasted on the expression he wore for all those he deemed either a) contemptible or b) not worth his time. It was painful, physically restraining himself from putting his beloved battle-axe to good use. The blood stains had begun to dry; they would need to be refreshed soon.

For a moment, seeing the look upon the atrocious gnat, Dumbledore reconsidered his actions, unable to shake the feeling of contempt directed his way. He shook it off, dismissing it as passing foolishness — of which he was experience frequently, these days — and moved to take a seat.

The seats were really quite low, however, and he detested having his head below an inferior. It gave the wrong impression. No matter where he went, he was always the most powerful in the room; the most respected. People and — ew, creatures — were expected to know this in advance, even if he offered no forewarning.

In order to rectify this most grievous of slights, he flicked his wand at the chair, and waited for it to grow taller.

Only, it didn't. He tried against, with the same results. Then shot a genially remonstrating look at the gnat, whom simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow and cleared his throat pointedly.

Not wanting to make a fool of himself, Dumbledore took a seat, knees protesting at the sharp angle, placed the package he had been carrying under his arm upon the glossy surface of the desk, uncaringly knocking over Nadnok's picture of his beloved Skink, Ildee, and made to settle his elbows alongside it, only to hesitate, a faint look of distaste on his mouth, and instead fold his hands in his lap.

He inclined his head, "Goblin."

That was it. No greeting. Nothing. Lifting the fallen frame, Nadnok scowled. He would have more lines than before by the end of this meeting, he just knew it. "Mister Dumbledore. Do you require my assistance in some way?"

Mood souring at the lack of his title, Albus withheld his glare and slipped into his grandfatherly persona. Soft smile, twinkle in his eyes, beard accompanied by a soft tinkle with every breath.

Beneath the desk, chin on his knees, Harry rolled his eyes. Honestly, some people were so full of themselves —

"I require access to the personal files of one Harry James Potter."

— what?! His personal files?! Unbelievable.

Glaring mutinously at the desk panelling before him, Harry resolved himself to seething in silence. He could just see that infernal twinkle — it had to be a charm, there was no way that was natural — and Mordred damned smile. One day. One day, he would set fire to that bloody beard and then see what he has to smile about. Why was it so long, anyway? Was he compensating? Weak jaw, perhaps?

Nadnok grunted, failing to see the logic behind this demand. "You do not have the authorisation to access those files."

Well, that certainly put a flame beneath his lemon drop. "I believe you are mistaken, those files can —"

"Only be released to Mister Potter himself or his guardian."

"Ah. Then, as his magical guardian, I do not see why you cannot —"

"You are no longer his magical guardian."

Oh, how he wanted to curse this gnat! How dare he interrupt him! Quashing the rage, lest it break the Charm, Albus frowned. "I do not know where you have come about this information, goblin, but I am Harry Potter's magical guardian."

Internally chuckling but externally expressionless, Nadnok bared his teeth in a macabre imitation of a smile. "You were, you are no longer."

"Then I demand to see who is!"

"You are not authorised for that information."

Avalon curse it all. Albus had not foreseen such an obstacle. "Am I to assume that my access to the Potter Accounts and Vaults have been redacted as well?"

"You are."

Fastening a grieving expression on, shoulders hunching slightly under the supposed weight of loss, Albus glanced through his spectacles, only to hurriedly look away when the magic become overwhelmingly visible. "I am saddened to inform you that the dear boy is missing."

"Is he really?"

"I fear he may be dead."

Nadnok could not believe that humans were fooled by this certifiable crack-pot. "Do you have evidence of such a claim?"

"It had been my hope that you might have a little look inside his files for me."

"I do not have the authorisation to do so."

...

Harry bit his lip, shaking in laughter, hands over his mouth. Nadnok, too, had a difficult time keeping the smirk off his face at the flabbergasted look the esteemed Headmaster sported.

Albus, for his part, could not believe this. What type of Accountant didn't have the authorisation to look through the private files of their clients?

"Can you —"

"No."

"Will you —"

"No."

"He must —"

"No."

"He is a child of prophecy, goblin!" He yelled, in all his blustering ignobility. Oops. No, no, it was fine. The facade could be saved. He smiled tightly, flashing a tiny snippet of the spinach he had had for breakfast between his bottom teeth. "Dear gn-goblin. It is his fate to defeat the Dark Lord. Surely even your kind are concerned by what would happen should such a man seize control of the Wizarding world?" He implored, spreading his hands affably. "It is only sensible to realise that the goblins would be the first to be targeted —"

Harry officially had no idea what he man was on about. Who in their right and left mind, targeted the goblins first? They were freaking fearsome warriors! They kept weaponry in their personal spaces! Who messed with that?!

He eyed the estimated zone in which the man was sat. The old man must be smoking something.

"— so you see, it is your duty, for the greater good, to assist me."

Nadnok had listened faithfully, carefully documenting each word so that he might share it with his colleagues over Rumble later. But, at this he blinked, a loud, disbelieving snick of the nicitating membrane.

"Mister Dumbledore, you have yet to inform me what it is you want me to do."

Oh...er...

Mentally fumbling, a light flush contrasting horrifically with his robes, Dumbledore smacked his lips together. He could really do with a lemon sherbet about now.

"I require your assistance in locating him — should he be living."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Mister Potter has never stepped within these offices. There is no documentation of his magical signature, no blood, no trace. Nothing."

"And if I were to supply his magical signature?"

Harry froze, as did Nadnok — although, having more experience, Nadnok hid his reaction better. Unlike Harry, he did not gape in horror nor shift and nearly poke his eye out with a shoe.

"I would be obligated to enquire as to how you could do so."

Albus chuckled, safe in the knowledge that he had won the creature over. They were only ever curious when there was something in it for them. It was an established fact, gnats were much more un-refined and had not yet advanced enough socio-economically to display curiosity in anything that would not benefit their stunted cultures.

"A little charm here, a bit of spellwork there. I have a few small trinkets that I use to keep an eye on the dear boy."

"I...see."

Ah, bless. He had succeeded in educating a lesser being. He could check it off of his Daily Good Deed.

"Very well. Present the sample of Mister Potter's magical signature and I shall see what can be done."

Wizened hands reached towards the box and opened it, disappearing within its depth. There was a crinkling sound, which left Harry perplexed, as he could see nothing of what was happening, and then Dumbledore pulled out the object contained within and set it upon the desk.

Nadnok...could only stare. Deeply concerned. But professional enough not to show it.

Dumbledore beamed, seeing the obvious wonder gracing the gnats marred features.

"A true masterpiece, in my opinion. The dear boy is quite talented."

It was...words failed.

Clearing his throat, brows furrowed, Nadnok shifted his gaze from the thing towards the delighted wizard, gesturing with a gnarled finger. "This is it then?"

"Yes."

"Very well."

Silence descended. Albus shifted awkwardly, gaze accidentally alighting upon the axe-head —rusted and blood stained, obviously well used. How barbaric.

"How long will it take?"

Nadnok made to answer, with an inscrutable response—

Harry, hearing the question, had an idea. A singular idea that proposed a great deal of fun for all parties involved bar the one that shall suffer. Unfolding his arms, light fingers grasped the perfectly pressed hem of Nadnok's trouser-leg and softly tugged four times.

"Four days."

Dumbledore sputtered. It was terribly unattractive. And lemony scented. "Four days!"

"And five hundred galleons."

Puckered lips could only mouth 'five hundred' in shock. Eventually, he found voice to his protestations. "Five hundred! I refuse! It is but a simple spell. I will pay you seventy galleons and no more."

Nadnok shrugged, drumming his fingers along the desk. "Very well. I wish you luck on doing it yourself, then."

A sky-blue eye twitched. "Fine. Five hundred it is."

"...Forgive me. I meant six hundred."

Dumbledore glared. Harry snickered into his hand.

Curt assent and utterly unfelt pleasantries were exchanged, with an arrangement made for the money to be withdrawn from his personal account.

It was problematic, Albus surmised, that the gnat had insisted on a signed stipulation of payment. But, once he had the brat in his grasp again, it would be little effort to convince him that it was his responsibility to pay. And if that failed, he had the donations set aside for the Avian Club. Either way, none of it was from his own pocket, so that was a plus —

The heavy doors, for the second time that day, swung open. Only this time Nadnok had been expecting it, and allowed a gruesome curve to twist his lips, satisfaction evident as his armed brethren streamed into his office. Albus having not anticipated such a rude creature to interrupt his very-important meeting, flinched at the noise and could only peer around in confusion as several gnats, armed to the tee— oh, no look. Even their teeth are armed — surrounded him.

Taking aback by the slight, Albus sputtered, spots of saliva catching the hairs of his moustache, and slapped the spear-head away. Only for several more to appear and jab into his side.

"Do you know who I am?!"

Golden helmets obscured the features, so no guard was identifiable from the other. As such, despite only once speaking, the voice seemed to come from many. "We are aware."

"Well, good. So then you know that I—"

"You have attacked within our Sanctums. The Accord is moot. You will come with us."

Blustering, an ungainly flush and a feverish twinkle, Albus was gripped by astonishment. How dare these gnats attempt to hold him accountable to a foolish agreement?!

"How dar—"

Beneath the desk, Harry listened with interest as the old coot broke off, quite suddenly, mid sentence, only to be followed by the unmistakable sound of a skirmish. He figured that the reality that he had been less than five feet from being found out, dragged back to the Dursleys, thrown back to his torment and torture, would sink in later.

Nadnok watched, amused smirk on his face, as his brethren silenced the man then wrested him from his chair. It did not escape his notice that they had donned gloves to avoid touching the perpetrator. Sickly yellow robes flew, hardened warriors avoided touching the salmon-pimple tassels, eyes never strayed below elbow height so as to avoid unfortunate glimpses of pockmarked ankles and old socks and eventually, eventually, the old man was hoisted out of the office.

Chuckling, a dark light in his eyes, Nadnok committed the memory of the great lump being dragged out of his office. If he thought any of the sproglings could imitate the old man, he might recommend it as fresh material to the Theatre. Alas, none were so heartless as to subject a sprogling to such a traumatic experience.

Harry blinked at the silence. "Did he just get arrested?"

"Indeed."

"Damnit." How unfair! Arrested and he didn't get to see any of it. Bloody luck.

Completing the erection of the wards around his office — knowing that, once Grimir heard of this, she'd have his head over his carelessness — he ensured that all was in order before pushing away from the desk.

Harry crawled out, wincing a little as his muscles stretched — it had been a while, after all — and, bracing a hand on the desk, pulled himself to his feet. A dirty look was shot towards the door, an irritated look upon his face and green eyes darkened in vexation.

"What's going to happen to him?"

"Well," Nadnok laced his fingers, lips pursing into a flat line. "To be taken by the Guard typically entails a thirty-two hour stay in our holding cells. Very unpleasant places, those. And then he'll have to sign a few things, the ministry will be alerted, he will be summarily fined and then he'll be released."

"That...is disappointingly tame."

"Quite. It is unfortunate our knees are tired in this instance. As a prominent member in Wizardry society, that is the allowable extent of our harshness." The goblin sneered at the door. Harry wondered over the insertion of 'knees' in the popular phrasing. "Good news, however, is that, upon his release, he will be unable to withdraw from any account under his name for a further seventy-two hours."

"...That's something...I suppose..."

Beady black orbs slid sideways, amused. "Had you expected something else, youngling?"

Harry fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, leaning against the desk, blood pumping through the pins and needles. "Is it, erm..." he bit his lip shyly. "Is it wrong that I was really hoping something involving more pointy things and a fair deal more screaming would happen?"

"No. That is a standard response."

"Oh, good. Stupid laws."

"Indeed." In shifting, Nadnok's gaze caught on the...thing. "Have you any idea of what he spoke about?"

Harry frowned slightly, unsure of what he mea— oh. "I can not believe I forgot about those bloody trinkets in his office," he snarled, rounding the desk and flopping into the chair.

Only to realise what he had done and jump out of quickly, turning side eyes to Nadnok. "Which one did he sit in?"

Nadnok pointed. "That one." Harry doubled checked to direction of the finger. Yep. The one he had just sat in.

He gave a whole-body shudder. Ew.

Aware that his self-cleaning charms left...much to be desired, Harry resigned himself to ignoring the cooties until he was back in his hotel room and took a seat in the other chair.

After dragging the other one to the far wall.

Amused, Nadnok simply watched the youngling's antics as he made a reminder to have that chair replaced at the earliest convenience.

"Settled?"

Harry gave a contemplative wriggle, then grinned. "Yep."

"Good. Now," the goblin smirked viciously, the mere thought of the coot getting his comeuppance enough to give him tingles. "What do you have planned for the crackpot?"

Harry's grin faltered, morphing into something beguilingly innocent. "What makes you think I planned anything?"

"If there is anything I have learned about you, youngling, it is that you have plans for many things, particularly for those whom you detest."

"Oh. How disappointing. I had hoped to remain unpredictable a little while longer." He crossed his legs. "I'd be correct in assuming that you are not going to actually help him, right?"

"Indeed."

"Well, he's got loads of those bloody trinket thingies in his office. If you don't help him, or give him faulty information, there's nothing stopping him from going to somebody else, who might actually help him. So, obvious solution, get rid of the things."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Oh, that's easy. It's really not that hard to break into his office." Harry blinked. "I said that aloud, didn't I?"

"You did," Nadnok replied, smirking.

"Well," Harry coughed. "Erm. Yeah. I'll be doing that." He swung his legs, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. "Don't suppose you've ever desired to break into Hogwarts, before?"

"Not particularly, no. Our palaces are much more impressive."

Harry lifted an eyebrow. "Palaces?"

"We carve them inside mountains. Oftentimes, we run out of space."

"Of course you do."

"For what reason did you specifically request the four days?"

"Nothing important, really. It's just...four days gives me time to prepare, get things ready and all that."

Grunting, Nadnok reached below his desk and retrieved a folder, flipping it open. "You departed via International Floo on the 19th, correct?"

"Yes."

Black beads scanned the page. "You may only travel to England via magic in four days time. Hmm. Remarkably good timing, Mister Peverell."

"Erm, why?"

"Ah, forgive me. I had forgotten you are unused to some Wizardry practices." Harry flapped a hand, motioning for the goblin to continue. "Regardless of the form of magical travel, what is essentially happening is an altering of the molecular and atomic states of the individual or object. In the case of you, a human, Floo travel, Portkey or Apparition over large distances warrants monitoring as, if done too often, such acts can leave damaging marks on both your physical body and your core." A pensive look crossed his face. "Freidrich the Faceless, for example, is one such instance of such damage. He attempted five consecutive jumps — from Ukraine to England, then up to Sweden, over to Iceland, and then Greenland. He arrived in Canada with no face. His physical structure had been so damaged, there was no longer anything recognisable upon him."

Er...well. That was a wonderful way to discourage people from jumping over five oceans.

"What about consecutive jumps, themselves?"

"Consecutive jumps over short distances mean nothing, and considerable distance over land is, consequentially, less impact and thus requires less time for recovery. In order for you to travel, however, you are not only crossing a large distance of near to three hundred miles, you are also crossing a body of water that accounts for the majority of that distance. Therefore, your recovery time will take longer. The Floo Network is slightly different in this regard, as you are, in effect, entering an altered version of Wizard Space. As such, the first time you use it, it takes one week for complete structural recovery. However, all subsequent jumps, should they be between the same destinations, require only two days recovery time."

"...damn."

"Indeed."

"What if I wanted go to, say, Paris?"

"Taking into account that it would be an overland journey across the same continent, one, possibly two days."

"Well at least there's that."

"Quite."

"Are you sure..."

"Indubitably."

"Huh."

OOOO

After a few minutes — during which the gruesomeness of molecular degeneration was contemplated — Harry brought up the matter for the prophecy. With great reluctance and an impressive sneer.

Nadnok simply stared at him, then rolled his eyes and sighed. "Of course the old man was serious about that." He tapped a soundless bell, then clasped his hands. "Very well, if such a prophecy exists, it will be held within the Hall of Prophecies; a subsection of the Department of Mysteries that is, in turn, a branch of the Ministry of Magic. Ordinarily, only those whom the prophecy pertains to can remove the prophecy from its shelves. However, Goblin magic is truly splendid thing, so one of our brethren will have no trouble retrieving it."

True to his word, within minutes, a glass ball of respectable proportions was sitting on the desk, the smoke churning inside in much the same way that churned the minds of powerful wizards and utterly ruined his life. Harry hesitated for a moment. And then he shrugged, tossed his concerns out the window — proverbially, that is. They were underground, after all — and activated the prophecy.

And listened.

And then...stared.

In an aberrant suspension of belief.

"That...that...I mean — how can...that..."

"Was absolute tripe! The cloth in our latrines is composed of better material than that Grundlelark pus! " Nadnok exclaimed, caught between the desire to sneer but uncertain as to if it would properly convey his deep disgust.

"Yeah, that!" Head dropping into his hands, he groaned, and then frowned slightly before raising his head slightly with a pensive expression. "Not the latrine part, that is. No, actually, I agree with that completely, even if it was a bit too much information. I don't feel like we know each other well enough to be discussing the details of our commodes." Although, unlike his inexperienced traipse through the Goblin Halls and first insight in to the shadowy Grundlelark, he now knew even the goblins were disgusted by its pus. Fascinating.

Grunting, Nadnok supposed the human may be right. Talk on bathroom habits typically only occurred in decent company by the fourth meeting, in polite goblin society. Although the boy was human; they got awfully twitchy over those subjects. He smirked; his fore-father had told great tales of the spectacles that ensued at the mere mention of 'pants'. Good times.

Harry, oblivious to the fond recollections of his Manager, shot the pretty little glob of glass a dirty look, nose scrunching up in revulsion. "I cannot believe that that was the thing to kickstart the ruination of my life." He kicked his foot, agitated. "And by Merlin! How could anybody believe that sh*t?"

His agitation became a physical thing, leaping from his seat and sending him pacing. "Dark Lord? Which Dark Lord? Grindelwald was once a Dark Lord? Actually, I think he might still be, since he isn't dead, but that's beside the point! Is this Dark Lord even British? Do they even exist yet? And, and it said 'approaching'? Some guy could have been travelling and been 'approaching' England." Throwing his hands up in the air, then letting them drop heavily, wherein he folded them against his chest, he huffed. "Are all prophecies this vague?"

"Yes."

"Urgh!"

He pitied the boy. Truly, he did. Goblin culture was much more advanced than to foolishly place faith in the spoken word. No, when they had predictions, they came in visions. Much more reliable, in his opinion. Although...frankly, nobody had predicted the size of the High Grundlelark when it came and began propagating within Earths bowls. Tough times, those.

Nicitating membrane returning moisture to his eyes, he shook off those wayward thoughts and returned to the matter at hand.

"That is not the only point of ambivalence. The reference of the seventh month can be contended."

Harry turned from where he been glaring at the polished suit of armour. "How so?"

"Well," Nadnok shifted in his seat, lacing his fingers after straightening the sleeves of his war-worn jacket. "It is possible that the prophecy does not refer to 'July'. Many older, more traditional Wizardry Families have remained fixed points in time as they still follow the pre-Caesar Roman calendar of old, wherein there are ten months instead of the modernly recognised twelve months of the Gregorian calendar. If we were to approach locus of the 'seventh month' with this in mind, we would turn to the ancient language that presets this olde tradition. Whereby 'seven' is derived from the Latin 'septum' which in turn became the name for the seventh month of September. A full month away from the end of July.

"And that segues into the next contention of the phrase, 'as the seventh month dies'. Should this prophecy actually be referring to September as the seventh month, it is likely that it does not allude to the closure of the the month, but the literal death of September acting as the seventh month, which would be achieved through the cessation of the practice of Olde Traditions." Nadnok brows furrowed thoughtfully, and he scratched at the scar tissue across his temple. "Admittedly, wizard-kind are not far off from that. In circulation, rituals that Bless and Praise Magick, most of which involve the Roman Calendar, are lessening each year. Prophecy's of these nature have no sense of time. Therefore, it is possible you were not the child it ordained."

Harry dropped into the chair, relief evident in the uninflected smile. "Great! That's brilliant —"

"Were not, Mister Peverell. You are now. Regardless of the original intention, magics have enacted upon this prophecy and thus self-fulfilled the establishment of you as the 'equal'.

Bollocks. Harry slumped into the chair, waving a listless hand. "Thank you, Nadnok, truly, for crushing any hope I was feeling just then."

"You are most welcome, young Lord."

That warranted a huffed laugh.

It was as Harry rolled his neck to the side, rubbing it as it cracked quietly, that he realised how long he had been here. He sighed inaudibly, having enjoyed his time. "I think I should be going."

Nadnok dipped his head, having also been unaware of the rapid passage of time.

"Before I go, is it possible to exchange some of my money into muggle money? I was thinking of having a look around the muggle world later today, maybe tomorrow."

"Very well. How much do you require?"

Biting his lips, Harry graced his Manager with a helpless look. "How much is too much?"

"To carry cash on your person, I would suggest that two-hundred pounds in small change is sufficient. Your Gringotts card will work in muggle stores."

"Really?"

"Compared to magicals, muggles amount to 83% of this earth's humanoid population. It would be remiss of us to not act upon such a fact."

"That...is true."

Nadnok held his hand out, revealing a crude looking wound that had long since closed over on his palm. "Card, please."

Mouth twitching in remembrance, at how similar that was to the first thing he had heard from a goblin, Harry fished around in his bag for the side-pocket — making a mental note to get a wallet at some point —and passed over his bank card. He watched for a moment, as Nadnok dipped the thin slip of metal into what he and assumed was an ink well. A soft clamouring followed, the sound of coins falling against each other, from a hatch set within the desk off to the side. Turning away, Harry dug around a bit until he found the box he'd stored all of his stationery supplies in. Plucking up an envelope, Harry held it next to the Pointless Prophecy Orb and measured it with a critical eye.

Yes...yes, it would fit. Just. Brilliant.

Scribbling a quick note to himself across the envelope so that he didn't accidentally chuck it out, Harry grabbed the glass ball, dropped it inside, and then packed the envelope away inside his bag. Seeing that the goblin was not quite done yet, Harry pulled out the notebook reserved for letter-writing, sketched off a short missive, signed it, tied it, and stuck it in his pocket for sending.

By that time, Nadnok had completed the exchange between monies and was handing over a thick wad of muggle notes enclosed within a leather band.

Harry blinked it in a customary moment of shock. Never, never in his life, had he seen so much muggle money. In one sitting. Never mind held it.

"Out of curiosity," he began, swallowing nervously. "What is the exchange rate between monies?"

Nadnok raised an eyebrow, closing the transference hatch. "You do not know?"

Harry flushed a little. After four years, he really ought to have found out, but...there had always been something else distracting him. "I, erm, I've alway's had more pressing things to research. This just seemed to have slipped my mind."

"You are aware of the conversion between between magical coinage, correct?"

"Yeah," slender fingers toyed with strap of his bag. "There are seventeen sickles to a galleon, and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle, meaning four-hundred-and-ninety-three knots to a galleon."

"Good. For future reference, should the need arrive, the American's use a different system of coinage altogether." Seeing the interest perking up green eyes, Nadnok summarily added, "They use the dragot and the sprink, but that is a conversation for another time."

Biting back a smile, Harry nodded.

"As for the exchange rate, keeping in mind that muggle mining methods differ vastly from ours and they are unable to access certain parts of the earths core from which to mine, twenty-five pounds equates to one galleon, one pound fifty pence equates to one sickle and, lastly, five pence equates to one knut."

