His Sovereign

A familiar room materialized around Harry—still trapped in Voldemort’s arms. The moment his feet touched solid ground, instinct kicked in. He shoved against the arms restraining him, wrenching himself free. He stumbled back, breath sharp and ragged, the hawthorn wand raised and aimed between Tom Riddle’s eyes.

The Dark Lord regarded him with unsettling calm, his hands upturned in a gesture of mock surrender. The Elder Wand dangled loosely from his fingers, his grip so lax it was almost insulting. He didn’t even bother pointing it at Harry—yet.

They were in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The same room where he, Ron, and Hermione had once fought tooth and nail to escape. The same walls that had echoed with Hermione’s screams as Bellatrix tortured her. He could almost hear the sickening crash of the chandelier as Dobby brought it down, buying them just enough time. His gaze flickered to the exact spot where they had Disapparated—where Bellatrix’s silver dagger had hurtled after them. The same dagger that took Dobby’s life.

The memory constricted his lungs.

And now, the Death Eaters who had been there that day slowly apparated from the clearing, forming a circle around him.

Bellatrix. Lucius. Dolohov. Macnair. Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange.

Six wands were immediately trained on him, their owners poised, waiting. Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand, his sweaty grip unsteady.

Voldemort chuckled, low and smooth. “My, my, Harry. That temper of yours,” he purred, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Don’t you understand what full surrender means?”

Harry’s scar prickled—not with pain, but with something worse. Voldemort wasn’t angry. He wasn’t enraged that Harry had dared to turn his wand on him.

He was entertained.

The smugness in his tone, the absolute certainty that Harry was helpless—it made his blood boil.

Bellatrix let out a delighted cackle, twirling her wand between her fingers. Dolohov exchanged a knowing smirk with Macnair. They weren’t just watching—they were savoring the spectacle.

They thought this was over and Harry refused to admit it, but he knew they were right. Any second now, one of them would disarm him. His mind raced for a plan, a final act of defiance while he still had a wand— his eyes locked onto Rodolphus Lestrange.

The man looked particularly smug, his expression self-satisfied, victorious. A flash of memory blindsided Harry—Rodolphus yanking Ginny’s hair back before dissaparating with her in the final battle. Ginny’s black eye, her busted lip, and his cruel grip bruising her arm.

A red haze clouded Harry’s vision, he wanted him to hurt.

“Sectumsempra!”

His wand slashed through the air.

Rodolphus crumpled instantly, a choked scream tearing from his throat as blood gushed from deep, unseen wounds. He convulsed, his once-white shirt turning crimson.

Harry didn’t have time to process what he’d done.

The wand was wrenched from his fingers, the force of the disarming spell slammed into him like a Bludger. His back hit the cold, unforgiving floor, his skull ringing from the impact. His lip stung where he’d bitten it, and the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, he wiped it away forcefully with the sleeve of his flannel.

Tom Riddle’s laughter sliced through the air—high, cold, delighted. It wove itself into Rodolphus’s gurgled cries, creating a nightmarish symphony.

“You dare rebel against us, Potter?” Bellatrix hissed, stepping forward, wand poised to strike.

Harry barely had time to brace himself before Voldemort lifted a hand, stopping her with a flick of his fingers.

“Get him a healer, won’t you, Bella?” he said, gesturing to Rodolphus utterly dismissive.

Harry stared, transfixed, as Rodolphus writhed on the marble floor, his blood pooling beneath him. It was worse than Malfoy’s wounds in Myrtle’s bathroom. Worse than he had intended.

Horror should have gripped him. But it didn’t.Instead, a dark satisfaction curled in his chest as Rodolphus writhed in agony. His scar prickled.

He did it for for Ginny.

A shadow loomed over him. Harry moved to push himself up, refusing to stay vulnerable at Riddle’s feet—

A boot slammed into his chest.

Pain exploded through him as he was forced back down.

Voldemort towered over him, twirling Harry’s stolen wand between his fingers, turning it this way and that, as if seeing it for the first time.

“How curious,” he murmured before shifting his gaze.

“I believe this belongs to your son, does it not?”

Lucius flinched.

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping forward, bowing so low it looked as if his spine might snap under the weight of his terror. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

His hands remained open, palms up—but they trembled as he accepted the wand, cradling it with reverence, as if Voldemort had just bestowed upon him some sacred relic. His voice was hushed, uneven. “You are… most generous, my Lord. Thank you for—f-for retrieving it.”

He retreated hastily, still bent at the waist, slipping back into his place in the circle.

Voldemort’s gaze flickered back to Harry, his expression almost indulgent. He tilted his head. “Did you get it out of your system?”

Harry shoved himself to his feet ignoring the painful twinge to his ribs, his entire body bristling with defiance.

Riddle scoffed, dragging a hand through his dark curls, a smirk curling at his lips. Harry’s scar gave another sharp, mocking twinge.

“Harry, Harry, Harry...” he drawled, voice thick with mockery. “You won’t be needing a wand here.” He paused, lips curving into something both patronizing and cruel. “I’ll keep you safe from now on… my Horcrux.”

The words were unbearable.

Harry didn’t think.

His fist flew forward.

Knuckles collided with Voldemort’s newly formed nose, and a sharp crack split the air.

Riddle stumbled back, his smirk vanishing as his hand flew to his face. Blood trickled between his fingers, dripping onto the polished floors.

Harry barely had a second to revel in the shock on the Dark Lord’s face before his scar exploded in pain.

A fresh wave of agony ripped through him, blinding and excruciating. His knees buckled. His vision fractured.

And Voldemort—Voldemort was laughing.

"Crucio!"