Harry listened with a slowly slackening jaw. Mind cringing away from exactly how much money that was, and exactly how much money he had to his name, Harry gulped. And then he grabbed his pen, flipped open his notebook and began calculating.

Only to drop his pen in shock when he finished.

"Merlin's beard tie!"

Nicitating membrane sliding down slowly in a move that spoke of the patience of a parent, Nadnok waited.

Ever-so-slightly horrified jade eyes flicked up. "I gave Fred and George twenty-five thousand pounds!"

Nadnok rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed to Gornuk to spare his patience. He still sighed, though, a gravely expel of breath. "This is why I am here, Mister Peverell. To ensure you do not follow through with such foolish acts."

"What? No! I'm not unhappy about it! I just...oh my god that is a lot of money!

Harry did not voice the thoughts that had slammed into his chest in a sickening grind of realisation; the realisation that for four years, he could have easily got by in muggle backpacking institutions with the change in his money bag.

Running a hand through his hair, messing it up so that — after the adventure of the last couple of hours — he looked as though he had been shocked by a shadowy bolt of lightening,

And then fixed a muffed look on his Manager. "Why did you immediately assume I did something stupid?"

"Experience." He said it so flatly, Harry was hard pressed to take offence.

"Still, though," he huffed, crossing his arms, wholly unimpressed by the latent amusem*nt in Nadnok's gaze. "I don't do stupid things like that. Poorly thought through? Yes. Sometimes. Stupid? No. Fred and George are going places." Excitement lighting within him, Harry abandoned his attempt to look displeased and scooted forward in his seat, hands waving in grand gestures. "They've got all these ideas — bloody brilliant ideas! They want to make a joke shop, the likes of which will put Zonko's to shame. But, but nobody cared, so they got better, just to prove them wrong. And they're going to be great, not for anybody else but themselves." Hands suspended in midair, Harry's grin slowly died, until he was left looking at the image he had constructed in his mind.

They would be great, special, all by themselves. Nobody would ever be able to tell them otherwise.

He wanted to be like that, one day. Rise above it all until he stood by them and could turn to laugh in all the faces of those that almost succeed in chaining him down.

"They sound like an enterprising pair of young men."

Blinking back into reality, Harry caught the flash of hunger in the goblin's eyes. He smirked. "I reckon it won't be long till they come through here to set up an account. If you ask nicely, they might be open to selling shares."

Nandnok allowed a thoughtful look, cataloguing it for later to return to and discuss with his kin. It was rare that the Goblin race invested in human businesses, but perhaps there was potential. Then he pushed out from his desk, hopping down off the chair.

Harry, understanding the move, gathered his things, slipping them into his bag as he slung it on and stood.

"You walking me out?"

"Indeed. Who knows who could be lurking within our Halls?"

Harry smiled as Nadnok paused at the door to undo the locking wards; running a darkened talon down the wall in a mimicry of a caress. "Aw. Are you worried about my safety?"

"Hardly. Yet, losing you as a client would be a mark against my record. My record is spotless."

"Oh, well then."

Back turned as it was, Nadnok did not see the sly eyes locking onto him.

Thus, when he turned and received an armful of small teenager, he was suitaby taken aback, outraged, and then quickly resigned as hair of charcoal feathers brushed against his jaw when the boy tucked his chin on his shoulder.

A despairing sigh, and Nadnok awkwardly patted the human's back.

Grinning in success, Harry pulled back and bounced away, laughing at the goblin's deeply perturbed expression.

"You thought I forgot, didn't you?"

"...I had hoped."

Harry snorted, following Nadnok out of the office. "Look at this way, the agreement was any piece you wanted out of the Black Vaults if you let me hug you. You just let me hug you. So, now you can have any piece you want."

Nadnok dipped his head. "That does make the act more agreeable. However, I request that if you are to use the word 'hug' again, you substitute it for a word of heightened fearsomeness."

Harry was unfazed, and chirped an, "Okay."

Then, tucking a strand of him behind his ear, flattening his fringe, his hand nicked the clasp on his ear. "How does your mailing system work?" He asked distractedly, brows furrowing as he remembered what it was the piercing was supposed to do.

The goblin shot him an inquisitive look, then he too remembered the measures they had taken to ensure the boy's safety. "Ah. You have been using the postal slots in the rooms, yes?"

"Yes."

"From the moment the letter is placed within the slot, certain goblin runic sequences activate and send the letter down to the Sorting Room's, where the trainee sproglings are responsible for sending the letter to the Branch that is nearest to the destination. Once that has been done, and the letter is now in the correlating Branch, the trainee sproglings attach the letter to our Owl's, wherein those Owl's are sent off. The Owls are trained to wait for a response, unless otherwise stipulated by the recipient. From there, the owl will return to the Branch it departed from and the letter shall once again go through the distributary process."

"Aah. Efficient. I was wondering how he responded so quickly," Harry muttered, eyes assessing each person in the Hall as they entered. "How are they getting through to me though?"

"You are catalogued in our files. Regardless of the variation of your name used, they will all register as pertaining to you. In this, the object Bannot gave you is ineffective. Should this person attempt to reach you without the assistance of a Gringotts owl or Gringotts Itself, he would be unable to do so without your new name."

"Right. Thank you, by the way."

"You are welcome." Righting a stray button on his militaristic jacket, Nadnok lead the way around the Hall. "In summation of our meeting; you have one week before the tutoring shall commence. During that time, you are expected to read the first two chapters of each book and take notes. We shall go over your note-taking skills in the beginning to ensure that our teachings are as effectual as possible. For now: read, prepare, finish going through the Family Portfolio's. We have much to discuss once you have done so, and we must finalise the price of the Basilisk."

"You know, I forgot all about that." Pausing outside the innocuous door that would return him to Amsterdam, Harry fished the letter he had written out of his back pocket. "Would you be able to send this for me? It will be faster than waiting till I get to my room."

"Very well." The letter was taken from his hand and tucked into the goblin's waistcoat.

"Also, last thing, might you tell me if Fred and George Weasley do come here?"

At this, Nadnok looked reluctant. It was strictly against policy to reveal the actions partaken within their Halls.

"Please? I'm not asking to know what they're doing, and — actually, no, don't mind that. If they do come in here, could you tell them that I've been here? I don't want them worrying or anything."

Nadnok relented. He had no will power against such pleading looks on sproglings — even human ones. "You have my word I shall do so if they do seek our aid."

Harry smiled, bereft of some of the worry that had lurked in the shadows of his eyes. "Thank you."

Pulling the rune key out from beneath his shirt, he made to insert it. A gnarled hand gripping his elbow gave him pause, and he lifted an eyebrow.

"I must ask, youngling, before you take your leave. Considering that I am to spend a 'supposed' extension of time with it, what by the goddesses was it that man left on my desk?"

"Erm...I didn't see, honestly. What did it look like?"

"The embodiment of putrid given life in clay."

It took a moment.

Alright, it may have taken more of a moment.

But once these consecutive moments had passed, Harry blinked as it occurred to him what, exactly, it was, and an impish smile spread across his face.

"Oh."

Nadnok waited.

"That was my Transfiguration project."

Nadnok quirked a brow-bone.

"...it's a goat being mauled by a lemon."

"..."

"Don't give me that look! She said make whatever's on our mind!"

Voldemort stood before the window, arms folded behind his back. The impromptu meeting with Narcissa had taken longer than anticipated. The woman was a wealth of knowledge both arcane and little known, as well as quite capable in the art of drawing conjecture from rumour and hint.

He would need to approach this situation delicately, that much was obvious. If Narcissa's commentary was anything to go by, people were much looser of lip and looser of moral than they had been when he first entreated the political scene, and three times as dirty.

Blackmail, then, would be somewhat harder to come by. But, that which he did, would be all the more damaging.

In that regard — he sighed, unfolding his arms to run his thumb over his upper lip — he would need to ensure that he remained in good graces within the Lord's Circles and within the public eye. Protect your own but above all protect your back, as the saying goes.

He would need to get in touch with Igor Karkoroff sooner than he intended, in that case. His falsified history would have to be immaculate. The endorsem*nt of Durmstrang's Headmaster could only take him so far.

Which meant many alumni's would need to be tracked down and...tampered with, a little.

He had time, though. And Harry had been right. The man had gone to ground — likely using blood magicks to obscure the efficacy of the Dark Mark. It meant little, in the grand scheme of things, but still, it was a nuisance he could do without.

Opening the window to dispel some of the mustiness lingering in the fibres of the room, Voldemort moved over to his desk, taking a seat.

Now alone, Voldemort withdrew from the pockets of his robes Harry's letter and gift of ink, pulling close a sheaf of parchment. Smoothing out Harry's scrawled words, ready to answer, he picked up the little bottle. Never, even in his youth, had he dallied with what he had then thought be nothing more than immature fancies that served little purpose in academic endeavours.

Now, he was admittedly curious to see what had caught Harry's eye.

Yet, he was hesitant to open it, to pull out the stopper and reveal the secret within. Until he did, it remained special, precious. The moment he opened it, there was the possibility it's esoteric quality would diminish into normality.

But...it was from Harry. A boy who had, with his smiles and his manner, managed to remind him how enjoyable it was to be human again. No monster. No leviathan resting untouchable above the masses. Human. Anything from his boy could never fade into the background.

His fingers had just settled on the bottle when another owl swooped in through the open window, another letter tied to the leg that, with a disdainful turn of its beak, it held out to be freed before flapping over to join the Flammulated Owl that had taken refuge upon the ornate candlestick on the mantle and had been in the midst of preening its feathers.

It's hoot was telling of its disgruntlement over having to share.

He smirked, then lowered his eyes to the letter turning over in his hands. Same ribbon, same envelope, same lack of Family Arms.

Harry had sent another letter.

Ribbon slipped off, envelope unsealed, Voldemort pulled out the page — almost disappointed to find that it was no more than a short missive — and read.

My dearest Dark Lord,
No doubt you are wondering why you're holding another letter from me. It had been my intention to hear from you first, but something came up — more like barged in uninvited — and I simply couldn't wait.
I have a proposal for you...
How do you feel about breaking into Hogwarts?

Ruby eyes stuttered over he last line. Break into Hogwarts? Well...it wasn't the most displeasing idea ever proposed. There would be difficulties, of course, but he had always been one for a challenge

How do you feel about breaking into Hogwarts?
Ooh, your wondering why, aren't you? Come on, it's a challenge! When have you ever turned one of those down? As for me...
A certain old coot has a collection of trinkets I am in need of...destroying. Throughly.
I'll make it sweeter for you. On Monday 26, Dumbledore will leave his office for a meeting scheduled at 10. I have a guaranteed 90 minutes to get in and out of his office. If you can beat me there, I will give you an answer to a question of your choice on my name.
So, can I count you in?

Smirk curling his lips, Voldemort lowered the letter.

When he said it like that...

How could he say no?

Harry blinked at his familiar. Somewhat incredulous but mostly doubtful, Harry watched the insistent swaying of the head. §You want to come with me?§

§Why iss thiss sso hard for you to undersstand? Iss it a two-legged thing? Or a sspeaker thing?§

Harry sniffed, crossing his arms, feeling unreasonably insulted. §Excuse me for thinking you might be reluctant to come with me outside and to the muggle world when you have barely left the nest you've made beneath the pillow!§

Teyen hissed at him, tail snapping out as if to swat him. He sidestepped easily, considering she was still lethargic from her nap and, he was beginning to suspect, lacking in the depth-perception department. He wondered how she caught the rat.

Acidic yellow slits settled dolefully upon him and she bared her fangs. §You go to the bright place and you take the floppy thing with you. You go to ssshade place and you take me. I refusse to lossse my sspeaker.§

Harry twitched. §I am aware of that Teyen. But, just like you don't want to lose me, I do not want to lose you. That being said, I want to go to the muggle world! I'm not certain here, but I'm pretty sure muggles do not walk around wearing snakes!§

§You have spellsss. Check your flat treess.§

How, how did she know the process behind the making of paper?!

Tugging at his hair, Harry muffled a groan of frustration. They had been at this awhile. All he had wanted to do, when he returned from his meeting with Nadnok, was to get something to eat, have a very hot shower in order to rid the Coot-cooties, and, while it was still light out, spend a little while outside of the magical district.

He had eaten, he had showered. Now he wanted to go out.

Yes, he had considered calling Kreacher to see if he wanted to accompany him.

But, then he had remembered that he was a wizard — curtesy of Nadnok's unimpressed expression. And, therefore had magic. Thus, surefire way of protecting himself.

Not to mention that the recent revelations concerning the nature of his Magical Core ought to, if applied, deter most people from approaching him.

Teyen, however, was putting the scale down. She had barricaded the door. Like, he could move her, quite easily in fact, by hand or by magic, but...that was beside the point. She was determined.

Eyeing her one last time, Harry did groan in frustration and throw his hands up in the air. §Fine! Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you.§

Evidently, his magic was still acting up. That, or it had taken to responding instantaneously to his subconscious desires as it was only his seeker reflexes that prevented Charms for the Traveller That the Traveller Will Always Forget from smacking him in the face.

He glared at it, for good measure, then began paging through, choosing to sit down exactly where he had been standing. Doubting that there could possibly be anything in here to cover this situation, Harry flipped through section by section, wo—

Oh, what do you know? This was a common occurrence. And the magical solution was to disguise familiars as apparel.

Lovely.

§Would you like to be a scarf?§

Teyen slithered closer, crawling over his knee to look at the page. §Yesss. I have alwayss fancied being fluffy.§

§Really?§

§Yesss. I would be my own pillow. Ssso ssoft. Sso warm...§

Twenty minutes later, having practiced the spell multiple times on, ironically enough, a pillow, to ensure no harm befell the reptile, Harry was stepping outside into Prullariumplein with Teyen wrapped around his neck and disguised as a green scarf with black striping. That alone had won his instant approval — the part of him that had wanted Slytherin purring in delight at the colouring.

Idly, he wondered what Tom would say about this latest development. He blamed Marvolo, honestly. Until he had re-entered his life, sanity intact, Harry had managed to...not forget, exactly. More like...ignore — a tiny bit — how much he missed the boy that never lost a chance to shove him into a Slytherin uniform, tug him into his side, and then proceed to lecture him on the intricacies of Arithmantic formulas. For what ever reason, though, Tom had never managed to create accessories, despite having worn them himself. So, first time wearing a Slytherin themed scarf. Yay!

Immediately after leaving the towering safety of Gringotts, Teyen hissed, disgruntled, and coiled tighter around his neck.

...he regretted his decision to make her into a scarf.

Prullariumplein was just as beautiful, just as loud and just as crowded as yesterday. The only difference was the breeze, fluttering the little flags and racks of fabrics that poked out of doorways and into the street.

Harry took it all in, senses alert and shoulders rigid. He couldn't help it. A childhood spent in a dark cupboard had not accustomed him for large crowds and densely packed people that had grabby hands and impaired senses of direction. Flaring out his magic a little, seeing the ashy poison seep along the ground in a mimicry of a nebulous cloud, Harry unfolded the map in his hand and began searching for an exit.

It didn't take long, and soon Harry was weaving his way through the crowd.

He did worry a little about finding the way out of the district, but he need not have done so. Unlike the brick wall to Diagon Alley and the deceiving wall at the end of Knockturn, it was impossible to miss or accidentally walk into.

Bordered by a thick, twisted archway of silver, the doorway to the muggle world was very much visible. The space within the archway was shimmering and...wet.

Erm. Was he supposed to walk through it? Dammit. Cursing his lacking knowledge on drying charms, Harry took a step back so that he wasn't blocking the way, and contemplated what he was to do now. Who stuck water over a doorway anyway? What was it's purpose?

Ahh. Curious green eyes watched an older witch walk through. So he was supposed to walk through it.

Okay, well. Here goes his currently dry state.

Deep breath, stroke of Teyen's snout and Harry stepped through the shallow waterfall.

Shuddering as the foreign magic washed over him, glacial and unfamiliar, Harry blinked as he came face to board with a door.

He was dry, at least. That was good. He'd hate to go wondering around the place he wanted to make home looking like a drowned cat. So he opened the door, swinging it open and stepping out into a street bustling with muggle foot-traffic.

He whirled around with wide eyes, seeing nothing but a mundane shopfront behind him. Dutch brick and paint-faded wooden frames hiding away an entire other world. Laughing in a culmination of shock and delight, Harry stumbled into the side-walk, gaining a few odd looks that he ignored, and began his journey of this new world.

Prullariumplein, he discovered, opened out into Rembrandtplein. Trees, thin and tall, their limbs curling in unlikely angles, grew from the pavement, standing over couples taking pictures, groups crowding around a map, turning it this this way and that, arguing in loud voices as tourists weighed down by backpacks strolled by, avoiding those pushing bicycles around little children and laughing parents.

It was a beautiful chaos, the heartbeat, the kindling to fond memories and profound discoveries. It thrummed through the air, a magic unto its own. It twisted, sweeping around ankles, inhaled by deep lungs, tangling in hair and around hands, urging on the need to look further, what's over there, come on, love, don't just stand there smiling.

And Harry was content to watch, not yet ready to join in. Tomorrow, he would. But for today, he simply wanted to see.

Teyen's tail curling around his fingers, he moved with the collocated pulse, one amongst the many.

He had heard, or perhaps read, somewhere, that all roads lead to Rome. When he was freed from the steady press of bodies, breathing lighter in a mix of excitement and anxiety, he stared in wonder at what he stood before. And he thought, maybe, that here, all roads lead to majesty.

Bronze statues towered before him, a repose of action that spoke of intention, arms held aloft, weighed down by spears and swords and drums, grim looks, focused, set upon metal faces, a small dog forever frozen as it yipped at feet.

Behind these men, these protectors, stood another man, raised upon a dais. He was proud, Harry noted, moving closer eagerly, having only ever seen the suits of armour that littered Hogwarts and the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain in London — the preferred dumping ground of underage delinquents, according to the Dursley's. He didn't know who the man was, but it was not a far-fetched possibility that he was 'Rembrandt'.

A...painter? Sculptor? General all-round artisan and talented guy?

Harry felt a bit bad. Art was not his forte. Unless it was colours. He liked colours. He had no idea if the man behind this sculpture had once liked colours.

He needed some muggle brochures.

Returning to the Watchmen, Harry ran his fingers lightly over the tip of a spear head, one hand firmly clamped on his bag. Being frequently ditched in a bustling metropolis that ran rife with its own brand of misdemeanour had taught him quite a few things that, while not particularly proud to brag of, he valued nonetheless. Namely, pickpocketing. Highly underrated in difficulty, true, but there was no over-exaggeration in frequency. Sticky fingers, much like pigeons, flocked to tourist attraction so he was taking no chances.

Unfortunately, none of his travelling books included spells that did less than shock a full-grown man into a near permanent state of unconsciousness. A bit hardcore for the task at hand, Harry had instead resolved to never, ever, let go of his bag and leave it at that.

Stepping out of the way for a woman that arranged herself in the arms of one of the metal men and smiled for the camera, his fingers slipped down into the carvings on the spear head and he had to stop. And then he had to bend slightly and look closer because there were runes mixed in with the engravings.

What an...unexpected development. Casting a quick look around, pretty sure he was in the sole company of muggles, Harry brushed his magic up against what he was beginning to suspect was automatons.

He was nowhere near knowledgeable enough to distinguish between magics, but that did not stop him from gasping quietly as he was met by centuries worth of spells buried beneath each other, whispers of poison slipping between cogs and gears, empty slivers between sheets of metal and folds of enchantments.

Harry pulled back hurriedly, retracting his magic to a safe distance and blinking back the haze. Layering that complex was dangerous, holding the potential to become lost, tangled within its depths. Head tilting back, Harry looked at the watchman, trying to imagine what it would look like activated, in motion.

And then he jumped when it winked at him.

And fixed it with a perplexed stare.

And laughed in shock when the sculpted corners of the mouth twitched upward in inanimate amusem*nt.

He stood for a few more minutes, curiosity running through him as he examined the minuscule facial expressions, almost hoping something else would happen. When nothing did, he patted the watchman on the arm and moved on.

Following the street signs — and keeping a strict eye on which paths he took — Harry turned down Thorbeckplein, a wide alley bordered by burly-looking men in black jeans and Blank Stare #4 — the one reserved by the bouncers that had sometimes been the ones to escort him to the nearest Police Department — and, yep, nightclubs. A lot of them. A surprising amount of them.

Near the mouth of the lane, music could be hear, lying beneath the chatter. Breaking out of the enclosed space and out into the street lying alongside the Herengracht canal revealed the source of the sound. A young man, a rakish grin stretching his mouth, dirty-blonde hair artfully tousled in a careless manner as he bowed over his guitar, the gathering crowd loud with applause and cheers.

A busker.

"Mooie mensen, ik dank je!"¹

And a real charmer, apparently.

Unconsciously grinning as the beautiful people cheered at the thanks, Harry settled against the railing of the bridge. Turning to the side, he could see a strip of pavement and people, bridges arching up at determinate intervals, one after another as they crossed over the canals and the belts.

Steady, practiced fingers strummed along the stings, setting up for another song, foot tapping out a beat as more people came and more people left, leaving notes and coins in the guitar case set a little off to the side.

When the song started up, the young man's voice was soft, wistful even, immediately capturing. "In the spring we made a boat | Out of feathers, out of bones. | We set fire to our homes, | Walking barefoot in the snow. | Distant rhythm of the drum | As we drifted towards the storm. | Baby lion lost his teeth, | Now they're swimming in the sea." ²

The teenager, fore he couldn't have been more than a few years older than himself, had a beautiful voice. The kind people called alternative, because it wasn't perfect. Harry didn't know the song. The crowd, however, received the opening lyrics with enthusiasm, yet chose to not sing along but instead hum in the background, while he bit back a snicker at the mention of setting fire to a house. It was creepy, almost.

"Troubled spirits on my chest | Where they laid to rest. | The birds all left my tall friend | As your body hit the sand. | Million stars up in the sky | Formed a tigers eye | That looked down on my face, | Out of time and out of place. | So hold on, | Hold on to what we are, | Hold on to your heart."

Stood there, in a bridge in Amsterdam, with the dying afternoon wind breezing through the canal, a snake wrapped around his neck, listening to life singing, throwing a wink his way that merely had him raising an eyebrow, Harry could see the drastic turn his life had taken. He was three steps away from hell and two steps closer to home.

And, despite everything, he could not bring himself to regret going through what he had to get here.

"Awaken by the sound | Of a screaming owl. | Chasing leafs in the wind, | Going where we've never been. | Said goodbye to you my friend, | As the fire spread. | All that's left are your bones | That will soon sink like stones | So hold on, | Hold on to what we are, | Hold on to your heart."

When the song ended, he dropped five guilder (and wouldn't that take some getting used to?) in the guitar case.

Tucked his hands into his pockets, retraced his steps, and headed back to his room.

Chapter 14: 14

Chapter Text

Date: 23^th June Friday 1995
Location: Room 2319, Gringotts Hotel, Amsterdam.

The pain crept upon him unexpectedly that night.

It started mere minutes after he downed the evening's round of potions; the little bottles stacking up neatly along the window frame and catching the dying glow of the sun. Sharp tingles in his fingertips and the creeping sensation of something moving under his skin — soft strokes and gentle wrongness.

For a moment, hands clenched around the armrests, Harry considered the possibility that he had mixed the potions up, but... nope, he'd taken the right ones.

Collapsing back in the chair, head tilted back and focused on the ceiling, Harry breathed. And breathed. Blocking out the uncomfortable sensations, focusing on Teyen's contented hissing as she squirrelled beneath the pillow mound he had built. The electric-green tip of her tail was just visible, flicking happily as the meaningless hisses filled up the silence, reassuring in a way Harry had never thought they could be after Second Year.

Eventually — not quite sure when — the discomfort vanished, along with his appetite. The former he wrote off as passing side-effect and the second... well, he was not about to let a silly little thing like a lost appetite stop him from upholding his self-inflicted regime of three meals a day.

The borscht was surprisingly satisfying; pinky and cool and randomly selected because how, in Merlin's wildest imaginations, was he supposed to try everything?.

Even as he climbed into the bath, Harry was still trying to reason Russia's cold soup with their frigid winters, and welcomed the distraction.

Swamped by giant turquoise bubbles that glittered when they came in contact with his skin, utterly alone and giggling childishly as he hunted them down, Harry numbered this bath as his fourth ever, and wondered when he would stop counting.

Caught up in the delightful scent of peppermint and coconut and lime, caught up in being safe and alone and free, Harry ignored the tingling running along his legs. He ceased the more raucous movements, calming down with a dopey grin and stretching his leg out as the muscle twitched like he learned when cooling down after Quidditch.

The problems however, came as all problems do... when you are standing nude on the bathroom tiles and reaching for a towel.

Harsh, cresting shudders slammed down his spine just as Harry snagged up the fluffy towel. Down on his knees with a gasp. Slipping on the damp condensation. Unable to care as his body flexed, arching down while his hands scrabbled across the tiles, trapped in a sodden tangle of towel and limbs.

This was just... ooh... f*cking perfect.

Green eyes narrowed into virulent slits, Harry scowled bitterly as he flopped onto the ground, giving up holding himself up.

'At least’, he thought, exasperated as he chewed down on his lips to keep from crying out. At least the floor was clean. The idea of climbing into bed dirty after he had just washed was nauseating and... yeah, great, now was a wonderful time to be thinking of hygiene.

Honestly. He's collapsed on the bathroom floor and his mind decides now is the time to kick into OC overdrive. Maybe he should speak to somebody about it —

Tension shuddered through his body, tendons standing stark against the slight bones and veins bulging furiously.

— like f*ck was he going to talk to anybody about this!

He was better than this! Honestly, what was he doing, canoodling with the tiles? Get up damnit! This is nothing! This is less than nothing! This is... this is absolutely pathetic, you worthless freak just lying there and taking it and —

Ooh, that hurt.

Gasping loud— yeah, no. Shrieking quietly — that's better — Harry struggled up, head spinning with the ringing and Merlin, he was going to be sick...

No. No, he was not going to be sick. He was... he was going to swallow it down and get up and... and climb into the bed and stop moving and... yep, it was hopeless. He was inconsolably screwed. Beyond screwed. Stuck on wet tiles, sticking to his skin. Ick. Ick ick ick.

Swallowing heavily, Harry carefully unfolded himself and laid his head down, grimacing when the wet strands of hair glued to his face, tickling his nose.

It was as he blinked that he realised the pain had subsided a bit, no longer feeling like a rabid dog going at his bones. Or, at least... he thought it might have subsided. Came to think of it though... come to think of it, he felt so light and floaty and mm. The ground was moving. And... and it was swaying. Ooh, no, that's not nice. Slamming his eyes shut, Harry firmly imagined nice stable, steady grou— ack, he was going to be sick.

Tensing up, bile burning in the back of his throat, bringing fevered tears to his hazy eyes, blood filled his mouth as violent spasms shuddered through his body.

Soft covers wrapped around his body. The sensitivity of his skin turned silk to razors. That was... too much. Too much. Hurts too much. Make it stop please please, and his screams filled the room — an ugly sound full of half-choked cries and whimpering sobs, slivers of sightless green eyes visible beneath shuttered lids as his body yanked and pulled and curled in on itself.

For hours it seemed, no relief came.

When the familiar fingers of darkness crept out, patrolling the corners of his mind, Harry fled his body without care and gladly submerged himself in the deadened comfort.

OOOO

Kreacher started when his Master's body suddenly sunk lifelessly onto the bed.

Taken aback, and acutely alarmed by the residual ringing of the now silent screams, Kreacher took a moment to simply stare.

This was not how he imagined the evening would play out.

For starters, while lurking around the gloomy basem*nt of Grimmauld, Kreacher had fantasised about returning to his new Master's side, ready and eager to show him the memories of their punishments on the awful blood-traitors and mud— muggleborns.

Arriving to his Master collapsed on the bathroom floor, limbs twitching and rigid, was not part of those fantasies. Nor was dragging the young Lord across the floor like a common hoodlum. Yet, when Kreacher's magic had failed to counteract the curse — because it had to be had to be a curse, to strike down such a powerful wizard — he'd been left with no other option. Human babies were easy to carry. Human Lords... not so much.

Furthermore, the Bond had been pinging for several hours. When he had been Bonded to the House of Black, that pinging had never ceased for twelve years while the last Black rotted away in the creepy wizardry prison. It had been exhausting. And irritating. And disquieting. So, little surprise, Kreacher had become almost fond of it in the same way Mistress had been fond of the boggart in the Griseo Tea-Room; it was there, but nobody mentioned it.

Thus, when the pinging had started that evening, Kreacher ignored it. It had been so long since he had had a Master he wanted to serve. His instincts had dulled like poorly-pickled newt eye's.

And now he was witnessing the fruits of his failure.

His tiny Master, agonised and aching, screaming himself to unconsciousness.

Eyeing the lampshade longingly, Kreacher bemoaned the oddness of his Master. He was a bad elf. Naughty. Failing his Master. Great Master Peverell and bad Kreacher.

His only choice now was to take good care of the young Lord and hope nobody ever found out about this.

So, without further ado, Kreacher clambered up onto the bed, folding the covers down in precise movements so as to kneel, brandished the cold compress in his hand, and set about caring for his Master.

When Master's slithery familiar crept out and wrapped around Master's head, burrowing into the shadowy covering of dark hair, Kreacher eyed her with some concern. When the Python reared up, fluorescent yellow orbs fixing on him and hissed in a way that could not be mistaken for anything but attitude, Kreacher scrambled to return to layering on the cooling compacts and figured it was best to worry another time. Like when he was alone. And not on the receiving end of that glare.

The fever broke the following morning.

Harry awoke to the sticky feeling of sweat cooling on his body and a headache pounding in the back of his mind.

Finger's slowly threading into the sheets, sluggishly squirming beneath the covers, nose scrunching up in confusion, Harry came to the conclusion that he was indeed on a bed. He didn't know how he had got there.

For a moment, he simply lay there, mulling over why his body felt like an open nerve ending that had been bathed in a soothing balm, and why his mouth tasted so bad, like cotton balls had been shoved down his threat and left to congeal.

Rolling over with a groan, Harry gagged, drowsily trying to get rid of the taste. Ever so slowly blinking his eyes open, wincing as lashes stuck to the gummy crust that had formed, Harry tried to recall what had happened. From experience, waking up like this only ever happened at the Dursley's... or when he'd crashed in Quidditch... or undergone another of Dumbledore's near-death 'quests'... or....

Okay, so he'd woken up like this plenty of times, and in plenty of places, but alone in a hotel room? Yeah, that was a first. Then again... it was magical... maybe...

Something brushed against his neck. Flinching, Harry's breath stuttered and heart stilled.

Was that just his imagination or was somebody —

The something did it again.

Merlin's matinee — he wasn't alone!

Eye's slamming open and breath teetering on the brink of full blown hyperventilation, Harry's mind frantically raced through the events of yesterday. Goblins. Dumbledore. Gringotts. Amsterdam. Letter to To—Marvolo. Letter to Marvolo.

But... but yesterday evening was one big ball of fuzz. Who was in his room? Was he attacked? Didn't the hotel have wards or something? Was...

Was that a hand in his hair? And... and was he purring?

Dizzy from the unexpected sledge-hammer of adrenaline, Harry flopped down onto the soft mattress, gave into the evil of the hand — because really, if it felt that good, what was the point in fighting? — and admitted that yes, yes he was purring. Idly, Harry noted that this was a rather pathetic response to an unarmed intruder and he really ought to put up more of a fight but, feeble as he was, he reckoned there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do.

That didn't stop him from rearranging his grip on the pillow and straining his ears to pick out evidence of breathing, fully prepared to smother the intruder.

On second thoughts... that seemed like it would take a lot of effort so... meh.

He snuggled closer to the pillow, no longer intending on utilising it as a weapon, and cracked open an eye. And stared. And stared some more. And frowned.

Licking his lips and swallowing roughly, Harry continued frowning.

"Kreacher?"

Kreacher jerked his head up at his Master's horse whisper. "Oh Master!" The elf wailed, almost falling off the bed.

"Kreacher?" Later, Harry would blame his sluggish mind on his slowness. While not the first time he had awoken to find a house-elf watching over him, the reason for it now was slow in coming. Yet, torpid as he was, even he knew this was the first time he had awoken to an elf crying over him, pinched face blotchy and damp, tennis-ball eyes red-rimmed.

"Does Master be's needing anythings? I's cans gets it for you, no trouble, just says the word!"

Where did his surly house-elf go?

"Wha' 'appen'd?" He asked instead, wincing as his voice broke. Dear Merlin, do not let this be the onset of puberty.

Kreacher scuttled closer, wringing his hands. "I's be's coming to show youse the Revenge Scheme," he said meaningfully. Harry blinked. "And I's be's finding youse collapsed on the floor in the wet-room."

Harry processed this, slowly raising a hand to press against his aching forehead. Flashes darted about behind his eyes, glimpses of pain and wet tiles and — sharpness lanced through his head and he winced. Best to leave it alone, then.

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry murmured, slipping back down onto the bed. Exhaustion crept along his bones, tingling through the lingering tension.

Kreacher dithered, hands fluttering around and smoothing down the blankets.

Eyes closed, face half buried in the pillow, Harry waited through the mothering. Truly, honestly perplexed. He'd collapsed. So what? Bid deal. Worse happened on a frequent basis. Why was Kreacher acting like Knockturn had announced their desire to become Respectable.

Mm... oh, that reminded him.

"Kreacher?" His voice was muffled by the pillow. "Have you been crying? Your face is all blotchy."

...Wailing. Loud, God-awful wailing.

Good one Pot— er, Peverell. Really, really needed to get that right.

Good one Peverell, couldn't keep your mouth shut; now see what you've done.

Groaning — and not whimpering! — Harry heaved himself up from the soft bed — he is not whining — and set about calming down his contritely masoch*stic house-elf.

Unsurprisingly, this was a bad idea. Unaware that Teyen had wrapped herself around his leg, rushing after the house-elf, intending to beat the little creature to the lamp, sent the irritated Python sprawling to the ground, giving rise to a rush of agitated hissing and half-hearted snaps at his ankle. And when he tackled the elf, well...

He was not prepared for the realisation that he was stark naked and sat atop a squealing Kreacher, hands pinning leathery wrists to the ground.

OOOO

One consolation beverage later — tea for Harry, condensed milk for Kreacher and a sauce bowl of cream for Teyen — Kreacher was suitably calmed and sent on his way, with a promise of returning later once Harry had rested, Harry was left to his own devices.

Standing alone in the room, dressed in a dirty t-shirt that was six sizes too large for him and hung down to his knees, Harry hugged his arms about himself and grimaced at the mess. The bedsheets were damp, smeared with some sort of herbal cream that Harry could only conclude came from Kreacher. Puddles of water pooled on the tiles in the bathroom, aquamarine-tinted bubbles glooping sadly in forgotten cornices.

His fingers were twitching with the need to clean it up, has to be clean, better damn-well sparkle you missed a spot Frea—

Breathing deeply, jaw clenched, Harry pointedly crossed the room and hunted through the growing pile of paperwork on the side-table for the accompanying Directory. He found the spell to summon a Gringott's House-elf, alongside the footnote to leave the eight knuts on the coffee table.

Not even bothering to figure out where he had left his wand, he summoned it to hand, deftly catching the zooming stick before it poked his eye out. Holding it aloft as instructed, Harry double checked the directives.

"Dryadalis qui vigilabant super cubiculum," Harry enunciated carefully, then hastily added, "twenty three hundred nineteen."

The negligible pulse of his core brought a happy smile to his face as the spell successfully locked.

Gathering his half finished tea and snagging his Gryffindor tie to use as a belt, Harry retreated to the safety of the balcony, not wanting to get in the way and firmly pushing aside the contrition he felt at having made the mess.

The balcony was surprisingly small, with just enough space for an aged bench on the narrow ledge of stone, a black iron railing of curlicued vines and impressionist jewel's embedded as the heart of the flowers. Harry snorted when he saw that and took up position at the railing to look over the city.

With Friday's dawn breaking through, the citizens of Amsterdam were caught in that transient middle-ground of going home after a long night and coming out to catch the first finger's of the day's light. Milling around. Rushing. Stumbling and clutching disposable cups of coffee. Window lights flickering on and off.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry leaned a hip against the railing and finished off his tea.

And then he sighed, upturning his face to enjoy the soft warmth of the sun and mentally began listing everything in need of sorting before Monday.

First up, owl Nadnok and hope to Godric the goblin had an answer for the episode last night.

In fact... cracking open an eye, Harry frowned down at his feet. Had he grown?

Hanging his bath-towel up to dry, Harry pulled on a pair of jeans, furtively cast around for any witnesses and – with a small amount of guilt that his inner child ruthlessly pushed down — took a running leap for the newly made bed.

He bounced on landing, huffing out a chocked laugh as the covers practically smothered him.

Wriggling around until he found himself on his back, Harry sighed, dopey and content; stretching his arms out above his head. A short hiss confirmed that the weight dragging down the corner of the canopy was Teyen. Apart from the bad-start, this day was looking like a good one.

Kicking his legs up in the air, Harry contemplated the merits of a nap over paging his way through the documents his Managers had hurled at him. There were undoubtedly contracts in there. With jargon. Legal jargon. The kind of jargon that he would need to cross-reference with the self-updating dictionary Hermi— Granger had given him in Third year.

That just.... it sounded so boring.

And so did a nap, for that matter.

Distractedly pressing down on his lip, Harry froze, lifted his leg up vertically again, and stared in baffled wonderment. His jeans were a full inch shorter than they had been two days ago.

He had... he had grown!

He hadn't grown since that growth spurt after the First Challenge!

This was brilliant! Absolutely spiffy! This was...this was...

Flapping around in his excitement, Harry caught sight of his trunk. Narrowing his eyes, and much too lazy to actually get up, Harry summoned the first long-sleeved shirt he could think of. Catching his school shirt, he shrugged it on, buttoned it up and stretched out his arm. The cuff slid past his wrist and kept on going. His one nice shirt no longer it him.

Oh Merlin. This was terrible.

He had a date on Monday, for crying out loud! He was breaking into prestigious places and entertaining really hot men — okay, that last part didn't come outright, but still.

Withholding a whimper, Harry snatched up a pillow and screamed into that instead. The process, while surprisingly satisfying, did little to quell the knowledge that he had nothing to wear.

Brilliant. Just brillia— ooh, wait. Didn't he have a book on charms? Surely there was something in there about resizing clothes.

Rolling off the bed, Harry bee-lined towards the growing tower of books he had stacking up the corner of the room. Several were flicked through and discarded before he found one on apparel essentials and... yes! It has the spell. Good. Great. Now to test it...

OOOO

Testing it was a mistake. A horrible, fatal, irredeemable mistake and Harry was so glad nobody was around watching because this was just so embarrassing and...

And, with his face buried in his hands, Harry honestly could not say if he wanted to break out in hysterical laughter at how wrong the spell had gone, or if he wanted to break down in frazzled tears because... because the spell hadn't worked, he didn't fit his clothes and... there was only one thing for it.

He would have to go shopping.

He settled for a muffled sort of despairing shriek that could have easily passed for the death cry of a kneazle.

Slipping the wand into the wrist holster, Harry gingerly poked the scraps of fabric that had been his clothes with his foot and, deeming them non-contaminative, gingerly plucked them up. The jeans were... beyond hope: broadened to a size eighteen that he could not change however much he tried, the left leg had shredded itself along the knee and held evidence of the brief combustion in it's still smoking hemming and the right had reached an impressive length of twenty feet. On that leg, the fabric had separated so far, he could poke a finger between the individual thread.

And the shirt wasn't much better. Five buttons had just... vanished. And, where it had once been white, it was now inexplicably orange, with a mould-yellow strip running horizontally across it. It was also just large enough to fit one of those baby-doll things Harry had seen the girls of Little Whinging carrying around in Primary.

Harry felt it was his responsibility, as an active — ahem, passive. The word is passive — member of society, to burn the thing before it offended somebody important.

So that's what he did. In the bathroom, of course. And in the sink.

While he liked to tell himself he was doing it to be 'fire-safe', the tiny voice inside his head was fixated on "too creepy to be real" and "fire" and "jump at you" and "drown it if it does!".

He was feeling positively chipper when he exited the bathroom, the ashes of the shirt cradled in his hands and ceremoniously banished.

Done with the safe-guarding of his sanity, Harry had no choice but to be Responsible.

Responsibility, it turned out, was ordering a plate of French Toast Bites with a side of fresh berries, pumpkin juice, and spending the next two hours paging through all of the brochures he had gathered and drawing directions on his map.

OOOO

Climbing up onto the tram, Harry gripped his bag and flashed a nervous smile to the driver. Purchasing a ticket (like the brochure had instructed him to do), Harry took a position by the door. With an eye on the stops, Harry spent the duration of the ride staring excitedly out the window. It was funny, really. Having spent some time in London — and having only once snuck onto the tube — Harry had just kind of assume that all major cities felt the same but... there was something so inherently different about Amsterdam. Perhaps it was more colourful, or less people running about in serious suits. Maybe it was even the air; a bit lighter, less heavy, a city untouched by the smog of London factories.

Whatever it was, it sent his heart beating in anticipation.

Disembarking at Dam Square, Harry hopped quickly away from the tram tracks and looked around, wide-eyed.

Early-morning cafe terraces had spilled out into the Square, filling the air with the faint scent of overly strong coffee and fresh pastries.

Grin breaking across his face, Harry barely resisted bouncing on his toes. As it was, he might have squealed. Just a tiny bit.

He took a deep breath, trying to soak in that unquantifiable stuff that seemed to make the day all better, and, when he couldn't possibly hold it any longer, he exhaled in a gusty sigh, and set off in search of De Bijenkorf — allegedly the best place to go shopping. He found it, eventually, and then wondered how it had taken so long because really, the place was hardly difficult to notice.

First off: the place was massive. Second off: jeez , the place was massive.

Harry blinked, open mouthed, and just... wow. He felt so... tiny.

Squinting up, taking in the lengths of windows and greying-honey sandstone, Harry tucked his hands into his pockets and thought 'I cannot fathom how a place can possibly have so many stores'. It was a quiet thought. Squashed by the enormity of the situation; the realisation that he would have to go through all those stores and hope that he actually found clothes.

Urgh.

Well, nothing for it.

Alright, suck it up, Peverell. We're gonna treat this like a Quidditch game. You go in, hit hard, hit fast. Don't get distracted. Don't get sidetracked. Don't let the bludger hit you. Got it? Good.

Let's go.

OOOO

Several hours later, locked away in the safety of his hotel room, collapsed against the door as his breath raced ahead of him, two bags gripped in his hands, Harry could admit that he... he may have gotten ahead of himself. That was nothing like a Quidditch game. That was... that was a massacre.

Even now, his head was swimming by the sheer extravagance of it all. Those stores were damned expensive. And confusing. Was he... Had he.... He didn't even know any more!

Slowly sliding down the door, pulling his knees up to his chest, Harry scraped his hands through his hair, wrinkling his nose at the extreme minty scent of the cleaning charm he'd shot at his palms the minute he entered Gringott's foyer. Now he just had to hope the clothes fit him come Monday.

Date: 24^th June 1995

Saturday marked Harry's fifth day in Amsterdam. If he had a journal, he would have written it down, maybe outlined it is some colour and made a Big Deal out of it because that was an entire working week's worth of days and he was still happily hiding in anonymity. Eleven more days, and Harry figured it would be safe to send a letter to Fred and George. And probably Luna. Couldn't forget her.

Two weeks ought to have been enough time for the Order to have discovered the fire, despite how hard Dumbledore fought to keep it secret.

... unless the man had told them, to organise a search party...

Harry really, really hoped not.

Nope, wasn't his business (right now). Not gonna think about it.

Still, the realisation that he would not be returning to Hogwarts for his fifth year hit him with the awakening newness of previously considered abstract thoughts. It was shocking. And... slightly depressing, actually. No more late nights camped out with Fred, George and Lee Jordan, working out the theory behind their prank products, hurriedly ducking for cover as the cauldrons exploded; scratching out the monitoring charms on the dorm and mastering an array of repairing charms.

No more sneaking into the Forbidden Forest and helping Luna feed the Thestrals, or hunting down her stolen belongings as she trailed along behind, diligently working through the best paths of retribution as they watched the mer-folk drag pigeons down from the surface of the Black Lake, feet creating little ripples as they sat on the pier.

He was, essentially, losing the best and only friends he had ever made. He was going to have to start from scratch... urgh.

He just needed to settle, let the fuss back in England die down a bit, and then he could meet back up with his friends; somewhere they could talk.

...talk...

What would he tell them? Merlin knew how he was going to say hey, guys, you know Voldemort, that guy that went around and terrorised people, and whose followers killed your uncles? Yeah...see, I kindofmaybewellnoididsortof shack up with him, but it's cool, he's totally sane now and not going to kill me, isn't that great?

... he should probably start working on that.

And on that note — burrowing out from beneath the nest he had made on the sofa and carefully shifting Teyen off his lap, where she had been curled up like a cat, Harry unlocked his battered trunk and located the Black Book... okay, that was going to get confusing.

Sigh. Just... fine, The Book. That's what he'd call it. Until he could think of something better.

Retrieving the fountain pen, and swapping the ink out for a standard black, Harry returned to the sofa. Wriggling around for comfort, shoving a pillow behind him.

For a moment, he could only stare at The Book — simplistic, leather bound, slightly tattered. The innocuous journal was so heavily laden down in magic that if magic were physically weighable, it would have smashed it's way through the floor. As it was, the protective measures he had etched into the covers were already needling his fingers, the pain gradually increasing with phantasmic shocks. Bundling up a thread of magic, Harry pushed it towards the wards, watching the way the burgundy stilled then blossomed open.

His fingers hovered over the cover once the ward's stilled.

And then Harry steeled himself and, with a spare sheet of parchment ready and waiting, began sifting through all the information he had compiled on Albus Dumbledore.

He was not one to waste an opportunity, after all.

Who knew when next he would return to England? Might as well visit — who was it the Baron had said? Bathilda Bagshot? Might as well visit Bagshot was he was at it.

Besides, it was high time he had a little... chat, with Skeeter.

Date: 24^the June 1995
Location: The Bowels of Gringotts.

Trudging down the hall's of Gringotts, Tonks sighed and wondered what she had done to be landed not only with the Saturday shift, but also with the sparkling honour of bailing Dumbledore out of the Banks holding area.

Beside her, Kingsley looked none too happy with it either but... well, she suspected that had more to do with worrying over the fallout should this situation be released to the public than actual annoyance.

The goblin leading them glanced back at her sigh, a grisly sneer etching it's face. Catching the promise of pain in it's beady eyes, Tonks hurriedly rearranged her features and cursed herself for her inattentiveness. Even if it was warranted. She was bailing out the Supreme Mugwump for Helga's sake.

They walked for hour's — or so it seemed. A glance at her pocket watch showed that no more than twenty minutes had passed, yet a sticky layer of sweat coated her shoulders and thighs, and her bubble-gum pink spikes had wilted, sticking to her forehead.

Finally, finally, they arrived, and Tonks decided that it was much too early to be dealing with this.

There he sat, the revered Albus Dumbledore, with his legs drawn up onto the bench and his ankles exposed. With cuffs around his wrists. And a rusting chain slithering behind him, where he was... he was...

Chained to the wall.

Why was he chained to the wall?

Too busy gaping to pose the question herself, it was Kingsley that asked as much.

Instead of the sneer deepening, like they had expected, the guide smirked. "He tried escaping," the goblin responded simply.

"And the reason he's unconscious?" Tonks ventured, none too sure that she truly wanted the answer.

The goblin rocked back on his heels, clasping his hands before him. "We stripped him of all possessions upon his imprisonment, including his wand and five bags of lemon drops. Upon the passing of twelve hours, we assessed that he was entering the withdrawing stage and grew tired of his delusional ramblings. This was for the sanity of us all."

"... huh."

"Precisely. Now, would you please take him and leave? Your presence is unwanted."

Spurred on by the threatening glint of a dagger at the Goblin's waist, Tonks and Kingsley rushed in, hurriedly unlocking the shackles and easing them off the wizened wrists. No sooner had they done so, periwinkle blue eyes flickered open, dazed and sightless in confusion. Lips, mostly hidden by the silver beard, mouthed soundlessly as Dumbledore attempted to voice his befuddlement.

Frankly, Tonks could care less how befuddled he was — she was still upset with him over his callous treatment of Harry — her god-cousin for all intents and purposes — and she demonstrated such by unceremoniously heaving the warlock to his feet and ignoring Kingsley when he fumbled and swore. At most, she raised an eyebrow. Then she began hauling them towards the door, more than ready to knock the old man out again and cast a levitating charm if they were faced with that ridiculous trek back out to Diagon.

Blocking out the stilted questions Kingsley directed towards the goblin, Tonks focused instead on figuring out what exactly she would put down into her report. The Order were lucky, she realised, to have escaped the nightmarish situation that would have unfolded had anybody else been called by the goblin liaison office to sort out his mess. She couldn't even begin to imagine the political ramifications. The Prophet — damn the Prophet the Pyre — hadn't let up since the clusterf*ck of the Triwizard Tournament.

... Not that she could blame them but it was the principle of the matter.

Approaching the archway they'd passed beneath to enter the bowels of Gringotts, Tonks sighed in relief and hastened her pace.

Nothing could prepare her for what awaited on the other side.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, this way!" "Auror Tonks, what do you have to say on this matter?" "... there are allegations..." "Can you explain—" "What do you have to say—" "How can you—" "Daily Prophet here—"

Cameras flashed, buttons clicking. Quills scribbled furiously across notebooks. Voices drowned over one another, folding and cresting in a dizzying wave of sound.

Blinded by it all, head turned to the side and tucked down as she pushed her way through the crowd, dragging Dumbledore along, Tonks thought, bitterly, that they deserved this.

Date: 25^th June 1995
Location: Room 2319, Gringott's Hotel, Amsterdam.

Come Sunday morning, Harry was a bouncing ball of anxiety as he awaited Monday. It was stupid. And embarrassing. And so, so juvenile, to be so excited about breaking into an ancient castle and seeing Marvolo.

Organising his schedule for Monday and Tuesday had, in the end, taken very little time to do. Harry was accrediting his brilliant organisational skills to that (and ignoring the idea that all the hours he had spent, cooped up on his bed in Gryffindor Tower, unable to sleep from the nightmares, staring at the accounts he had wiled out of the ghosts and bit's he'd copied out of newspaper's, imagining Dumbledore as the star in a muggle witch-burning, had anythin to do with it). That left him with a lot of time on his hands.

Time that he put to good purposes. For one, he figured out where he had gone wrong on the sizing charm.

The answer had been in 'The Conditions of Concise Charm Work: A Mastery on Theorem' (his so-far favourite in the 'Theorem' series) and had boiled down to something as basic as consumerism. In short, he had practiced on wixen-made clothing. Said clothing that was susceptible to deterioration via exposure to alteration magic. Because of the spells woven into the fabric.

Allegedly, if he had practiced on muggle clothing, he'd had had no problem. Harry tested this with a great degree of skepticism because one try with the spell had completely ruined his stuff. The vi— erm, demonstration, was an old sock from the Dursley's that Harry could have sworn he'd already burned. Evidently, he had not, and he had no qualms of exposing the sock to the destructive scope of a sizing charm. In a roundabout way, it was incredibly fitting.

And it brought a scowl to his face when the charm worked perfectly and he now had a dirty sock that fit him like a... well-fitting glove. Terrible analogy, right there.

But — and this conclusion came with a cresting wave of relief — he would be able to alter his new muggle clothes. The thought of spending that much money again on things he already had but unexpectedly outgrown made him shiver, and swallow heavily.

Anyway, that had answered that and so, still waiting on a response from Nadnok, Harry gripped the leash of adulthood and steered himself toward's the flash-bulb sign of The Responsible Thing and hauled over his Account Files.

This ended up being a Terrible Thing and led to Harry deeming Adulthood as overrated because there were dozens of contracts in there and Harry's finger's ached from paging through his dictionary and since when did Potter's do Potion's? Sleakezy's? Hair gel? Huh?!

OOOO

Leaning back, Harry rubbed his aching eyes and resisted the indescribable urge to cry. Or scream. Honestly, it was a toss up between the two.

The Peverell accounts were pretty standard; given that there hadn't been a Lord of the family since Iolanthe Peverell married Hardwin Potter sometime in the fifteenth century, very little damage had actually been done. Mostly, the vaults had paid their fees annually and accrued interest. There were properties spanning France and Italy that must have been functioning as some sort of business, each hosting a working team of elves. That was definitely something Harry wanted a closer look at at but, for the time being, Harry spent only enough time on the Account to make sure there weren't any hidden Marriage Contracts before setting it aside. There weren't, thankfully, and the Account was safe from Harry's entrepreneurial fumbling.

...for now.

The Black Accounts were... not so sprightly. Apparently, the death of Walburga Black had heralded a free-for all freeze on all investments. Reading over the list of transactions gave him a migraine as he saw the various properties over Eastern Europe had once had tiny teams of elves up-keeping them. The ink demarking each elf team had faded, a brutal blot of ink slashing through it.

Wobbling lip bitten bloody, Harry had rushed through the remainder of the folio, locating a dozen Marriage Contracts — all of which were summarily proofread then bundled up for his next meeting with Bannot, at which point they would be destroyed with a vengeance.

It was the Potter accounts that gave him the most headache though. His grandfather's potion business was in tatters; several contract's were flashing 'ALERT' in scarlet, one memorable scroll had been ripped in half. Half a dozen streams of money were being flowed out of the Potter Vault, all of them labelled as funding. It was a nightmare.

It was a nightmare that Harry was not going to deal with.

And the Marriage Contract with the Weasley's that had been so kindly hidden in the back? Yeah, not touching that with a ten-foot pole spiked with a Basilisk tooth.

That was the final straw for the day.

Tossing the files away in disgust, Harry shuffled over to the bathroom, stuck his face under the faucet, and ran the cold water. While the concept of washing away all that he had read was an impossibility, the freezing experience picked him up and he slunk back over to the sofa with a noticeably happier disposition.

At which point he picked up the closest book on the goblin's list, rubbed his eyes, and set to reading. The goblin's, he was realising, were slave drivers. And he had a lot to do. Thankfully, he could rest and work at the same time.

His birthday was, after all, only a little more than a month away.

Call him ambitious, but he would like to have a home by then.

When Kreacher returned to Room 2319, Master was conscious, not-screaming, and... jumping in place while waving his arms about.

This gave Kreacher pause — the memory of Master tackling him when he made for the lamp fresh in his mind. Perhaps... perhaps it would be best if he stood in the corner. At least until Master calmed down. If Master was jumpy now, there was no telling how he would be if Master was still angry with him.

Kreacher was slightly too optimistic in believing he had arrived unnoticed, however. Stood in the middle of the room, Harry jumped at the sharp crack of noise, spinning wildly as he flailed, searching for the source. He alit upon Kreacher and he beamed.

"Your back!" He exclaimed, eyeing the elf to ensure no harm had come to creature while at Grimmauld, before returning to his task.

Sagging minutely, Kreacher stilled. "Hello Master Peverell."

Silenced lapsed while Harry fixated on sweeping his gaze across the floor.

Shuffling his feet, Kreacher finally asked the needed question. "What are youse doing?"

"...I believe there is something in my room," Harry replied, doing a double-take at the bedpost.

"Do youse need's Kreacher to gets rid of it?" This could work. This is how he could redeem himself!

Harry stopped, straightening and blinking owlishly. "You can see it?"

"...See's what?"

"The demiguise! I'm almost certain there is a demiguise in my room but I can't bloody well see it so I can't double check and I thought I'd seen the end of vision jokes when I got my eyes fixed!"

This time, Kreacher blinked.

"..."

Harry nodded at Kreacher's befuddlement. "Exactly."

"..."

Dropping to his knees, Harry went back to searching for the invisible cretin.

"How did's it's get into youse room?"

"The door, if you can believe it. There I was, reading peacefully, then my door opens all by itself, seemingly, and next thing I know, my bath towels being dragged out of the bathroom!"

"...Did youse try youse snake?"

Harry glanced at Kreacher, backpeddling from crawling beneath the sofa, and glared mutinously towards the bed. "I tried," he mumbled, leaning back on his heels and wiping off his hands, "she refuses to come down from the canopy."

Kreacher had nothing to say to that. And, in such a heavily magic-saturated environment, with no personal ties to the building, it was impossible for him to pinpoint the foreign creatures magic.

Climbing to his feet, using the arm of the sofa as support and wincing when his knee clicked, Harry huffed, flicking out his wand. "Enough of this. Accio demiguise."

A brief interlude was shattered as an indistinct blur came zooming out from beneath the wardrobe. Harry braced himself, grunting as the creature slammed into him and firmly wrapped his arms around the wriggling body. Spitting out oily hair, Harry's hands fumbled in the silkiness of the demiguise's fur, trying desperately to get a sound grip as anxious crooning filled his ear and—

"Mine's fabric!"

Oh, so that's what's covering his head.

A minute later, Harry could once again see, the demiguise had lost the materials of its nest, and Kreacher had retreated back several paces, cradling his fabrics and scowling at the big-eyed beast.

Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The headache was persisting. If it kept up, he may have to go check out an Optometrist.

"Is there any damage?" Harry asked of Kreacher, shifting his grip on the demiguise. It was like holding one of those large teddy's from the Fair, limbs stuck outwards and head lolling.

Finger's clenching, Kreacher frowned. "No's. There's be's no damage." The elf threw one last glare at the demiguise then retreated to the sofa, mumbling darkly under his breath as he spread the velvety fabric over the coffee table, plopped down, and directed his anger at precisely measuring out the shapes for his uniform.

Harry stared after him. Sensing that no help would be coming his way, he huffed and shifted the demiguise around until he could meet it's eyes.

Only, when he did, large, doleful orbs peered sadly up at him and he melted. Truly melted. Gloopy and god-awfully adorableness melting.

"Aww."

No! Snap out of it Harry! Do not fall for it's wiles!

"No. Stop that. I won't give in!"

It pouted.

... Damn it.

"Gah! I can't be mad at you!" Harry whined, hugging the little thing close and snuggling It. Pulling back a bit, Harry took in the softly sloping snout, the larger than life eyes, pale, upturned eyebrows and promptly returned to cuddling. "Absolutely adorable," he muttered, rocking a little bit and grinning when the demiguise chittered. "So cute. So so cute. And devious. So devious. How'd you get into my room, huh?"

Wait.

"Was this even the first time?" He exclaimed, alarmed.

The shifty eyes said it all.

"...oh my god, this isn't the first time a demiguise has broken into my room — who do you belong to? Do you belong to anyone? Did somebody bring you here? Wait, what am I saying? Of course somebody brought you here..." Pursing his mouth, Harry eyed the demiguise. "You weren't abandoned here, were you?" He asked, voice soft in concern. "You do have somebody to go to, right?"

Very slowly, the demiguise blinked. And then it nodded rapidly.

"Oh good," Harry exhaled heavily. "That's good. Great even. Alright, let's go return you then — ow!"

Bending over to relieve the pressure on his neck, Harry shifted the demiguise onto his hip and raised an arm to begin loosening the choke-hold he was in. He glared at the demiguise, refusing to back down. "This is not okay," he explained quietly, catching the paws in one hand and directing them to latch onto his shirt. "No hurting, okay? Good. Now, I'm going to assume that on top of not returning you, you aren't going to let me go either, are you?...yeah, didn't think so."

Exhaling, Harry straightened and looked around rather aimlessly.

"Right, well..." started Harry, flapping a hand. "At ease, I suppose," he said, and shuffled over to the bed. Returning, Kreacher imagined, to whatever had occupied his attention before the impromptu interference of the demiguise.

Kreacher hesitated for a moment before whipping out the pin cushions, pin wheel, fabric scissors and chalk stick, sneering one last time at the clingy creature for good measure. And, he was reluctant to note (and quite satisfied to ignore) the tiniest hint of jealousy. But surely, that was ridiculous.

So Kreacher busied himself with the soothing process of dragging chalk across fabric, arcing and dipping.

Time passed in such a way, interspersed with the continual muttering of Master as he hemmed and hawed over a variety of something's on the bed, absently patting the demiguise as items were discarded, eyed, then brought back in for reassessment.

Scooting forwards, Kreacher's elbow connected with a book that had been balancing on the armrest, sending it wobbling worriedly. Hands flashing, Kreacher fumbled to catch it before it could fall, bringing it safely to his lap with Master none the wiser.

His eye's travelled to the title before his ingrained order to not question his Master's pastimes — you'll say nothing of this, you nosy little ingrate, if Walburga finds out it will be you I punish — and he blinked in surprise.

'Intermediate Etiquette: The Art of Manner and Pureblood Propriety' was an integral component of any Heir's education; the be all and end all of subtle insult and underhand agreement. Without it, Wizardkind would actually have to speak plainly for once, and throw their blood-bound superiority complexes into the floo.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Kreacher quickly peaked at the dogeared page. And sat back perplexed when the section opened to attire for all occasions; specifically, meeting with potential paramours.

Slowly, a chilling sort of horror gripped Kreacher, sinking into the pool of his stomach, and he turned to look at Master with a new and unwanted perspective.

Master... Master was shopping for a lover. Master was... Master was available! And — what was that wizardry reference? Fishing? No. No. Master must stay pure always! Master was too sweet and kind and strange to be roped into such a horrible practice.

Hastily pushing the book away, Kreacher considered his options. The way he saw it, he had three options. One, he could sabotage all Master's attempts. If Kreacher helped him wear something truly disgusting, no witch or wizard would want to touch him. But... but, there was the possibility of human error. All Kreacher had to do was look away for a moment and Master might change his outfit and become desirable. He shuddered in fear. Two, Kreacher could kidnap him. Plain. Simple. Only problem was that it went against every aspect of his service to his Master. Although... it was for Master's benefit, so... no, that wouldn't work.

Three — and this Kreacher hated with a passion, but he was not so blinded as to realise the good points — Kreacher could offer his assistance and guide Master towards good choices. Having been in Peverell service for near on a week now, Kreacher could honestly say that in all that time, he had neither seen, nor heard reference of another. Master was all alone. Isolated. Naive to the cruelty of the world.

Ripe for the taking.

If his hands were not otherwise occupied — and there were no witnesses — Kreacher would have cackled and rubbed them together.

It was a good day indeed when he had the chance to exhibit that revered Black Cunning.

"Can's Kreacher be's of assistance, Master?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. "...If you're not busy," began Harry, taking in the materials spread around the elf, ever so slightly doubtful.

Kreacher raised an eyebrow.

"Right," he coughed, a flush spreading across his neck. "Okay. Well. I have a date — err, appointment. I have an appointment. On Monday. With a wizard. And..." Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry idly wondered if this was what it felt like to tell your parents about dating. "I don't know what to wear."

Kreacher nodded understandingly. The most important thing here was to create a sympathetic basis. That way, when Kreacher warned Master away from everybody, it would come from a relationship built on mutual sympathy.

"What's be's the problem?"

Evidently unable to answer immediately, Harry twisted around to dislocate the demiguise and plop It down on to the bed, giving his hands something to do while he contemplated the best way to go about this. It was but a fleeting distraction, however. So, once done, Harry took a seat on the corner of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

"This is going to sound so stupid," he muttered.

"I's won't judge," Kreacher promised (even though he would). "People's do's stupid things everyday."

Harry snorted, looking up with an incredulous expression. Rolling his eyes, he shook his head and spoke to his knees.

"I'm worried about looking like I tried too hard," he rushed, explaining in one breath. "I want to look nice, and neat, and I know that's stupid because he's seen me at my worst but...I just... it's... it's hard. I've never done this before! If I wear something old, it's saying I don't care. If it's something new , I care too much . If I wear tight trousers, I'm easy and not looking for anything more than a fling. If it's too loose, not only am I upright, but I'm apparently looking for immediate commitment! I don't know what to do!"

This was terrible. Master truly cared about this person.

"I's see," said Kreacher gravely, nodding seriously. "Rights. I's cans helps youse, but first I's be's needing to know's more about 'him'."

Harry looked at him hopefully. "What do you need to know?"

"What's is his blood?"

Harry grimaced. "Half-blood. But. He's really into pureblood culture."

"So he's being's understandings all this?"

"Yeah."

"How long's have youse known him?"

"...longer than he realised?"

"Quite well?"

"...I'd like to think so. Let's just say, if he lost it and murdered a muggle, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Older than youse?"

Harry failed to hide his bark of laughter. "You could say that, yeah. He's traditional. Very classic."

"What's be's his social standing?"

"He's, erm. Well, I'd imagine he's a Lord in his own right. Twice over at least."

"... Comparable to youse?"

Shifting uncomfortable, Harry shrugged. "I'd rather we behave as equals."

Kreacher hummed, the faintest note of doubt detectable in it, and speculatively considered all that he had learned.

"Does he's know's youse is seeing this meeting as a date?"

"Well... he know's we're meeting, so... there's that. And, we agreed that we'd kinda see each other, I guess, so...". Harry trailed off, then cleared his throat. "Nope, I have no clue what he see's this as."

There was hope, then. Perhaps this attraction was unreciprocated.

"Thens I's be's suggesting something's smart but comfortable. Tries to sticks with dark or neutrals colours. If he's be's traditional, then youse will likely be's going to dinner. That's wills be's casual, if youse not Courting — if youse were's Courting, then youse be's needing to be's formal — but's youse not, so youse will nots be's wearing robes."

Distantly, Harry felt his draw drop open.

"I's thinks it would be's best to dress like youse be's going to something official but not all's that's important," Kreacher concluded.

Harry struggled to find his voice after processing the fact that his house elf knew clothes and what? and Courting? "... like what?" He eventually choked.

"Likes Hogwarts. Likes youse a student. Buts more proper."

"I wear my school uniform at Hogwarts."

Kreacher narrowed his eyes. "What's about when youse be's outs of youse uniform."

"I'm never out of my uniform. That's kind of the point. Unless I'm sleeping," Harry added, "and then that kind of speaks for itself."

"... Then's do's youse feel smart in youse uniform?"

Harry laughed, raising his hand to cover his mouth, an apology on his eyes. "Not particularly, no. I feel itchy, if anything."

Kreacher scowled. His human was helpless. Taking a resolute breath, Kreacher squirmed off of the sofa and marched determinedly towards Master.

His fabrics could wait.

Right now, the most important things was ensuring his Master looked presentable for his outing. He was a Peverell house elf. Nailing the presentation was a must, no matter where Master was going.

"Rights," he said, approaching the bed, hands on his hips while Master lifted a perplexed brow. "Let's see what I's be's working with."

Chapter 15: 15

Chapter Text

Date: 26^th June 1995
Location: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.

As a child growing up in squalor during the 30's, there were certain truths to be found in the daily rush of a metropolis. One such true pertained to a perfectly cut suit. Gentlemen wore such suits, tailored to fit their person to a T, colours always subdued yet striking. Gentlemen were respected, sophisticated, they were powerful. Business men wore such suits, collars starched and tie pressed. Business men were wealthy and prolific. Powerful. Educated.

Everything a young isolated orphan aspires to be.

Inspecting himself in the mirror, Marvolo could not help but look back on the pitiable orphan, could not help the flush of pride at knowing that he had achieved such calibre. Yes, said calibre had taken a bit of whopping over this last decade (and, if he was being brutally honest with himself, the decade before that as well). And yes, he wasn't in business, precisely, but he was a Lord twice over, his magical prowess and experience was unmatched and he was determined to best Dumbledore at his own game.

Also, his suit was simply divine. That had to mean something.

A dark, deep navy-blue three piece with a classic hatch stitching had been an American purchase, of all things, though that wasn't all too surprising considering British wixen's obsession with traditionalism. It cut him an elegant profile. One that pleased him greatly.

He wondered if Harry would like it.

He ceased fidgeting with the tie when a quite pop sounded behind him and he turned to find Gilsey retuned with his cufflinks.

"Thank you," he said, taking the lacquered box from her, searching through the organised rows for his favourite, quickly finding them and lifting them out before returning the box to the elf.

She clutched it to her chest, long finger's wrapping securely around it as she regarded him curiously. She was an eccentric little thing — precocious even, when Marvolo was feeling particularly forgiving — with a fascination for barrettes and silk pillowcases. Marvolo had never seen the need to deny her eccentricities, especially when she insisted the silk was soothing against the disfiguring scars that marred the left side of her body, and that the barrettes distracted from the mangled mess of her left arm and disarming blindness in the matching eye.

He had found her in the Elf Yards, he recalled. Barely mid-way through his twenties, he had visited at the insistence of some pureblood acquaintances and seen her and taken an instant liking. He had gone back, alone, and purchased her.

And then, after three months, an improved relationship, two tumblers of whisky and a dull night, he had murdered her previous owner.

Yeah... literally nobody had ever said he was a good man.

"You looks very nice, Master Voldie," she informed him seriously, looking ever-so-slightly confused.

Marvolo rolled his eyes, having never succeeded in correcting her on his name. As he said before: precocious. "You think so?" he asked instead, fitting the cufflinks.

"Is there's a special occasion?" she inquired, not answering. "Only, Master hasn't worn his suits since Master came back."

"I am meeting someone," muttered Marvolo, feeling unreasonably... flustered? Why by Salazar's name was he feeling flustered? He was a Dark Lord! He would not pander to these ridiculous feelings!

"Oh." Gilsey blinked slowly, processing this, and then she smiled knowingly. "He will likes it, Gilsey is mostest certain."

Marvolo glanced at her, eye-brow raised. "He?"

Gilsey looked at him, unimpressed. "That's won't work on Gilsey," she said seriously. "Gilsey has been with Master for four decades and more. Silly Master. If Gilsey not's be's knowing's at the start, Gilsey be's knowing now where Master's romantics lay."

Marvolo narrowed his eyes, not entirely certain he hadn't just been insulted, somehow. Gilsey looked back at him innocently. "Hm."

Gilsey rocked on her heels, finger's tightening around the box. Marvolo eyed her suspiciously. Finally... "Will there's be flowers?"

"Oh for Salazar's sake!" He pinched the bridge his nose. "You've found Lady Malfoy's perfervid bodice-rippers, haven't you?"

"Gilsey has, yes."

He groaned. "Brilliant."

"So?"

Marvolo frowned. "So what?"

"So will's there be flowers?"

"No. There will be no flowers. There will be larceny and typical criminal behaviour and then a meeting afterward to discuss nefarious future political strategy. There will be no flowers... Should there be flowers?"

Gilsey bit back her grin. "Does he's be's liking flowers?"

"Why would I know something like that? How does one bring up floral preferences in casual conversation, precisely? The few time's we've spoken, flower's were the last thing on either of our minds, I can assure you, and his letters have revealed little more - actually," Marvolo paused, thinking back. "Actually, he did mention burning down his Aunt's roses." His mouth tightened. "It might be best to leave the flowers."

Gilsey's eye's had widened in alarm. "He burned down's roses?!"

"It's complicated," he muttered, irritated because now that he'd started thinking about flowers, the thought that he needed to present Harry with something wouldn't leave his mind. Did Harry like flowers? Were the roses an isolated circ*mstance? Perhaps... perhaps Harry would prefer something sweet instead. Like chocolate?... did Harry like chocolate?

He sighed. "Why am I discussing this with you? Next, you'll be asking if there'll be candles and silk sheets."

Gilsey shrugged unrepentantly. "Gilsey said nothing. Gilsey was only showing's interest in Master's life."

"My love life, you mean," Marvolo muttered darkly, wincing when a pillow whacked him upside the head. "Why do I keep you?"

"Master keeps Gilsey because Master doesn't like change," she informed him primly. "Will Master be's needing anything else?

"Yes, the box on the mantle. The damnable thing has disappeared."

Without blinking, Gilsey pulled a rectangular box from some hidden compartment in the pillowcase and handed it over. Marvolo checked it over, ensuring the polished cherry wood was unblemished, before pocketing it.

"Gilsey will nearly has all of Master's possessions out of storage. Gilsey will be done before supper."

"That's fine," Marvolo said quickly, not interested in getting into a very detailed discussion on the elf's perfected organisational regimen. "Right," he cleared his throat, summoning his traveling cloak. "I should return tomorrow evening. If not, expect me Wednesday morning."

He paused, shrugging on the cloak. "If Lucius comes calling, tell him I am preoccupied with evaluating the exact way in which one de-feather's a peaco*ck. That ought to make him back off. If, however, this offends his delicate sensibilities — which I suspect it might — suggest that I am undecided as to the exact process as I am vacillating between keeping the peaco*ck alive or demanding it be the prize course at the Yule Ball, so he best not irritate me further. If, for whatever reason, he does not desist, excoriate his choice of hair product. Liberally. Have at it. His punishment has not yet been deemed sufficient, so I shall not berate you for it."

Gilsey hummed, thoroughly unconcerned with the prospect of insulting a wizard. "Ands if he's be getting physical?"

"You do, of course, have my permission to abscond to safety at the slightest provocation."

"Alright. Gilsey be's understanding. Have fun."

Marvolo blinked at her, inching away, somewhat concerned, before he disapparated.

Meddlesome elf.

He arrived on the outer skirting of the forbidden forest.

Breathing in the damp morning air, Marvolo took a moment to get his bearings. The area he had appeared in was deserted, holding nothing more than an unnerving contradiction between towering, ancient trees dating back to before the arrival of the founders, with inky shadows masking the creeping monsters and beasts prowling it's bones and a bright, sunny field scattered with bright pops of yellow daisies. The nearest Muggle village was a few miles over, and any farmed beasts had long since learned to avoid this copse.

A sane person would do something similar.

Unperturbed, Marvolo stepped into the forest without a second thought.

The moment he did so, he shifted; becoming little more than another countless shadow as his physical form misted apart and he flew.

Direction was no issue. Geographically, the Forbidden forest was oblong in shape, a sprawling split on the map that reached out with tendril-like fingers left and right. For now, all he had to do was go straight. The castle's Wards would appear soon enough. Only once he was through them would landmarks truly matter.

The journey was pleasant, if slightly tedious as the magical distortion warped his perception of time. Ghastly ghouls and virgin unicorns flashed passed him in equal measure. At one point, he was certain he misted past one of the centaur's secretive mating ritual circles, but, having been on the receiving end of their hooves more than once, Marvolo paid it no mind. He was not eager to repeat that experience.

When the wards of Hogwarts came upon him, it was with a grateful sigh.

Materialising, Marvolo dropped down into the leaf-strewn dirt, visibility limited in the gloom as sunlight fought valiantly but ultimately failed in breaking through the boughs towering twenty feet above him.

The smell of ozone was heavy in the musky air as he breathed in deeply, rotating slightly as he pinpointed the ley-line the Ward lay over.

Keeping a keen hear on his surroundings, Marvolo drew his wand and, without fanfare, tapped it against the Ward.

There was a quiet snapping sound, the sort one hears as a window splinters, carrying and continuing in ever softer reverberations.

Colour slowly spread outward from the point of contact. A messy weave of red and blues, hints of greens liberally streaked through with gold, all laced through with silver.

It was beautiful — almost ethereally so — and... Marvolo was disappointed. So disappointed. In fact, he sneered and almost dropped his wand in disgust.

The display was... abysmal, and truly hit home how true those pestilent critiques were when they lambasted Hogwarts' falling standards.

Weak and flimsy, the only thing Hogwarts would effectively keep out was werewolves. And that was purely by stint of the included silver.

Eye twitching at the complete lack of challenge, Marvolo angled his wand and stabbed it into the ward, easily drawing it down and opening a curtain of space to slip through. Removing the conduit, the magic fell back together, looking for all the world as though it had not been compromised mere moments ago.

It was disgusting, the state once impenetrable shields had become. And to think, he could have thrown a whole campaign at the castle and not once encountered resistance.

Shaking his head — and making a note to fix this once he had Hogwarts in his grasp — Marvolo dissipated once more. Throwing out his magic, he felt around blindly for the thin slip of a trail Slytherin himself had laid down. Finally catching a hold of it, Marvolo shifted sharply, his whirling mass caving and folding in on itself as he banked, and sped off in pursuit.

The Forbidden Forest was near abandoned in the area; the many creatures and beasties frightened away by the menace of the scattered Rune stones.

The cave he sought after appeared in a clearing. Hidden by centuries of greying moss and mildew, the entrance was but a crack in aged stone, jagged rock reaching out lecherously.

... in the fifty years it had been since he discovered this place, he had forgotten that.

Landing firmly on two feet, Marvolo sighed and whipped a veritable confection of protection charms around himself and his suit. It would not do to meet Harry looking as though he had entertained thieves in bedlam.

When he was satisfied with the spellwork, Marvolo approached the cave. Raising his hand, Marvolo sliced it across a particularly shape bit of rock, drawing blood that he smeared across the sacrificial stone.

§Open to me, Slytherin, wisest of the Hogwarts Four§, he hissed.

There was a pause as the order activated the ancient magic. Then, with a despairing rumble, the crack split apart, barely large enough for a child, never mind a grown man. Biting back the unflattering comments he would have otherwise made of his ancestor, Marvolo crouched down and squirmed his way inside the cave, rising to walk half-crouched to the back of the room.

Things dropped down from the ceiling and touched his face at sporadic intervals and Marvolo cringed, shoving away memories of an orphanage and an attic. Eventually, and much overdue, the room grew in height, while narrowing in width. A whispered "lumos," lit the tip of his wand, throwing the enclosed area into sharp relief.

Straightening, Marvolo picked up the pace.

Moving deep beneath the earth, the air was cool, dampness clinging to the roughly hewn walls.

It was the tapering of the walls, the slightly warmer air, the mustiness, that alerted him to the approaching end of the tunnel. At the end, he knew, hung a portrait of the castle as it was when partway through construction; when the spires had not yet reached the sky and the Astronomy tower was bare apart from its bones.

Throwing the light ahead of him, Marvolo approached the entry-way, cautiously eyeing the back of the portrait for any damage. No foreign spells lingered, and for that he was grateful but not wholly surprised as access was only granted to a parselmouth.

Slipping his magic into the seam between frame and stone, Marvolo slowly pushed open the portrait, revealing the lower levels of the dungeons. If he was not mistaken, the corridor it opened to was little more than several corridors away from the Potion Master's private rooms.

It was almost a pity Hogwarts had ceased teaching Alchemy. Once, this path had been often walked by students and had made the perfect placement of Slytherin's hidden passage. Now, this area of the school was unused — dusty and worn. The few sconces hung on the walls were chipped, streaked with darkened stains of old oil, the surrounding stone burned by guttering flames.

Dumbledore had really let the school go the muggles.

Shifting around on the frame, Marvolo sat, swinging out a leg and preparing to jump down. Only, as he did so, his magic all but shrieked in his ear and he froze.

Closing his eyes, Marvolo could only pray Dumbledore hadn't...

Slowly moving his wand hand outwards, he felt around for the tell-tale heaviness of magical concentration. Suspecting he had found it, he gathered a wisp of magic and, allowing it to pool in his fingers, dissipated it outwards.

And then he shut his eyes.

Dumbledore had.

Not one inch of wall or floor, not even the ceiling, was spared from the threads of gold and blue and graphite grey that drowned the corridor; continuing on for as far as the eye could see in these compacted quarters.

Sensors. Alerts. Deterrents. Alarms. Shockers. Stickers. Hexes. Curses.

The list went on and on and, in any other situation, Marvolo would have been impressed.

As it was, the whole lot were soaked in such a complex weave of stronghold charms that the slightest misstep would set everything off and bring the Headmaster running.

Narrowing his eyes, Marvolo cursed the old man for good measure and got to work.

Disembarking from the Knight Bus, Harry stumbled away and waved drunkenly behind him as it took off with a loud band. Merlin, he hated that thing.

Pity he couldn't apparate. That would have made things so much easier.

Finally feeling as though he could stand upright without face-planting into the gravel and/or losing his breakfast, Harry raised his head and cautiously peeked out from beneath his hood.

Hogsmeade Station was abandoned. Yay. And absolutely no body could be seen. Even better.

Seeing no witnesses, Harry took off up the vaguely familiar path to the waiting area for the carriages. He had only taken this path once — wait, no. Twice. Third and Fourth. Hm.

Breaking into a light jog, securely gripping his satchel (of which all appropriate espionage and assorted items were held), Harry quickly reached the pine-needle strewn clearing. Indentations marked the ground, evidence of the carriages that sat there at the opening and close of every term. And now, looking at them, Harry wondered where they could possibly be keeping them.

It had always been a non-thought. Out of sight out of mind kind of thing. Now, he was curious and... and...

Getting off topic.

Right. Thestrals. He need the thestrals.

Being unashamedly rubbish at that cab whistle Luna had endeavoured to teach him, Harry slipped the Shepard's Whistle out of his pocket, popped it on his tongue, positioned it with the tip of his teeth, and gave three short, sharp bursts. The sound hung hauntingly in the air, suspended, but Harry waited patiently, knowing that the herd would have heard.

And... he was proven right when his ears picked up the faintest sound of hooves crunching leaves. Angling himself in it's direction — and inwardly thanking the creator of ever-clean gloves — Harry quickly fished out the plastic container of butchered meat he had obtained specifically for this.

Soon enough, a dark shape broke through the trees. Leathery wings folded tightly to it's skeletal body, head tossing back, the thestral trotted into sight. It came forward a ways, and then it stopped, pawing the ground uncertainly.

Harry ran his eyes over death's stead, searching for the distinguishing feature. In a fit of pique, he had named the herd and, when close enough, he could tell apart each individual. But, before that, he had to get past—

Spotting a pale scar stretching across the rump as the thestral shifted, Harry grinned.

The big guy.

"Hello Asmodus," said Harry, voice low and carrying in the clearing. He stretched out his hand, the cut of meat dangling from his fingers like the meaty offering it was. "I've got something for you."

Asmodus whinnied, snorting in that condescending way Harry had become so familiar with. Harry didn't move, eye's averted slightly to the side. Not enough to signify submissiveness, but enough to show there was no challenge.

Snuggling, nostrils flaring as he scented the air, Asmodus started forward, trotting out into the dappled sunlight. So familiar with these creatures, Harry didn't even blink when the stallion was thrown into sharp relief, the fleshless coat clinging to jutting bones like shadows and the pupil-less eyes standing out starkly. Wide and staring, the white all encompassing.

There was a reptilian undertone to the creatures movements, smooth and graceful in a way a hippogriff could never be, and Harry was unreasonably fond.

Asmodus stopped just before his hand, neck arching regally as he assessed the human.

And then his head snaked out, the sunlight flaring across the dragon-like slope to the brows and snout, and snapped up the bloody offering.

Harry held still as Asmodus gulped it down. But, when the thestral turned to him expectantly, demeanour completely shifting, and eagerly nosed his bag, Harry laughed, patting the thin neck.

"Not yet, boy," he admonished, half-heartedly trying to shift the creature before it could devour his bag. The thestral huffed, moving to sniff around his head instead.

Sliding his hands up, Harry scratched behind the ears, paying particular attention to the outer curve. If the thestral had pupils, they would be rolling. Of that, Harry was certain. As it was, the thestral made an odd, guttural sound, and let it's neck flop down onto his shoulder. Staggering under the sudden weight, Harry groaned quietly, amusedly patting Asmodus' jaw.

And thought about the best way to negotiate with a thestral.

The process was astoundingly simple — but Harry chose to believe that was only because Asmodus liked him — and soon enough, Harry was swinging himself up onto the stallion's back and hanging on as the deathly stead galloped towards the castle's gates.

With the towering gates looming ever closer, Harry flattened himself against Asmodus, locking his legs around the thin waist, hurriedly yanking in his magic as tightly as possible. Shivering as the thestral's innate magic washed over him, clouding his signature, Harry held on for dear life as the stallion sped up. Large, leathery wings unfolded, flaring outwards and catching the air currents. Harsh beats. Great gusts of air. Hooves slammed off the ground.

And they were airborne.

Having withdrawn so far into himself, Harry had only a token awareness of Asmodus heaving himself through the air at such an angle, scraping over the gates with barely any room to spare. Of wind in his hair and equestrian panting in his ear. The impact of landing jolted him back, teeth slamming together unexpectedly and Harry launched forward, the circles of his arms and legs thrown open as he fell from his seat atop the snorting beast.

He landed in the dirt. With a groan. And flopped onto his back. To get his breath back because... because he had just circumvented Hogwarts Wards!

A sharp cackle of hysterical laughter escaped him — morphing into hysterical giggles as Asmodus swung his large head over him, peering down before bending and snuffling his hair.

"Enough!" Harry gasped out, grinning like a loon, weakly batting the face away when it licked his forehead. "Aw, c'mon 'modus," he cried, wiping his face as he squirmed away, getting his legs beneath him.

Not bothering to get up, Harry pulled the final offering from the bag and, side-eyeing Asmodus, tossed it high in the air. The thestral twisted around, going after it. And, when he snapped it up, looked over his shoulder once before trotting off and disappearing into the forest.

Harry blinked after him.

"He didn't even say good bye," said Harry, numbly; disbelievingly. "How rude."

That was... eh, he had things to do anyway. Climbing to his feet, and dusting himself off, Harry stretched out the kinks as he stared up at the castle, locating his target.

Admittedly, this was not his best plan. It was, however, the fastest. And he refused to lose to Marvolo. It was the principle of the matter.

So, without further ado, Harry pulled his Firebolt from the bag, swung a leg over it, and kicked off.

And flew up towards the Astronomy Tower with the speed and dexterity of Hogwart's best and youngest seeker.

The wind whipped through his air, threatening to push him off the broom, and Harry loved every moment of it, angling up up up. There were wards around the tower, he knew, that allowed things to enter the space around it, but not leave. As long as that object was going down. It was the staff's protective measure, he supposed, even if it was somewhat cruel.

Once again drawing his magic in, Harry forced his body to relax, to feel as natural as possible, and rushed through the ward without opposition. Blurring past the overhang, Harry pulled to a sudden stop — bless the broom — and navigated over to the balcony. Jumping off the broom and promptly bagging it, Harry pulled out the marauders map. Spreading it out, Harry activated it and began searching.

Nothing had changed from when he searched it this morning in his room. Dumbledore had already departed. All school staff were absent.

The school was ripe for the taking! Err... entering. Right.

But... Marvolo also wasn't on the map.

There was still hope.

Harry took off, sprinting across the room as he pocketed the map. He was yanking on his cloak as he threw open the door, pulling it over his head before gripping the rail and rushing down the stairs. He passed stone and stair and portrait, counting the little windows that let in light.

He was already out of breath. Ridiculous. Fantastic. He's only run about two steps, and he's already out of breath —

Ah. Slowing, bent over and panting, Harry gulped down air to get his breath back. And then, flicking out his wand, he bent and tapped it in a triangular pattern on the step below him, where the tip of elder slotted into indents that, though invisible to the eyes, were lined with runes.

"Sleamhnán," Harry whispered, pushing out his magic.

The Gaelic activation was affirming. Little puffs of dust billowed out from the first step, and then continued all the way down to the landing in a rippling effect.

When Fred and George dragged him up here in Third, Harry had been hesitantly dubious.

When they waved their wands and told him about the slide...

He was sold.

And now he was looking down at a smooth slide, spiralling down to the landing. It would be a pity to waste.

Quickly, Harry pulled up the cloak, making sure it continued to obscure his face while he knotted the bulk of the fabric underneath his chin. And then, grinning, he was gone; falling with ease over smooth stone. The rush of manoeuvring steel angles was overwhelming. Heart thumping wildly, excitedly. Surroundings shifting in a wonderful imitation of the world moving backwards.

He was laughing without care, despite his attempts at silence. And then his stop came in a tumble. Rolling over and around as he spilled out onto the landing and slammed into wall, something which would have surely broken his still-setting bones if not for the cushioning charms woven around the stones.

Ah, that was fun.

Pulling his legs beneath him turned out to be a different kind of entertainment, as the limbs swayed drunkenly in hopes of returning to the fun times. Harry blinked many times to right the tilting world, and stumbled his way out into the corridor in hope of re-establishing equilibrium.

Feeling as if he was as close as he was going to get, Harry checked the map once more, chewing his lip worryingly as he saw no-one else in the castle.

It was nine o'seven.

Self-doubt crept in, however much Harry tried to shove it down. Alleged and recriminating. Even as he hurried down the corridor, looking out for the entry to the first of many shortcuts, Harry could not help but wander if Marvolo would truly show.

He slipped behind the tapestry in a daze. Yes, Marvolo had written he would be here but... but he didn't need to be. What if he had something else to do? Something more important? It wasn't as if there was anything to gain for Marvolo doing this, really —

Another corridor, this time through a trick wall. A quick dash across the antechamber, darting through a door that only appeared if you pulled on the sconce several feet down first. Opening out into a corridor right beside the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. Absently, Harry was aware of sitting down, leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around knees. He settled in to wait. He would only be able to enter the office at exactly nine thirty-five. By then, Dumbledore would be in his meeting with Nadnok, and unable to leave if an alarm was tripped.

— that was probably it, Harry thought. There was no way Marvolo didn't have better things to do than hang out with a fourteen year old boy. How stupid could he be? Thinking this was something special, maybe even a date. Honestly, who would drop everything to simply be with him? Nobody. Nobody would do that. Not that Harry blamed them. He was used to it. Fred and George had each other, and things to do, and Luna always, always put her father first.

He was such an idiot to think he could have someone.

OOOO

At some point, Harry realised he was being irrational.

And... teary. Which was embarrassing. Not the crying part, really. More like... the crying in public part. He much preferred to sob in solitude. Less chance of it getting out, then.

So, yeah. Irrational. And needy. He was not needy. He was independent and capable and rational. Most of the time. Merlin he felt strange. Although, it had been awhile since he'd had spiralled down like that (emotionally, that is). Sometime before second year, was the last he could properly recall. Sometime before he met Tom. Sometime before the Slytherin taught him meditation and mental shielding and occlumency.

Admittedly, it had been awhile since he worked at that. He really ought to start up again.

His fingertips trembled when he held them out, anxiety and adrenaline freezing in his nerves as he calmed down.

Hastily wiping his face, Harry breathed deeply and stood, shaking out his limbs as he paced. He checked the time. Nine twenty-one. Okay.

Well, either Marvolo showed or he didn't. Whichever way it was, Harry would be fine. Disappointed. Frustrated. But, ultimately, fine... and maybe a bit pissed off because Marvolo said he would be here.

Where the hell was he? Espionage was not conducted at the last minute dammit!

Harry glanced at the map on each passing, seeing no change, no additional flag for another person— wait.

Falling over himself, Harry scrambled to the map, snatching it up and practically shoving his face onto it. There had been a name. He was positive of it. Down in the dungeons. Just... there!

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Eek! He came! He came!

And... your jumping up and down and making a fool of yourself. Stop it Harry. Play it cool.

Harry watched as the dot flickered in and out for several seconds, then solidified. The footsteps started in one direction then, for no apparent reason, turned around and started off in the opposite direction only... to go through a wall and... appear outside the Slytherin common room.

Okay. He really needed to remember that.

OOOO

Climbing out from the portrait, Marvolo dropped down to the ground, groaning, and braced himself against the wall. That had - that had not been a good idea. His core hadn't been worked so hard since he provisionally healed Harry. That, and the sobering fact that he had had only a little more than a month to strengthen this body had left him sweating at the temples and panting like he'd just been unceremoniously fished out of the Black Lake by the squid and dropped on the shore.

Pushing away from the wall once the blood in his head stopped pounding, Marvolo checked the time and cursed.

He was... damn Dumbledore and his meddling and insidiously cruel ways.

He was going to have to run for it.

Slumping over with a sigh, Marvolo closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache — something he discovered to be futile in this corridor as the stone-carved snakes came alive in a fury of recriminations because that kind of language is just not tolerated here!

Marvolo sneered at the stonework and walked away, grudgingly throwing on a Disillusionment charm as he went. He was a Dark Lord — a connoisseur of all things gruesome and strange — and he firmly believed there was nothing quite so distasteful as the gloopy feeling of cold egg trickling down his neck. Unfortunately, the only other invisibility spells he knew were Dark and guaranteed to set off the alarms.

So, sucking it up (as they say), and confident that none should discover his questionable physicality, or uncouth conduct, Marvolo set off down the corridor at a very fast walk. Truly, it was a speed walk in nature. He had the technique perfected and every— okay, fine. It was a run. A dilapidated run. A run of — gasp, out of the dungeons — of well maintained breaths and — gasp, hand landing on the banister as he swung himself around, taking the stairs two at a time — and elegant charm. By no means was he on his knees and crawling by the time he made it to the landing. Nay, such claims hold nothing but falsity! They are fallacious!

... Thank god Gilsey had been forcing him into the duelling room. If he hadn't thought so before, he now knew cardio would save his life.

He would still need to up the intensity, however.

For now though, he just really needed to get up the next flight of stairs. With that in mind, Marvolo placed foot onto the first step and hauled himself up.

Perhaps, if he had paid more attention, he would have noticed that the staircase was in mid-shift and, as such, opened onto a different section of the second floor, rather than the third.

"f*ck!"

The portraits, many of whom had been snoring softly in their frames until that point, jolted, scandalised miens fixed upon their painted faces.

Marvolo really couldn't care less.

Shoving his hands through his hair, Marvolo spun around, taking in the portraits and the tapestries, trying to plot out the fastest route to the Headmaster's office. He couldn't believe it had been almost been fifty years since last he had walked these halls in person. There was no order. How could he have forgotten that?

Sucking in a breath, Marvolo set off.

OOOO

Harry watched Marvolo's dot dither around with a perplexed frown. There really wasn't any explaining the erratic path the man had taken. The portraits had awoken shortly after the dot stepped out onto the second floor, tittering about shouted expletives, so there was that. Annoyed at the noise, Harry wondered around, casting somnus charms on the unlucky frames. It was good though. No witnesses that way.

In the end, Harry was forced to conclude that Marvolo had gotten lost.

Yeah... he wasn't ashamed to admit that that was hilarious.

Smiling and sighing, Harry watched Marvolo's dot get ever closer and stood up in preparation — there was a bet at stake, after all — and lay in wait.

Soon enough, Marvolo entered the corridor. Unable to help himself, Harry looked up, hoping to see him. There was nothing there, apart from an empty corridor, but, if he narrowed his eyes and squinted, he thought he could see a slight blur where a man's shoulder would rest.

Disillusionment charm then.

Harry bit his lip to hide his grin. It wouldn't do to be caught enjoying this prematurely.

Holding his breath, Harry slowly drew his wand, glancing at the map to get the angle right. Then, with a great deal of concentration, he silently cast finite.

Holding his tongue for days on end in his cupboard turned out to be good practice. There was a sharp intake of breath as the spell hit and the disillusionment faded and Marvolo stilled, standing tall, wand already in hand and raised threateningly. His distinctive magic seeped along the floor, a dangerous mist intent on locating it's prey, it's victim. Despite knowing this, Harry couldn't help but bat at it fondly, recalling his conversation with Nadnok about mixing magic and connexion.

Also, the perplexed glint in Marvolo's eyes was just too adorable.

"Harry?" The man called, voice low and certainly not hesitant.

Saying nothing, Harry crept closer. Breath held, steps silent. He was directly behind him now. He could touch him, if he wanted.

And he really wanted.

Pulling off the cloak, Harry jumped at the same time Marvolo whipped around.

They went down in a tangle of limbs — Harry laughing as Marvolo groaned, wrapping his arms and legs about the man and holding on. Strong arms settled around his waist and Harry sighed, burrowing as close as he could.

Marvolo blinked up at the ceiling, stunned, as a boy-sized limpet latched onto him, a cold nose pressed against his neck.

"You are lucky you are you," he said lowly, winded.

Harry hummed, breathing deep. His magic was settled, soothed.

"Else," Marvolo continued, "you would have found yourself well cursed, darling."

Well now, Harry was having none of that. Baring his teeth a little, he bit down, eliciting a sharp intake of breath before a warm harm landed on his neck.

"You would have me deny the truth?" laughed Marvolo. "I see. Very well. You are unlucky to be you then. Is that more to your satisfaction?"

Pulling back slightly, Harry frowned. "'s not that. I'm more offended you'd have cursed first hugged later."

"You would have me hugging strangers?"

Harry twitched, awash with a tidal wave of indescribable feelings, pooling in his stomach in a horrible knot. He detested the idea of... of other people touching Marvolo.

"... no, you're right. Cursing first is perfectly fine. You - you're not sharing hugs with other people, right?"

Eyeing Marvolo's blanched, stricken expression, Harry grinned happily.

"My hugs," he told the man firmly, squeezing tighter for good measure. "Missed you, by the way."

"And I you," Marvolo responded quietly, cautious, as though the walls would overhear. "You are quite impossible to get off the mind, wraith."

An ecstatic smile spread across Harry's face. He allowed it, before he pushed up, sitting astride the wizard, crossing his arms.

"You made me wait," he accused, frowning. "For over half an hour!" He glared for emphasis when Marvolo's lips twitched. Well then. Harry smirked. "Well, Mr Gaunt? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Marvolo had been about to smirk. Emphasis on the had been. On hearing that, however...

"Salazar damn it!"

"... seriously? That's it?"

"How did you - never mind, of course you did," Marvolo muttered, feeling rather bereft. "No go on, tell me how you knew."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Me: friend with your sixteen year old memory. You at sixteen: obsessed with heritage. Us: Hogwart's Library Family Charters. Conclusion: of course I knew. Now, why were you late?"

Marvolo stared up at him and... the smirk was back. He lifted a hand, threading it through Harry's hair and tugging him down gently. "You are gorgeous when you're moody."

Harry quirked an unimpressed brow. He would not blush. He wouldn't. "You're not getting out of this that easy."

"... Well, I tried. I had several of Dumbledore's obstacles to overcome. That took some time."

"Some time?"

"Try a hundred a sixty minutes."

"A hundred and sixty," Harry repeated faintly, astounded. "Where on earth were you? Wait. You were in the dungeons...Oh my god." Harry sat up abruptly, displacing Marvolo's hand. "Did you come through Salazar's Passage?!"

"I did, yes."

"Oh. My. God," Harry repeated distantly, shocked. "It took you less than three hours to pull down Dumbledore's wards. Do you know how amazing that is? What am I saying — of course you know how amazing that is; you and your overinflated sense of ego. You have realised that's what gets you into trouble, don't you?"

Marvolo sat up, trying to get his head around the whiplash turn Harry had taken. His hands fell to Harry's hips as he pulled the boy closer. "How do you go from complimenting me to berating me in one breath?"

"It's a skill. I've had practice."

"Cheeky."

"Only for you."

"I'm sure. As for my overinflated sense of ego, as you say, I have no idea what you mean."

"... you thought nobody else knew about that secret passage, didn't you?"

"... it is secret for a reason."

"... and you know it would have taken a team of curse breakers at the very least six hours to accomplish what you did."

Marvolo hummed, smug, fingertips skimming beneath Harry's shirt, unable to keep from touching the boy. Nothing could ruin the good mood.

"So, instead of finding a different entrance, you decided to show off and risk blowing this entire operation."

Except that.

"Do you doubt me?" Marvolo demanded, finger's tightening.

To Harry's credit, he didn't even flinch. He instead rolled his eyes. Honestly. Dark Lords. So touchy. "I don't doubt you, you prat."

"Prat?"

"I think you're underestimating Dumbledore, ergo prat. You're exhausted, aren't you? That's why your heart's beating so fast. I'm not stupid, you know," Harry scowled. "I know what magical exhaustion is."

Marvolo made to deny such claims, but then he caught Harry's eye, and the look in it sent chills down his spine. Despite inwardly shuddering at the thought that he had just been cowed by a teenager, Marvolo acquiesced to Harry's concern, swallowing his snappy remarks.

"Fine. I admit I - overdid it.""Do you need something for it?"

Marvolo contemplated the boy sat atop him. "You have something for magical exhaustion specifically?"

Harry bit his lip and averted his eyes. "I - err. Yeah. I do," he said, voice thin and cheeks flushed. "It's not - I mean, like, it's not a problem, really, but... I've been prescribed potions in case there's an emergency. Apparently," and he laughed, "apparently consistent exhaustion of the core is not good."

"No," Marvolo said. "I would imagine it isn't good at all."

"Mm."

"Well, if it is no imposition, I gladly accept your offer. Thank you."

Harry beamed, bringing around his bag and reaching in a hand until he was shoulder deep.

He caught Marvolo's raised eyebrow and shrugged. "Extendable and expansion charms," he explained, withdrawing his arm. "Here."

Marvolo took the vial, seemingly recognising the mint-hue, and swallowed it down in one go. He pulled a funny face at the bitterness of the potion and hurriedly gave the vial back to Harry, and looked at Harry in surprise when the boy easily handed over a water bottle.

Marvolo took a sip, tapping a finger against the plastic. "I remember the days when spells such as those were banned by the Ministry for the war effort. Supposed to limit foreign or sympathetic espionage, they said."

"And did it work?"

"No. All it did was make it damn difficult to carry anything around."

Harry huffed a laugh, and packed away the water bottle.

"Water bottles, potions. I see you came prepared."

Harry gave Marvolo a look and sniffed, crossing his arms. "And you didn't?"

"I have my wand."

Harry snorted, thinking it a joke but then realised it wasn't. "Wait. You're serious?!"

Marvolo smirked, hand shooting out and catching the strings on the... Muggle attire Harry had worn, gently tugging him down. Harry went slightly cross-eyed, vacillating between keeping eye contact and focusing on the nose that was very close to his. Warmth breath fanned across his face and his eyes unwittingly fluttered.

"Among other things," Marvolo murmured, watched Harry's eyes dilate. "Now tell me, how did you enter?"

Breathing deeply, reality came back with a sobering inhalation. Slowly, Harry blinked, and then he smirked. "I came through the Astronomy tower."

"... Pardon?"

"Yep!"

"The Astronomy tower? I was under the impression there were wards presenting such an act?"

"I think... there are? Or were? The dragon in the first task escaped the stadium, if you remember, and chased me all over Hogwart's. I heard the staff talking about how she smashed through the protective spells around the tower - she took out a chunk of the Ravenclaw observatory, if you can believe it - but I don't think anybody ever got around to actually fixing the Astronomy tower." Harry frowned thoughtfully. "Anyway, doesn't matter if they fixed it or not. I'm pretty sure the wards were just supposed to stop people j - falling, or something. Not flying in. Oh! I also flew a thestral over the entrance gate." He puffed up proudly. "I used it's natural magic to mask mine."

"Impressive," Marvolo commended genuinely. Then he sobered. "Harry."

Harry smiled sweetly, refusing to allow this turn of conversation. "Marvolo. Dear, sweet Marvolo."

Marvolo raised a brow. "Harry," he said bluntly, "you were about to say 'jumping'."

Harry's smile wavered and then, faster than the eye could blink, all expression cleared from his face, leaving it blank and remote. "I know perfectly well what I said. And it wasn't that." He hesitated for a moment, hand's on Marvolo's chest. And then he pushed himself up. "C'mon, we only have so much time before Dumbledore returns."

Marvolo wavered. He was unused to not getting answers but... he would rather his suspicions remain untested for now. So he took the hand Harry offered and rose.

Harry stepped back and, for the first time, took in what Marvolo was wearing.

What he saw left him dry in the mouth and boy, was it warm in here? Whew. Only just curbing the urge to fan himself, Harry licked his lip. "You look... really good. You wear a suit for a break in?"

Straightening the cuffs with a smirk, Marvolo turned to Harry. "Of course. It is not everyday one breaks into Hogwarts." He looked at the boy's outfit; taking in the tight fitting black trousers and hooded sweater. "You wear gloves?"

"Yeah, obviously," Harry said. He waggled his fingers as he walked over to his discarded cloak. "No fingerprints."

Amused, Marvolo joined Harry and they started down the hallway. The energy between them was polarised, drawing them closer and closer and Harry wanted nothing more than to lean into the man, but... the energy was also tinged with something almost... uncomfortable. He didn't know what it was, just that it was there and, well. Marvolo was a Dark Lord. They'd been together no more than a few minutes and already Harry had messed it up.

On his part, Marvolo had been thrown by the abrupt change of attitude. Although he had seen first hand Harry's Slytherin traits, the rapid shift of expression had been unexpected and... more than a little concerning. And now Harry walked with stiff shoulders, eye's fixed ahead. Nervous. And... it occurred to him once more how young the boy was; how much of an unknown he was.

Both were grateful when the gargoyle came into sight. Glancing at Marvolo, Harry stepped ahead and bent, hunting around the base.

"What are you doing?"

"There's a knob back here that — ahah! Got it."

A sharp crack and the gargoyle slumped over, stone grinding loudly.

Harry stood, dusting his gloves. "I found this in an old manuscript in the Forbidden section. Don't think anybody knows it's there. It's just dusty and rotting and — anyway. It said that Helga Hufflepuff built a failsafe into the gargoyle, releasing it from the Command Runes once activated."

"Really now?" mused Marvolo, already closing in on the statue, all the better to observe it.

Harry smiled at the sight, the inquisitive light in Marvolo's eyes a familiar one. He shifted slightly, swallowing, desperate to just...

To hell with it.

Shuffling forward, Harry slipped his hand into Marvolo's, eye's lowered as he stared resolutely at the gargoyle' feet.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Just, tell it to do something. It'll obey whatever it's told now."

"... Move aside."

Rock groaned as the platform the gargoyle rested upon rotated to to the side, revealing the hidden crevice of stairs leading up the Headmaster's Office.

"That is certainly helpful," Marvolo said, starting up the stairs with Harry behind him.

"Yeah, it is. Best part is that it deactivates the wards on the door as well."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Oh no, it does. Promise. The only problem will be if Dumbledore left his own spells."

Marvolo looked at him curiously. "You've done this before?"

"Didn't I - I thought I told you? M'sorry, it's so hard to keep track of conversations sometimes."

"There's no harm. I imagine a great deal has happened since we saw each other last."

Harry sagged, relieved, and smiled and Marvolo gratefully. "Merlin, you don't know the half of it."

"If you are not opposed, I am open to discussing it over lunch once we are done here," Marvolo calmly offered.

It may have been the act of climbing a very long flight of stairs, but Harry was positive his heart jumped a beat. "I'd love to!" Oh god, did he sound too excited?

"It's settled then." Marvolo squeezed his hand, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Have you grown?"

Harry looked up at him, stumbling over a step he did. The poison-green of his eyes was brighter, a smile on the corners of his mouth. "I did," he agreed happily. "'Bout an inch. Had to go shopping and everything." A few more steps. "Apart from a couple of prescription potions, I was also given this really strict nutrition regimen. They taste disgusting."

"St Mungo's does not offer that calibre of nutritional supplements."

"I," Harry hesitated, unsure if the goblins would appreciate him mentioning their involvement but... this was Marvolo. He didn't think he was the type of man to go spreading information. If anything, he was liable to hoard it. "I went to the goblin's, actually."

Marvolo took this in silence, then he sighed, shaking his head. "How by Morgana did you accomplish that?"

"You know," Harry started, laughing and rubbing the back of his neck. "I honestly have no idea. One second my Account Manager is arguing with his wife and the next I'm being told she's adding me to her clientele."

Marvolo gave him a baffled look as they stepped out onto the landing outside the Headmaster's office. "You have the strangest luck."

"Don't I know it," Harry grumbled. "At least it worked in my favour, this time. Okay, can you sense any magic around the doors?"

"Some. Not much, but it is strong. How long do we have?"

"Err, Dumbledore is currently in a meeting with my Manager, actually. It's not going to go anywhere so, about eighty minutes now."

"Which Account might this be?"

"Potter," Harry responded, already distracted as he peered up at the ceiling. "Sorry to disappoint, by the way, but I won't give you the answers that easily."

"You wound me, wraith, to think your riddle difficult.

My Riddle is difficult, Harry wanted to say. But he refrained. Instead, he snorted, moving further into the anteroom. "Have you solved it?"

"... Obviously."

Gracing the man with a teasing smirk, Harry wondered over to a portion of wall quite close to the door, the stone filled with detailed carvings, with precious gems, tiny and simply cut, embedded throughout.

Marvolo cleared his throat. Typically, he abhorred admitting failure, yet he just knew Harry would not reveal anything else without such an admittance.

"You are a Potter by birth. While low ranking, they were still considered a part of British Wixen Nobility as recently as 1975, which was the last time an account of the continued lines was published in Abnothi's Liminal Compedium of Familial Nobility. As discussed during our last encounter, you are the grandson of Dorea Black, making you, by blood, a member of the Black Family. I heavily suspect you to have accepted that Lordship as well, making you Lord Potter and Lord Black. That makes two rings — for that matter, where are your rings?"

Harry rubbed his hand sheepishly. "I wear them on a chain," he told him. "They're... to big on my hand, I suppose. Not used to it." He then went on before Marvolo could continue, "Have you been here often?"

"A few times. Admittedly, visits were infrequent. Dippet never did make much of an attentive Headmaster."

"You ever notice anything about this place?"

Marvolo smirked. "I assume you are talking about the snakes."

"Yeah," Harry grinned, stroking a tiny carving under the chin and cooing at it. "I got us up here. It's only fair you get us through."

Marvolo's lips twitched at the audacity, and then he approached the door, laying his palm over the wood. §Open§, he hissed, pushing forth his magic, and stepped back as the precautionary spells faded and the hinges groaned.

And then Harry beamed. "Dixie's don't dawdle!" He called out loudly, and rocked back on his heels. There was a beat of silence, and then he nodded determinedly. "Right. It's safe to talk now."

Marvolo stared at him. Then, flatly, he said, "Life is never uninteresting with you around."

"Good way or bad way?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Um, okay. Let me know when you do."

The man hummed noncommittally, sending little whispers of concern through Harry's chest.

"So you said you've done this before."

"... I did," Harry answered slowly, confused by Marvolo's expression. There was a tick on his jaw, and the slight furrow between his brows spoke of strain.

"Alone?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me, Harry," Marvolo began, folding his arms behind his back. "Is it that you intentionally go searching for trouble, or does it truly just happen across you?"

Harry stepped back, blinking rapidly. "What?" he whispered.

"What could possibly possess you to endanger yourself?"

"What - what do you mean?"

"People are alway's in the way, are they?" The man taunted. "Always dying, for you. Or is it, because of you?"

The words hurt. They cut deep and Harry could feel the anger seeping into his veins. "How dare you," he hissed, finger's clenching into his palms. "You - you have no right to accuse me - no right!" He backed away even further, confused and a bit scared. Marvolo had been so nice before and now... now he was acting like Snape or something.

Harry's eyes drifted down, seeing how Marvolo stood further inside the office, and then he looked at Marvolo's hands, watched how the finger's twitched. If he narrowed his eyes, Harry thought he could almost make out hints of copper on the fingertips.

Oh. God.

"Marvolo," he called, meeting feverish scarlet eyes. "Come here."

The man's — Voldemort's face twisted. "You are nothing. Always in the way. I will make you beg," he spat, body jerking. "I will make you beg for mercy."

"Oh yeah?" Harry taunted, feeling sick (and really, that was such a sucky comeback). "Then I guess you're gonna have to come here then, 'coz I don't listen to morons."

"How dare—"

"Damn right, I dare, Voldemort. Or should I say — Tom Riddle?"

Well. That did the trick. Snarling, Voldemort lurched forward, limbs jerking forward with all the grace of a demented marionette, and he stormed out of the threshold and across the anteroom.

Harry barely moved, keeping the glare on his face as he shifted one foot back, ready. Adrenaline thrummed through him, making bile rise in the back of his throat. The moment Voldemort was in reach, Harry slapped him.

The man recoiled, head snapping to the side with the horrible sound of flesh hitting flesh, but Harry didn't slow down. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, even as he grabbed the hand Marvolo had placed on the door, flicking out his wand while his mind frantically raced through every siphoning charm he knew. It was rushed and messy, Harry knew, but he cast anyway, striping away a layer of skin on the way, drops of clear liquid collecting on the surface and beading away.

Breathing heavily, Harry rifled through his bag and pulled out the muggle hand-sanitising lotion he'd bought, and slathered it over the man's hand. The Dark Lord gasped, breath hissing out between his teeth and Harry couldn't care less. When there was nothing more he could do, Harry shoved the hand away as though it were contaminated, and stumbled across to the opposite wall.

Never once did he look away from the Dark Lord's hunched figure. Never once let down his guard. His body was tense, defensive, coiled tightly in preparation. He had taken a lot of sh*t over the years and he had had enough.

Tremors rippled across the Dark Lord's form, eye's squeezed shut. And then his eyes shot open, the tendons in his throat convulsing as he sought out Harry. "Harry?" He croaked.

"Stay where you are!" Harry snapped, eye's wide and wild. "Don't - don't come near me."

The man nodded, shutting his eyes and swallowing heavily as he leant against the wall.

Biting his lip as he considered his options, Harry quickly dismissed the idea of erecting a shield, knowing that would leave a noticeable residue of magic. He inched closer to the wall, feeling better knowing his back was protected, and quickly fished out the water bottle he had given Marvolo earlier, sliding it across the floor where it hit the man's shoe. His eyes were sharp as he watched the Dark Lord crack an eye open, spotting the bottle, and bending to pick it up.

Harry clenched his hand around the tub of bruise paste as the Dark Lord gulped down water.

When the man finished, he leaned tiredly against the wall, and they simply watched each other.

"How are you?" Harry asked, not releasing his stance.

Crimson eye's searched his, before Marvolo tipped his head back. "I should be asking you that," he sighed, voice catching.

"What - what do I call you?"

The man chuckled, bitter. "Only ever call me, Marvolo, wraith. I've never been a particular fan of multiple personality. Gives a worrying impression of one's sanity."

Despite himself, Harry cracked a smile. Then, like a hairline fracture in a fortress, a sob broke through. A shaking hand covered his mouth, trying to hold it in, but there was no stopping it and his chest heaved with the force of keeping it in.

Marvolo started, eyes wide in alarm. "Harry—"

"D-don't," choked Harry, warding him off with his free hand. It was heavy, and it took him a moment to understand why, before he slid the bruise paste across the floor. "For - for your hand - oh god."

Back colliding with the wall, Harry slid down to the floor. It was full body shuddering now, with his legs pulled up to his chest. He buried his face into his knees, trembling hands gripping his hair as he cried.

Marvolo watched him, heart pounding, chest aching. Absently, he grabbed the little tub, scooping out some cream and applying it quickly to his hand, before pocketing the container. His cheek stung from were Harry had slapped him, but his mind was too caught up in the complete lack of control that had ripped away his inhibitions to care too much about that. Right now... right now his main concern was how Harry was breaking down not even ten feet away from him.

Slowly, so as not to startle Harry, Marvolo moved over to his side. He reinforced his occlumency shields in an effort to keep his magic calm. He could not frighten Harry any further. Not that there was much chance of that, though; the boy was tucked up so tightly, so small, and sobbing so hysterically, Marvolo struggled to believe that he was fully conscious in that moment.

Pausing when he was a foot away, Marvolo carefully sat down, leaning against the wall much like Harry, and brushed his magic up against his when he felt sufficiently in control.

Unfortunately, he was rather lost on how to actually soothe him.

Closing his eyes, fighting with himself, he reached out and pulled Harry into him before the boy could protest. Harry's breathing hitched, gasping and breaking as he struggled against him, hand's shoving at his chest, anything to get away — Marvolo ignored it, shifting the boy till he was sitting sideways in his lap, head tucked under his chin, and his arms wrapped around him securely.

"It's alright, Harry," he said quietly, uncertainly. "You're okay. You're safe. It's alright."

Harry trembled against him, giving up struggling, violently pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes. Marvolo tutted, gently grasping Harry's hands and folding them in his own, lacing their fingers together, leaving Harry to press his face into his chest instead.

OOOO

It took them longer than they had available for Harry to calm down. By the time his breathing settled, he had gone pliant against Marvolo, relaxing into the arms encircling him.

Twisting his hand free, Harry wiped his eyes. A flush crept up his neck thinking about what a mess he must look, puffy, red eyes and tear stains. Merlin, this was embarrassing.

The realisation that he was — once again — in Marvolo's lap took it's sweet time coming. He didn't have the energy to muster up any appropriate reaction, though, so he shrugged it off.

"Wha-" Harry tried to ask, clearing his throat. "What happened?"

Warm fingers had travelled up to his neck, rubbing up and down, and Harry's eye's shut almost against their will. "Dumbledore is more paranoid than I gave him credit for," Marvolo murmured. "The door was coated in Ira Motus."

"I don't know what that is."

"Really?" Marvolo frowned. "But - then, how did you know what to do?"

"I - I read. A lot. I found," Harry sniffed, drawing in a shuddering breath. "The Restricted Section has stuff on externally applied potions. I guessed."

Well, thought Marvolo, that would explain my hand. "You did very well," he said, not ignorant of the reluctantly happy fluttering of the boy's magic. "The Ira Motus potion is literally as the name implies; an impulsive rage overcomes the recipient. On it's own, the potion is relatively impotent - which is why I did not sense it - but when in conjunction with it's trigger spell, it is akin to a poorly woven imperious curse. The only upside is that it's intent is ultimately debilitating, so the notion of using magic to harm does not occur, whereas the urge to inflict physical violence is quite... strong."

"Oh." Harry shifted, laying his head properly against the firm chest. "Okay. You - your okay now, right?"

"I'm fine."

"What about your hand? I think I hurt it."

Marvolo eyed his hand. It was red, blistering in some places, and stung like the unholy fires of hell from whatever Harry had wiped all over it. "That's fine too."

"You sure?"

"Positively certain."

"Okay."

"And you?"

"M'fine," Harry swallowed, toying with his fingers. "M'sorry, m'fine. It - it was just a bit... much."

Marvolo hummed, carding his finger's through the inky tresses. "Panic attacks are familiar, then?"

"They, um - they can be. When I'm - when I'm stressed, or overwhelmed or something."

"I am sorry. It was not my intention to..." to what? Cause an hysterical breakdown? "frighten you."

"It really wasn't you're fault," argued Harry. "I've been a bit - all over the place, today. I think it all just, kind of, mixed."

"Is there a particular reason?"

Marvolo quirked a brow when Harry flushed, biting his lip and mumbling something under his breath. "Can you repeat that?"

Harry blushed deeply, purposely avoiding eye contact now. "My - my elf, got me thinking about, well - he got me nervous and - and, I don't want to mess up but - oh hell. Is this a... date? Do you think it's a date?"

"A... date?"

"It doesn't have to be!" Harry rushed to exclaim, mentally berating himself for his idiocy. "I don't know what I was thinking - silly, really - but it's completely fine if you—"

"Harry, stop talking."

"Okay."

Marvolo was silent, and Harry chewed his lip, anxious, worried he had messed this up.

"... My elf wanted me to bring flowers."

Harry started. "... What?"

"My elf," Marvolo explained. "She wanted me to bring flowers. I had not thought of that, and I was unsure as to whether you actually like flowers so... I didn't."

Frowning, Harry leaned back, looking up at Marvolo. "So... this is a date?" He asked uncertainly.

"If you are not opposed to it, yes."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. No - I mean, I'm not opposed to it - yes I want this to be a date."

Releasing a breath he had unknowingly held, Marvolo nodded. "Good then," he said, and watched a breathtaking smile light up Harry's face.

Harry smiled so widely it hurt, before catching his lip between his teeth. "What do... what do people do? On dates?"

Marvolo shrugged. "I cannot imagine. The first and only date I participated in - I was sixteen and desiring to escape the pressure and ridicule of my peers. Ventures such as this have never before interested me, so I am somewhat useless in this area. Why do you ask?"

"I've never been on a date," Harry told him quietly, "I, um - I just... I've also never been interested, that is, in just, all this," he waved a hand helplessly, "stuff. I would quite like to experience it properly."

"Are you saying I should have brought you flowers?"

"I quite like tulips - if you must know."

"Really now?"

"Yes," Harry laughed, smiling. "And I hate roses, and lilies, and bagonias."

"And should I happen across a shortage of tulips?"

"Bluebells and baby's breath works too." Harry glanced up at Marvolo from beneath his lashes, the panic attack near forgotten at the back of his mind. "What about you?"

"There was a woman in Hyde Park that sold freesia and anemone from a basket when I was recently from Hogwarts. While working at Borgin and Burkes, I would walk past her every week on my tea break. I... became particularly partial to them during that time."

"I'll remember that."

"And I yours."

"We should get going, shouldn't we?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Do people normally do things like this on dates?"

"Larceny and general subversive activities? No, I think not."

"But... it's okay? For us?"

"Darling, I am a Dark Lord and you burned down a house. I believe, out of everything, that this is quite appropriate."

Marvolo congratulated himself (there was no preening!) when Harry made an airy, amused sound; a soft, boyish giggle of agreement, before setting about climbing out of Marvolo's hold. He let him, dropping his arms, giving the boy a light push up, then accepting the hand Harry held out to him.

He stood taller than Harry — even with the growth spurt, the boy barely reached his shoulder. Placing a finger under Harry's chin, he tilted his head up, meeting jade eyes that were looking at him with unbearable fondness. "Now then," he said. "Shall we?"

A smile twitched Harry's lips, and he eyed the arm Marvolo offered. He didn't hesitate in hooking his arm around the crook of the elbow. "We shall," he replied, and pulled them into the office, shooting a nasty look at the door and daringly striding over the threshold.

Whereupon the pair were met by enthusiastic applause.

"Oh, bravo!" A single portrait cried. "Bravo. What tension! What tragedy! What resolve! Harold, what have I told you about the stage?"

Harry grinned, stepping closer. "It's alway's better impromptu. Hello Phineas."

"Harold?" Marvolo questioned lowly, barely loud enough for Harry, but he caught it nonetheless. As well as the amused glint in crimson eyes.

"Yes. No." Marvolo made a sound. Harry flushed. "Shut up."

"My dear deviant!" Phineas Nigellus Black cried, his portrait a bizarre mockery of movement juxtoposed with the frozen frames of his neighbours. And then quick-silver eyes narrowed in on Marvolo. "And companion," he added, a tad more reserved. "Care for introductions, Harold?"

A hint of red on his cheeks, Harry shifted, finger's clenching around Marvolo's hand. "Right, sorry. Phineas Nigellus Black, this is Gaunt. Gaunt, this is Headmaster Black."

Phineas peered out suspiciously. Somehow, despite being naught but oil and canvas, his eyes were alight with a paternal caution. "Gaunt?"

"I know not his first name," Harry admitted. "We're playing a game. He for my titles and name and I for his."

"I see," Phineas acquiesced, excited. "And how fares you?"

"If he is nearly as proud as I think he is, he'll have stuck to the Gaunt naming traditions," Harry began, sharing a look with Marvolo, wry and knowing. "That leaves 'm' for the first letter of his first name, and 'r' for the third letter. It follows, then, that the second letter of his first name will be a vowel."

"I see, I see. And his titles? What of his titles?"

"Lord Gaunt and Lord Slytherin, of course. He'll settle for nothing less."

Marvolo made a sound, a soft, choked thing. Harry smiled breezily. Phineas mulled this over.

"Well I approve. Lord Gaunt, delighted to meet you."

"The honour is mine, Headmaster."

"Lord Slytherin, eh? Have you studied at Hogwarts?"

"Sadly not. I hail from Durmstrang, myself, but Harry has spoken fairly of the school."

Phineas Nigellus hummed, scratching his goatee. "Come now, enough with such pleasantries. I trust, Harold, that you come with purpose?"

"Mm. Couple things. Dumbledore has some trinkets that are just begging to be broken, really, but we have time for conversation."

"You do? How wonderful. Last time, I recall you barely stopped for a greeting."

"I am sorry about that."

Marvolo turned to him, the quirk of his brow giving away his curiosity. Harry didn't need to hear the question to know it. "I was compiling evidence."

"For what?"

"I told you I'd been planning Dumbledore's take down for years. Honestly, I didn't only speak to ghosts," defended Harry. "Oh, that reminds me: I'm going to Godric's Hollow, tomorrow. Wanna come?"

"I have nothing planned..."

"Brilliant!"

Phineas Nigellus cleared his throat, gaining their attention. "What is it that awaits you in Godric's Hallow, precisely?"

"Bathilda Bagshot."

"Ah."

"The woman that wrote Hogwarts: A History?" Marvolo inquired, moving over to the squashy armchairs and taking a seat, pulling Harry down onto his lap before he could think better of it. Harry blinked in surprise, startled at suddenly finding himself atop Marvolo. Again. Meh. Shifting, he made himself more comfortable.

"Yeah." He eyed Marvolo from beneath his lashes. "She used to lived next door to Dumbledore. She's also the aunt of a certain German."

... Oh.

"There is nothing on this earth that would prevent me experiencing that."

Harry snorted.

"Okay, I'll be the one to address the hippogriff in the room!" Phineas Nigellus exclaimed, slamming down his goblet in order to crowd the front of the canvas. "Just what are your intentions with this boy?!"

"Purely honourable," vowed Marvolo, at the same time as Harry insisted, "Completely consensual."

They exchanged looks. And then Harry shrugged. "What? It is. You've done nothing to me I haven't wanted. In fact, I distinctly remember it being me who asked you to—"

Phineas Nigellus spluttered above them, dabbing red powder onto his face by way of blush. "Enough! I do not wish to hear more," he cried. "Lord Slytherin, how fares you in this titular game?"

"Reasonably well, in my opinion. From his little riddle, I've deduced that two of four inherited rings belong to the Houses Potter and Black. Accordingly, the remaining two rings belong truly to only one house which... I have not yet discovered."

Nodding thoughtfully, Phineas Nigellus shifted his focus to glare at Harry. "Is this true?"

It took everything Harry had not to quell beneath the ire of a portrait. "Yes, sir."

"Lord Black, eh?"

"Yes sir."

"Hmph! I suppose that would explain the chaos inside the Family Seat, then. Welcome to the family m'boy!"

"... huh?"

Phineas Nigellus looked amused. "Did you not think I would accept you?"

"Er..."

"Nonsense, boy! You are leagues above the other one. He always was one wand short of a conduit." The portrait confided. "Much preferred his brother. Pity that."

"Are you talking about Sirius?" Harry interrupted.

Phineas Nigellus nodded.

Harry blinked. "I didn't know he had a brother."

"His name was Regulus," Marvolo told him.

Harry twisted to look at him. "How do you know about him?"

"He was one of mine."

"One of... yours?"

Phineas Nigellus watched them with a suspicious air. "I believe Lord Slytherin means he was a Dark Sympathiser, Harold."

"A Dark Sympathiser?" Harry repeated, puzzled. And then understanding dawned when Marvolo shifted, discomforted. "Oh," he uttered. "Oh. He was - oh."

"Yes."

"What happened to him?"

"Officially, he is deceased. Unofficially, I have no idea. I assume he came across some sort of confrontation with the Order and perished in the exchanged fire. All I know is that he disappeared a year before —" Marvolo broke off, a strange look crossing his face and his hand tightened around Harry's waist. He coughed. "Well, before you became the Saviour."

Oh... Yeh, Harry wasn't going to linger on that. "I didn't know the Order were so... involved?"

"Magical Britain was at war, Harry."

"No, I know that, just - it's never felt... real, before. Somehow. It's just been, 'there was a war, there were losses, let's focus on what you are going to need to do'." Harry shrugged. "Nobody has ever spoken about the other losses around me."

Phineas Nigellus spoke up, saying, very seriously, "Society has always been incredibly wishy-washy about that sort of thing."

"Very true," Marvolo responded. "Now, returning to the matter at hand - you mentioned something about chaos at the Family Seat?"

"Oh, yes! It's absolutely extraordinary, I tell you! Utterly remarkable! Avenging wrongs was not so amusing in my day, I say!"

Raising a brow, Marvolo turned to Harry, finding him struggling to hold in his laughter.

"Just what did you do?" he inquired, voiced edged in teasing.

"I set my elf against them!" Harry blurted, breathless around his mirth. "Merlin, it was brilliant. Did you see the Prophet a couple days ago?"

"No?"

"Oh god, it was so perfect. The headline was about Sirius Black being an illegal animagus - from what I understand, everybody was screaming at each other in the living room when Bill Weasley walked in with it. I - actually, it will take too long to tell you. Do you have a pensive?"

"I do."

"Lovely. I'll give you the memory of it later."

Marvolo smirked. "I look forward to it."

"In my day, flirting was kept strictly behind closed doors," Phineas Nigellus grumped.

The couple on the armchair started, before Harry looked up at the portrait in confusion. "We weren't flirting."

"I know flirting when I see it, laddie."

Harry squinted at him. "Right," he said slowly, as though it explained everything. "In your day, revealing ankles was considered scandalous, wasn't it?"

"Quite right!" Declared the portrait, before the ocular paint dimmed dreamily. "Nothing better than a good pair of ankles."

"I don't know," Marvolo began, a suggestive smirk on his lips. "I alway's fancied myself a bit of thighs man, to be honest."

And just to make sure his point was received, his hand dropped down to Harry's thigh and squeezed. Harry yelped, blushing a deep, shocking red and ducked his head — caught between amusem*nt, mortification and arousal.

"No! I refuse to watch this! Harold, it was a joy to see you again! Lord Slytherin —" Phineas Nigellus' eye twitched and he sneered. "Pleasure."

And then Headmaster Black was power-walking out of the frame, leaving behind a desk, a bottle of red powder and a smushed quill.

"..."

"..."

"I can't believe you did that," Harry mumbled, indignant and shy.

Humming, Marvolo rubbed his thumb in a circle, enjoying Harry's shiver.

"I mean it! I didn't even get to say goodbye!"

"He didn't like me, I could tell."

"Only 'cause you were feeling me up in front of him!"

"I want to do something," he decided.

"So do I! I wanted to say good bye!"

"I'm going to kiss you."

"Yeah, well good luck with tha - what?"

Saying nothing, Marvolo slid his hand up and hooked a thumb in the belt-loop, pulling as Harry twisted around.

"Are you serious?" Harry questioned.

"Immensely."

"But," Harry paused, hands landing on Marvolo's shoulders as he tried to get his mind around what was happening. "But, why here?"

"Why not?"

"It's the Headmaster's office!" Harry hissed. "Dumbledore sit's over there - in that chair, no less!"

"All true," Marvolo allowed. "Still want to do it?"

"What are you on about?" Harry demanded. "Of course I do!"

His words hung between them for mere seconds, and then all he knew were hands on the back of neck and on his hip, fingers slipped beneath his jumper, lips on his and safesafesafe magic enveloping him. His own hands were already in Marvolo's hair, even as he moaned and pushed closer. Harry imagined that this was what coming home felt like. Warm and lovely and so, so familiar.

"God, I missed you," Marvolo gasped between kisses, not leaving enough time for Harry to respond before he was trailing kisses along the boy's jaw and finding a spot on his neck. The pulse point fluttered beneath his lips as he bit lightly, sucking.

"I-" Harry broke off, eye's closing, finger's tightening in Marvolo's hair as he arched. "I can't believe we're - oh - we're doing this."

"You love this," Marvolo muttered, smug. He pulled away slightly, inspecting the blossoming bruise left behind after his administrations.

Harry whined, pushing him back down. "Don't you dare stop."

He could feel the answering smirk pressed into his throat, but it was lost in the pleasurable haze gradually unfolding over his mind. His head tipped to the side, whimpering, as Marvolo's hand slid higher up his stomach, around his side, and pressed fingers into the scars across his spine.

When Marvolo pulled away, Harry thought he might have truly drowned, kicking his way through the lulling pleasure of his mind to finally breach reality. He blinked, dopey and slow, as Marvolo pressed one last kiss to his mouth before pulling away. Finger's carded through his hair, pushing back his fringe, and Harry blinked owlishly.

"That was - wow."

"Quite."

"Let's do it again."

"It's ten twenty-one," shared Marvolo, rubbing a thumb against his forehead. Harry's confusion didn't clear, so he elaborated. "Unless you enjoy the thought of being caught, we really ought to be going."

Harry groaned. "No I don't want to be caught," he mumbled, pouting, and dropped his head onto Marvolo's shoulder.

"Not an exhibitionist then?"

"A what?"

"Conversation for another time, I think," Marvolo mused. "Up now, wraith."

"Fine," grumbled Harry, muttering darkly under his breath, just loud enough for Marvolo to catch the word 'tease'.

Harry climbed off him, taking several steps away from the armchair as Marvolo rose, and then stared at him.

"Harry?" Marvolo prompted.

"Yeah?"

"You're staring."

"Oh. Was I?"

"You were."

"Hm," Harry pressed his lips together, cheeks darkening, and then abruptly twisted around. "It's a very nice suit," he defended. "Very smart - also, I might've, um - your hair's a mess, so you know. Now, where are they?"

And he wondered away, hands rubbing together, before Marvolo could string together an answer. Amused, Marvolo smoothed his hair, feeling it sticking up at the back.

"Okay, these are them!" Harry called, peering at a side-table groaning under the weight of a clutter of spindly, silvery objects.

Approaching the table, Marvolo scrutinised the many, many, spindly things, leaning in close to get a better look at one in particular, before hurriedly yanking his head out of the way as it emitted a puff of steam.

"Which one is it?"

"Well," Harry began, running eyeing the lot. "There's a couple of them, so..."

Marvolo waited.

"I think we should just break them all."

"I agree."

"I thought you might."

"It's only logical."

"Absolutely."

"How do we do this?"

"Physically damaging objects such as these is enough to break the spell-work," Marvolo said, beckoning Harry closer. "See here, the inscriptions around the base?"

"Yeah?"

"Those are interwoven rune clusters. Very complicated. Professionally, there are about two dozen people in the world capable of this kind of work."

"How does that help us?"

"The magic in the clusters is intimately connected to the creator's magic in the metal - which, in this case, is silver. When the magic is connected like this, we typically classify the cluster's as volatile, simply because altering or shifting the creating paradigm can lead to... accidents, shall we say."

"Accidents?" questioned Harry, leaning away.

"Mm. A team of unspeakable's were testing a theory. They blew a hole in Prague."

Harry squeaked. They blew a hole?!

"Good news though," Marvolo continued. "They proved their hypothesis."

"And that was?"

"That magical interference interferes with the runic frequency to an explosive extreme."

"Then what the hell were they doing in Prague?!"

"It has been some time since I read the paper, but I believe they had not anticipated an explosion of that measure - they assumed it would be smaller."

Incredulous, Harry shook his head. "There is no common sense," he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and spoke louder. "How does that help?"

"Smashing it underfoot should do the trick."

"... that's it? You sure?"

"Utterly certain."

Harry blinked, looking between the spindly objects and Marvolo. "Okay."

Calmly, Marvolo regarded the boy. "After you, my dear."

When Harry grinned, it was sharp and ruining.

OOOO

Leaning out the window, Harry peered down to the grounds below. Distantly, silver shard's glinted between the blades of grass.

"Okay," he said, "I think they're broken now."

Marvolo snorted beside him, gazing out over Hogwart's grounds as the breeze ruffled his hair. "I think you may be right. The fall did them in."

Harry hummed, standing on his tiptoes to lean a little further. "Of course it did. The excessive smashing was only preliminary."

"Was it now?"

"Obviously. Everyone knows things aren't truly broken till they've been tossed out a window from the fifth floor of a castle."

Smirking, Marvolo reached out and caught Harry around the waist. "Have a lot of experience with that, do you?" He asked, voice low.

"You ever seen a Wronski Feint gone wrong?"

"Is this quidditch?"

"Yeah."

"Then no."

"Then yes, I have experience. Now," smirking, Harry disentangled himself, "if you will gladly keep your hands to yourself - thank you - we need to go."

Folding his arms behind his back, Marvolo raised a brow. "We still have time," he pointed out.

"Actually we don't. I was going to drop by the Chamber before we go - I - I'm not coming back here, you know? I thought it best to just... get some thing's done."

"Ah," said the man. "Very well, come along then."

"Wait," Harry said, hand caught in Marvolo's, trotting along behind him. "You aren't - I mean - I don't think it's the best idea if you come down with me."

"Why?"

"It's a - it's a bit of a mess and - Marvolo, you do know the basilisk is dead, right?"

Marvolo looked at him. "Are you... worried?"

"Of your reaction? Yes!"

"I will always wonder how you can be so considerate towards the emotions of others."

"Marvolo!"

"You have no reason to be worried, Harry. The basilisk had been in the Chamber for more than a century. She was insane fifty year's ago - I very much doubt she was any saner when you met her. If anything, you did her a favour."

"Oh. I - I didn't know that."

"Yes. Now stop fussing."

"Fine."

They were at the door when Harry froze, tugging Marvolo to an abrupt stop.

"Harry—" Marvolo began, sighing and wondering what was bothering Harry now.

But, Harry shushed him, and very slowly looked over his shoulder, before whipping his head back around, eye's wide and alarmed.

"What is it?"

Harry swallowed, struggling with the words because how did they not notice that?!

"Has Fawkes been here this entire time?!"

Date: 26^th June 1995
Location: Eastbourne, Sussex, England.

There were some days where Lawrence Jiggs truly detested his chosen occupation.

There were some days where he, a man of middling attractiveness, a receding hairline and a taste for darkened sunglasses when on sale, had to swallow and admit that he hated his job.

These days were more often than he would like. They were the days when he opened the file and read the documents inside, his heart slowly sinking as the words revealed the exact type of situation that he dreaded. They were the days when, file buried in his briefcase as though physically hiding the thing could make the issue disappear, he stepped out of his car and looked over a house situated in the poorer part of town, the neighbours broken and grimy, but care of the property evident in the little flower-pot of bursting daisies and carefully stitched curtains; the bright clatter of children laughing behind the door that opens to reveal, more often than not, a young woman in an unfashionable dress, perhaps trousers and a faded blouse, whose face crumbles in such a way that the only word to possibly describe the expression is devastation as she is informed that she's been summoned to the Courts. Over custody for the children, the file will read. And she knows that she's got twenty pounds in the bank, groceries to buy, a little girl to talk out of ballet lessons because they can't afford it and the bitter hope that the judge has a shred of decency because her ex has money, influence, a family lawyer, a cruel temper and a closeted alcohol addiction.

On those days, he would like nothing better than to remain firmly in the seat behind his desk and bury his head beneath paperwork.

It's never an option, but he entertains the notion frequently.

There are some days, however, where he loves what he does.

Flicking the indicator in traffic and pulling smoothly into an empty parking space, Lawrence has to admit this is one of those days. One of those days where the sparking taste of satisfaction is apparent in his smug smirk and co*cky fold of his neatly pressed suit.

It wears like justice with a hint of vengeance.

Twisting the keys shuts off the engine and he takes a moment to check over his appearance. Slicking back his hair, adjusting his tie. The briefcase resting on the passenger seat is popped open, darkened sunglasses slipped onto his nose in a precise move as he pats the file he's been tasked to deliver. Everything is in order and his shoes are shiny.

True, there are some things he would prefer over being in Eastbourne during the summer but when one is tasked by the goblins themselves, one only denies and dawdles when they no longer value their life.

That's right. He, Lawrence Jiggs, of middling attractiveness, a squib outcast of the Higg's family with a muggle profession as a Solicitor and a distant — unmentionable, really — relation to Helga Hufflepuff, is in direct contact with the goblins.

He would preen, but he has an image to uphold.

So he settles for a smirk and steps out of his car, briefcase in hand as the car door slams behind him. The streets are busy; flashy car's, bikes, sunburnt tourists all rushing by, so he waits before crossing the road at a fast clip, one hand smoothing down his tie.

The sea-side resort he has been directed to is simply one in a long line of such establishments, outlandishly coloured with fliers and displays that happily advertise the beach that is — he barely glances to the left — yep, literally right down the road. Forty years in the muggle world and they still barely make any sense.

Schooling his expression into one of severe dissatisfaction and aloofness, Lawrence pushes his way into a room that was, in his opinion, more shabby than chique.

Poor taste in interior decoration did not even begin to cover it, but he ignored it like the Devi— er, solicitor he was.

He ignored the girl at the counter, breezing by and sliding into the elevator. Hardly any reason to ask the girl about the room number when he already knew it, after all.

Finding himself alone in the elevator as it ascended, he took the brief moment of privacy to let a truly insidious grin break across his features, and chuckled. Excitement was bouncing through his body, tingling all the way down to his fingertips. The boys in the office were going to be so jealous when they heard about the case he had been assigned. That went without saying. He'd seen the date's listed in the file. Whoever the applicant was, they were damn important to the Goblins; those slippery creatures never, and he meant never, fast-tracked the legal process of application submission down to a few days. The best he had ever seen was exactly sixty-two days.

And now here he was, precisely four days after the applicant began the legal process.

The mark of the elite was clear when one knew to look for it. The only question now was: who could be that important to the goblin's whilst having muggle relations?

The soft ding of the elevator distracted him from his thoughts. Pushing up his glasses with a finger, he exited, turning sharply down the hall that had been revealed after briefly scanning the number plaques on the door.

Room Number 27 was easily found.

Propping his briefcase on the small side-table lining the corridor, he popped it open and withdrew two items before snapping it shut again. The papers he slipped under his arm and the camera he loaded before tucking into the breast-pocket of his suit.

Prepared, expression perfectly stoic, he knocked on the door.

And waited.

And found himself unprepared for what opened the door.

It was...a...would it be an insult to other's if he labelled the thing a boy? In all honesty, he looked quite alike a pig, with tiny beady eyes that seemingly seemed fixated on the sausage gripped within his meaty grasp, dripping grease down onto the carpet.

It was only the knowledge that the goblins — a fearsome race of peoples that delighted in the gruesome and unnatural — would demand a memory of this event that prevented him from ducking and shielding behind his briefcase when the piglet opened his mouth and spat out a disgruntled, "Who're you?"

As it was, his suit would now have to be dry cleaned before he could bear to wear it again. Perhaps it would just be kinder to burn the thing.

"My name is Lawrence Jiggs, a solicitor at Smith and Fawyer Associated." Only his professionalism kept his tone even. "Is there a woman by the name of Petunia Dursley within?"

Beady eyes fixed on his person suspiciously before the piglet nodded and navigated his girth sideways so that he might waddle off. If he were one for such fancy, Lawrence might even say that he could picture the little piglet tail on the buttocks before he had to take a deep, measured breath so as not to retch.

The woman standing before him now, after a few muffled yells from within the room, was tall, thin, and endowed with the most displeasing facial collection he had ever seen on a woman. Caught somewhere between simpering and scowling, he could only grimace at her idea of natural expression.

Also, her choice of lipstick was simply horrendous.

"Are you Petunia Dursley?"

The woman shifted, one hand on the door knob. Perhaps preparing for the possibility of slamming the door in a hurry. Whatever the intention, it made her look guilty, yet she drew herself up with a disdainful sniff and lacking sneer.

"Yes?"

"Inhabitant of a Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?"

"...Yes?"

Ahah! So there was a glimmer of intellect in the family. Or, at least enough to warrant a flicker of wariness.

"Madam, I am most regretful to inform you that the property Number Four Privet Drive is no longer standing."

He smiled pleasantly, if a bit blandly.

Petunia didn't move, staring at the man. When she resumed movement, it was to blink dumbly, jaw working to formulate soundless words.

"W-what?"

"Yes. Quite unfortunate, see. It's burned down."

What?!

Lawrence looked on as Mrs Dursley slumped against the doorframe, clutching her chest, mouth dropping open with a disbelieving sound.

Slipping the camera out of his front pocket, he snapped a few pictures — really, the lighting was quite good for the whole 'Shock' factor he was aiming for — before pocketing it and nonchalantly rocking back on his heels.

One heart-attack down and it wasn't even lunch. He was on a roll.

"Is there a Vernon Dursley residing here?"

Petunia could barely string together two words, never mind a sentence. Their house. Burned down. Their house had burned down. Their home. Duddykin's toys! Oh god, what was she going to tell them...what were they going to do? A-all of it. Gone.

Lawrence frowned at the woman. She was incredibly rude to just ignore him. He was standing right in front of her. Honestly...

Snapping his fingers in front of her face, he repeated his question.

The answering nod was more automatic that intentional, but it appeased him slightly, so, allowing only the pads of his fingers to make contact, he grasped the woman by the bony shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a slight push into the room.

Petunia swallowed, eyes wide before spotting her husband reclining on the sofa, flicking through the television channels.

"Vernon?"

Without looking, the man grunted.

"There's a man at the door asking for you."

Moustache twitching, Vernon briefly scowled at her. "Then tell him to go away."

"He's -" she swallowed again, eyes flicking back to the door. "He's a lawyer," she hissed.

This, it seemed, caught his attention. Straightening, Vernon smiled smugly and set about hefting his weight up from the sofa. He knew it. It was about time Grunning's finally did something like this.

Petunia grabbed his hand as he made to pass. No, no he didn't understand —

Vernon patted his wife on the hand consolingly. Such a dear woman, pity she didn't have her nephew's good looks though. "Don't you worry, Pet. I've been dropping hints with Anderson for a few months now, about that new contract and the promotion." Under no circ*mstances was he about to tell her what he had offered the man in... return. "It'll just be about the paperwork. No need to worry your head about it."

Satisfied, Vernon lumbered over to the door. Opening it revealed an austere looking man, with a severe jawline, dark sunglasses and a sharp suit in pinstriped coal.

Vernon smiled upon seeing him. Anderson had gone all out, it seemed.

"Are you Vernon Dursley?" Lawrence asked, more a formality that anything. After seeing what he could only assume was the son, there was no possibility of non-existent relation. Next time, he was going to ask the goblins for pictures. His mental health would suffer if he had a similar task with no psychological preparation.

"I am, yes. And who might you be?"

"I am Lawrence Jiggs from Smith and Fawyer Associated. Might you call your wife back? She is needed for this."

Frowning, Vernon called out for Petunia. Last he checked, Grunning's was listed as clientele for Sharding Lawyers.

Mrs Dursley appeared over her husbands shoulder, looking distinctly peaky.

"Right," clearing his throat, he plucked out the papers and held them out to the respective recipients. "You have been served."

The silence was fleeting.

Lawrence watched on in obscure curiosity as the walrus-like man slowly bled purple, veins bulging and eyes narrowing.

By his calculations it would be three seconds before the screaming began. Three —

Breathing hard, Vernon looked down at the envelope in his hands; it was thick, the crest of Smith and Fawyer Associated stamped onto the corner.

— Two —

Physically forcing his head up, Vernon locked onto Petunia, staring numbly down at her own envelope, heart thumping wildly —

— One.

— before he focused on the f*cking solicitor, fists clenching the envelope as he took in the bland smile and clasped hands.

A vein burst.

"WHO THE f*ck ARE YOU TO GIVE US THESE? YOU BLOODY FREAK! GOING AROUND, ASSAULTING NORMAL PEOPLE! HOW DARE YOU—"

Lawrence toned it out, tapping his fingers against the back of his hand as he waited for the apoplectic fit to blow over.

In his periphery, the doors of the rooms on the floor were opening, curious patrons poking their heads out. Some, emboldened by unfamiliarity with the screaming man, had even ventured out and were now crowding around, camera phones flipped open and recording the event.

Paling, Petunia tugged frantically at Vernon's sleeve, silently begging for him to shut up before he made an even bigger fool of himself. She didn't like the curve of the solicitors mouth; there was something far too self-satisfactory about it. Almost like he had expected this reaction, like he was prepared for it and Vernon was playing right into his hands.

Shaking Petunia off, Vernon moved forward, still spewing insults as he violently poked the freak in the chest.

Lawrence grunted, taking a step back out of the man's reach. Admittedly, he was rather restricted by the definition of self-defence in these sorts of situations, but he made do with slamming his briefcase against the obese chest of the purple man and pushing him away.

"—NUTCASES, THE LOT OF YOU! Doing this to innocent people! Just what are you accusing is of, huh? HUH?!"

Petunia's heart dropped when she saw the small flicker of a smirk before it disappeared.

"Mr Dursley, I thought you would never ask! You and Mrs Petunia Dursley have been served with a summons to a hearing on the fifteenth of July concerning the accusations levelled against you for money laundering pending an investigation by the Grunning's Incorporated Accounting Department as well as the charges of child-abuse, child-endangerment, neglect, attempted manslaughter, paedophilia, and, last but not least, sexual assault of a minor."

He sounded far too happy, listing off the crimes.

The crowd had built up a great deal — evidently the manager of the resort had caught wind of the situation and had arrived in time to hear the 'private' details of the case.

And with every word that left his mouth, the crowd paled further, became more outraged, more fuelled by horror.

They wore soul-deep disgust as well as they wore their sun-tans.

That is to say, with a group mentality and an unfaltering embrace.

He was quite proud of himself, if he did say so.

Snapping a few more pictures, he basked in the knowledge that he had unfailingly destroyed the lives of two people.

"Well," he said briskly, adjusting the cufflinks on his suit. "That was all. Expect to be arrested sometime soon. Have a good day."

The stirring of whispers and accusation spread as he turned and walked back to the elevator; the door sliding open as though the entire ordeal had been orchestrated.

He pressed the button to the ground floor to the sound of the Resort Manager gulping down the almost irrepressible urge to hurl into the nearest loo and demand that the shock-stricken couple pack their bags and "GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT OF MY RESORT!"

The goblins would be pleased.

Chapter 16: 16 Christmas Special

Chapter Text

It was the soft press of kisses on his neck that woke him first; that, and the hand that had slipped beneath the long-sleeved shirt he'd worn to bed and was now tracing idle patterns across his stomach. He made a sound, one he hoped conveyed exactly how much he didn't want to get up right now, and clutched the pillow tighter.

The body curled against his, however, was a warm line from his shoulder's to his toes, and quite impossible to ignore; particularly when, half-asleep as he was, Harry could feel a certain something poking his back.

Blinking heavily, eyelids struggling to open longer than fleeting seconds, Harry hummed lethargically, patting his hand about until he found the one on his hip and laced their fingers together. For a moment, he forgot what woke him, his mind absenting over the last few seconds as he immediately, instinctively sought out the crib — unknown tension easing out of him as he found it undisturbed, and he registered the lack of air-splitting cries. But then the hand he had linked fingers with slowly slid down to his stomach, hot and heavy against his skin in the winter night, and he remembered.

"Time?" He asked, voice quiet and rasping. There were silencing charms around his bed, to hold in the sounds of his rare night-terrors, but it felt appropriate to keep quite.

"Almost five," the man murmured, teeth teasing the skin behind his ear. "Happy Christmas, darling."

Harry shut his eyes, wanting to cry, wanting to sleep, and pressed himself tighter against the man, squeezing the hand, sniffing. "Merry Christmas, Tom," he whispered. He then bit his tongue, not wishing to speak, but the word's forced themselves out, weak and pleading. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"I know," Tom mumbled against his neck. It wasn't the first time Harry had admitted this, but it hurt just the same, regardless. "I would stay if I could."

Swallowing, Harry nodded. "I - I know. It's just - the magic, and," he stopped, eyes stinging. He dug the palm of his hand against his eyes, trying desperately to hold it in. This was supposed to be — this needed to be a good day.

Behind him, he felt Tom tense, and then all attempts at four-play ceased as the horcrux wrapped himself around him. "Darling, please - please don't cry," Tom murmured, quietly begging, stroking Harry's side in an attempt to soothe. "C'mon love, it's the baby's first Christmas - don't start it in tears."

A deep, horrible ache, wracked through him, and he clutched at the forearm wrapped around him as he shuddered. "I need you here," he sobbed, curling into the pillow so that his tears went unseen. "Why aren't you here?"

"I don't know," was all Tom could say, and then, quieter, "I don't know."

Harry choked on his tears, biting back the spill of despair weeping out of him. He took deep breaths, heart pulsing achingly in his chest and he fought to get ahold of himself, fought for composure. Tom was right. First Christmas. He could be strong. It needed to be happy. He could do this — he could.

"How long do we have?" he questioned, voice cracking.

"Ninety minutes if we're lucky," Tom told him, tightening his arms.

Harry blinked, staring ahead. His eyelashes clung to his damp cheeks, but he didn't have it in him to redden in embarrassment — not right now. "What about—"

"He will sleep," assured Tom, shifting behind him.

"Are you sure?" Harry worried, finger's digging into Tom's arm. He wanted to get up, hold his son, reassure himself that he was fine, he was safe, but... he also didn't. He wanted to remain were he was and pretend that the world just stopped existing. Just for a minute.

"I am certain. He will not wake."

"Make love to me," Harry pleaded, then.

"As you wish," Tom said, renewing his effort to cover Harry's neck in kisses, and, feeling unbalanced, Harry laughed.

"You teased me for that," he accused, keeping his voice low, as a hand once again trailed beneath his shirt. His stomach clenched as feather-light fingers tracked across the waistband of his sleep-pants, then crept up across his ribs.

Tom propped himself up on an elbow, leaning over Harry slightly, eye's catching on the dogeared copy of The Princess Bride lying crookedly on the bedside table as he did. "So I did," he murmured. "Shall I quote to you?"

"If you like," Harry offered, but most of his attention was on the hand that brushed against his nipple, eliciting a soft gasp as a nail scraped gains the sensitive flesh and then, oh, oh.

Smirking, Tom overlooked the young man's breathless whine, and grasped Harry's hand, sensually dragging it up from his hip, to his shoulder, and then further, laying it up against the pillow so Harry had to turn slightly. Intent, green eye's locked onto his, and he ducked down, pressing his mouth against Harry's. They kissed for moment's, for ages; the finger's captured in his twitched, Harry's free hand raising to curl into the short hair's at the back of his neck, as their mouth's slid together. He bit down lightly, capturing Harry's lower lip between his teeth, swallowing the whimper, easing the young man onto his back, sliding one leg between his so they were tangled together, before pulling back.

"You were already more beautiful," he began, slow and soft, watching those jade green eye's become swallowed by dilated black. He pressed a lingering kiss to his jaw as his finger's grasped the hem of Harry's nightshirt. "Than anything I dared to dream."

Not once did Harry look away, captivated. For all of Tom's tittering on the subject, Harry had never supposed that he had actually read the book. His heart raced, and his blood warmed and his body relaxed, allowing the horcrux's deep voice to wash over him.

"In our years apart," continued Tom, rucking up the fabric until it reached a pale chest, affected by goosebumps, "my imaginings did their best to improve on your perfection. At night, your face was forever behind my eyes." A soft sigh, a gasp, escaped Harry as hands smoothed up his sides, over his chest. He arched, arm's above his head, asTom tugged the shirt off, and tossed it to the side, drawing the sheet's up over them as he did so, until he had a private canopy from which to enjoy the sight below him. "And now I see that that vision who kept me company in my loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me."

And when Harry smiled up at him so beautifully, dark hair splayed out across the pillow in the poor gloom, Tom thought it very well might be true.

He ducked down, once again kissing the young man, and groaned when Harry's hand's slid over his shoulders, down his back, finger's catching on the flexing muscles. They parted for air, though the air was quite musty beneath these sheets already, and Tom immediately made for the exposed nubs, laving one over with his tongue before sucking.

"Oh god, Tom! Tom!" Harry gasped, finger's clenching because Tom knew how sensitive he still was, even months after birth, and he could feel the bastard's smirk against his skin. Trying to push him off didn't work — though Harry suspected his stubbornness may have been spurned on by the evidence of Harry's arousal — so Harry gave up, flopping down onto the pillow with a moan, fingers in Tom's hair while he futilely steadied his breathing.

"I've never had sex on Christmas," he said, quite amazed and a little excited.

Tom looked up, dark dark dark eyes boring into his own, hungry and alive as he grinned wolfishly. "Neither have I." And he ground down. The sound of Harry's pleasure was ripped through him, blood thrumming as the pressure on his groin rolled and hitched and oh god.

"I think I might be in love with you," Harry blurted then, breathing hard, and he flushed in mortification, but... he had made his bed, and it was too early to be awake, and he might as well lie in it. "And I - I know I shouldn't be, because you - you - I can't—" he paused and swallowed, mustering his nerve, and then admitted quietly, "I would quite like to pretend that we can, that's it's natural and not wrong and wouldn't make people worried if they were to find out."

Tom had stilled by then, taken by surprise by the young man's sudden proclamation, but he hissed when he heard the last part. "Why must you pretend?"

"Because you aren't," Harry's voice broke, and tear's threatened. "You aren't real."

Unhooking Harry's left arm around his neck, Tom grasped his hand, and pressed a kiss to the unholy ring on his finger. The black stone chilled his lips even as the gold warmed beneath his touch. "I am real," he said firmly. "I am." He directed Harry's hand to his chest, and Harry splayed his finger's against his heart. "If I am not, then your imagination escapes even yourself. My heart beats - my heart beats for you and every time I touch you," his thumb brushed across Harry's cheekbone, voice lowering earnestly, "my soul sings and I am forever amazed."

"Do you mean that?" Harry whispered, unable to speak any louder.

"With all that I am," promised Tom.

"Then I do love you. I don't think I do - I do. Very much."

"And I you." Then, Tom silenced him with a kiss, and returned to his ministrations, discovering that neither had faded during the brief interlude. "Now be quiet," he admonished, and Harry saw that the man had somehow already grabbed the lube from the draw, "and let me ravish you."

Laughing, Harry lay back, and no more words were spoken.

Tom took his time with his body, playing all the right parts with a familiar intimacy. Harry gave as good as he got, raking blunt-nail lines down Tom's back, across his ribs, tugging on his hair when the horcrux went down, as they rolled beneath the sheets and became hopelessly tangled in them. Eventually, when they were once again in the position in which they started, Tom's hand slid down Harry's stomach, finger's toying with the waistband of his sleep-pants, before slipping beneath them — swallowing Harry's gasp as skin met skin.

Tom's chest was a firm line against his own, their skin stuck together in the humidity, lung's filling, heaving, beside each other as the man sucked love-bites onto his neck and Harry's eye's half-lidded in pleasure, head tilted to the side to allow access. Harry moaned when Tom's finger's wrapped around his co*ck, stroking to the tip and collecting beads of moisture to slick his way. It was so goddamn good, and Tom's crooked smirk against his neck was all Harry needed to know that he knew.

This teasing was driving him insane, though, and he desperately needed Tom to do something more, so he pushed agains the broad shoulders with a whine, and hooked his foot around Tom's calf, letting his leg's fall open as he found Tom's hips and slid his finger's inside the back of Tom's pants. "C'mon," he breathed, digging fingers in and silently congratulating himself when the man groaned and rocked against him. "C'mon."

"Gods, your impatient," Tom muttered against the skin of his chest, shuffling backwards in a smooth motion, leaving kisses in his wake.

His fingers hooked in Harry's sleep-pants and pulled them down quickly, lifting up a bit for Harry to kick his way free and pull off Tom's own pants in the same go, but, despite Harry's expectations, Tom did not make for pleasure. Instead, gentle fingers traced over his lower stomach, across the skin between his hips.

Squirming impatiently beneath him, Harry wanted to huff but... then he caught the look in Tom's eye and his breath left him. That complete look of utter adoration, of worship, was so much, too much, really, to truly be focused on one person but somehow, Tom managed.

Tom's hair fell across his stomach as he pressed warm, tender kisses into his skin, onto the thick, pale scar stretching from hip to hip across his belly.

"Gorgeous," murmured Tom, and Harry blushed.

"You always say that," Harry replied, teasing.

Tom lifted a brow. "You gave me a son," he said, perplexed. "You mothered my child. How could I not think you gorgeous?"

Slowly, Harry smiled, and doesn't point out that's it's not quite true. "I love you," he said instead, and groaned when Tom nipped his hip and firmly stroked his co*ck. "I love you," he said again, elated in the ability to say it, out loud, and Tom sucked bruises onto the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, slicked finger's edging down, brushing the perineum, and he was gasping it, babbling senselessly as Tom worked him open on his fingers.

He lost track of time. Every brush against his prostate was a stroke against a live nerve, sending his back arching and his hands scrabbling desperately, crying out, needing it. Tom, Tom, infuriating Tom - gods yes, oh! - pushed him to his peak, on three fingers, Harry counted, before withdrawing his hand.

Harry blinked, righting his head from where it had turned, a hand clenched in the pillow beside him, and stared, dazed, at Tom. The horcrux was just as flustered as he, spots of crimson high on his cheeks, his hair all a mess from their so-far actions. He was panting slightly, too — almost like he couldn't draw in enough air, and frightfully hard.

Hovering between his open leg's, Harry watched him, licked his lips, wanting. Sucking in a breath, heart jack-hammering in his chest, Harry searched blindly for the bedside draw, never once taking his eye's from Tom's. The crinkle of foil between his finger's, ripped open with his teeth, and Harry handed the condom to Tom, whom took with a reluctant, yet familiar sigh.

"Not even once?" he complained — never whined — even as he rolled it on. And to think, they had been so clumsy in the beginning. "I could pull out."

"Nuh uh. I've got evidence of what just once gave me. We're taking no chances, mister."

Tom rolled his eyes, lifting up Harry's hips, and sticking a small pillow beneath. Reaching out, he captured Harry's hand in his, laced their finger's together and lay their joined hand's on Harry's stomach as he pushed in, breaching the tight ring of muscle.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the initial burn, and then kept them closed as he lost himself, feeling so full.

He gasped, ribs lifting towards the ceiling. "Move," he breathed, when he was ready. "Please move."

Tom groaned, shifting back. The first thrust, the first slide of velvet steel and slick warmth extracted from him his breath, and the one's following took his blood and set it afire as pleasure tore through him. The one's following that were lost in hurried, heavy kisses, their hands unable to keep from touching each other, wherever they could reach while Harry curled himself up against Tom — one leg hooked up around his hip while the toes of the other flexed against the muscle in the calf and — nngh!

He was so close. Tear's pooled in the corner of his eyes as Tom kept up the smooth barrage against his prostate, one hand stroking his co*ck in time with his thrusts. Throwing his head back, Harry drew in frantic breaths, futilely trying to hold off for as long as possible - wanting to make it last for as long as possible but the heat was curling in his belly even as his muscles quivered and he didn't think he could hold off any longer.

"Tom," he gasped, moaning as the horcux pressed the outline of his teeth against his neck. "Tom."

"I've got you," Tom panted, never ceasing his motions. He stroked harder, as if to prove his point, and Harry whimpered, body tensing.

And it was enough when Tom's eyes met his and the man leant in for a kiss, an arm angled back and squeezing his thigh — enough to undo him, making him arch sharply up against Tom, leg's clamping down around his hips as he came. The tidal rush of org*sm left him breathless and dazed as his body spasmed, seizing Tom, drawing his end to the fore. Tom's groan as he found release echoed against Harry's chest, and Harry held him close throughout, never wanting to let go.

Sweat stuck the sheets to their skin, hair clinging damply to their temples and the nape of their necks and hearts pulsed wildly and lungs burned. A faint cramp ached dully from Harry's knee to his hip. Slowly stretching it out seemed to onset the the process of untangling themselves — Harry winced a little in discomfort as Tom eased out, and vanished the condom once it was tied while Tom grabbed some tissues and wiped Harry off. Neither had the energy to do any more than that, however; as it was, the horcrux had already gained that pale blur around the edges, so Harry put up no fight when he was manhandled into the little spoon, Tom tucking himself around him.

The cold air nipped at his skin as he drowsily rearranged the blanket's about their shoulder's.

The room was a bit brighter, he noted, mind already slowing with the approach of sleep, while lacing finger's with Tom, hand settling over his waist and against his belly.

"Best Christmas gift," he mumbled, already snuggling with his pillow. "Ever."

The horcrux chuckled, dropping a kiss onto his shoulder, and hugging him tighter.

Harry fell asleep to warmth wrapped around him and an "I love you."

When next he woke, the room was bright with morning sun and his bed was empty and cold and he had no time to mourn the absence as he sleepily stumbled out of bed, dragging the sheets with him, to attend his crying child.