Pain unlike anything Harry had ever known tore through him. It wasn’t just fire or knives or even the sensation of his skin peeling away—it was everything at once. As if his body had been plunged into acid while his bones were crushed to dust inside him. This was ten times worse than what he remembered enduring at the graveyard. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every nerve in his body was screaming, and he was sure that if it lasted a second longer, he would go mad.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

The absence of agony didn’t bring relief. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, his body convulsing as he lay sprawled on the cold marble floor. His vision was a white blur, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Slowly, the world swam back into focus. Voldemort’s silhouette loomed above him, his grin wide, his sharp teeth stained with the blood from his broken nose. Harry could barely lift his head, cheek pressed hard against the stone, the handle of his glasses digging into his face.

The Elder Wand twirled between Voldemort’s fingers as he let out a low chuckle, his red eyes gleaming with amusement. "You’re truly full of surprises, aren’t you?" he murmured, his gaze shifting between Harry and the wand on his hand in awe.

Then, his tone turned abrupt. "Rabastan."

The Lestrange brother stepped forward at once, bowing low. "Yes, my Lord."

"Escort our new ward to his room."

Rabastan’s lips curled in anticipation as he flicked his wand.

"Levicorpus!"

A force yanked Harry up by the ankle, his body flipping violently upside down. Blood rushed to his head, leaving him lightheaded, and then— crack. Rabastan kept him low enough that his skull smacked brutally against the floor. Stars exploded in his vision. Harry’s limbs twitched uncontrollably, his head spinning. A wave of nausea rose in his throat, bile burning the back of his mouth. It was a miracle his glasses stayed on, even if they were crooked.

Rabastan dragged him toward the door, levitating him like a rag doll, but Voldemort raised a hand.

"Wait."

Rabastan stopped immediately, adjusting his wand so that Harry floated higher—just enough to bring him eye level with the Dark Lord.

Voldemort reached out and took hold of Harry’s inverted head with both hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. His grip was rough, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s scalp.

Harry’s vision swam. Tom Riddle’s handsome face flickered before him, it was a grotesque mess of arrogance and blood.

"Keeping you alive," Voldemort murmured, voice soft, deadly, "does not mean you are beyond punishment."

Before Harry could brace himself, Voldemort drove his wand into his side.

"Crucio."

It was like being electrocuted. The pain surged through him so fast, so violently, that the scream got trapped in his throat. His back arched involuntarily, his entire body convulsing in midair. The torture was brief—only a second—but it was enough to leave him gasping, his body going limp from the shock.

As the curse faded, Voldemort watched him closely, his smile widening at the sight of Harry left panting, helpless.

Harry’s scar burned—not from pain this time, but from the Dark Lord’s satisfaction. The feeling of pleasure radiating through their cursed connection, twisted and cruel.

For a fleeting moment, Harry considered slamming his forehead into Riddle’s face, breaking one of his perfect, bloodstained teeth.

Voldemort’s thumb brushed over Harry’s scar, slow and deliberate, before shoving his head away in disgust.

"Take him," he ordered with a flick of his hand.

Rabastan wasted no time. The trip down to the dungeons was nothing short of hell. He slammed Harry into every wall they passed, making sure he hit his head each time.

Whenever they reached a staircase, Rabastan dropped him just low enough that his back and shoulders scraped against the stone steps as they descended, dirt and dust clinging to his clothes.

By the time they reached the bottom—after what felt like five stories below ground—Harry could barely keep his eyes open. His head throbbed from repeated blows, his limbs numb from exhaustion.

A heavy iron door creaked open. The smell of damp, rotting stone hit him as Rabastan unceremoniously threw him inside.

Harry crashed onto the ground, his arms too weak to brace him properly. His head smacked the stone, hard. His glasses slipped off and skidded across the floor.

Rabastan bent down, snatching them up. "You won’t be needing these anymore," he sneered, shoving them into his pocket.

He flicked his wand. "Accio pockets."

Nothing happened. Harry had left his mokeskin pouch with Hermione, knowing they wouldn’t have let him keep any possessions.

Rabastan’s eyes narrowed. "Do you have anything on you, Potter?"

Harry didn’t answer. He just lay there, trembling arms struggling to lift his weight, glaring up with the last of his strength.

Scoffing, Rabastan crouched. With a lazy flick, Harry’s sneakers vanished, and rough hands roamed over his robes. Empty-handed or not, Harry still fought—weakly shoving at him, trying to push him away.

When he didn’t find anything Rabastan kicked him square in the ribs.

"Pathetic." He sneered from the doorway, watching Harry’s crumpled form with barely contained contempt. Then, just as he turned to leave, he flicked his wand one last time.

A cutting hex.

White-hot pain exploded in Harry’s thigh. He choked out a ragged cry, clutching at the deep, gushing wound. Blood pooled beneath him almost instantly, soaking into his jeans.

Rabastan crouched beside him, running a finger along the fresh wound, smearing the blood against Harry’s jeans. His smirk widened."That’s for my brother."

And with that, he slammed the heavy metal door shut, plunging Harry into total darkness.

There was no light in the cell except for the thin, feeble glow seeping in through the food slot at the bottom of the iron door. It was barely enough to make out the trembling silhouette of his hands.

His leg throbbed. The gash was still bleeding, and the relentless loss of blood made his head swim. He could do nothing to stop it. He could do nothing about anything.

Perhaps if he let it bleed out…

Hermione’s voice echoed in his head.

"You have to stay alive, Harry." She had told him that at Grimmauld Place.

"Your death won’t end the war. It will only drag it out. Even if You-Know-Who falls, the purebloods have gathered too much power. They’ve infested the Ministry, bribed half of it to look the other way. Killing Voldemort won’t fix that."

"And you think handing a megalomaniac a monarchy will?"

"Not overnight. But power can be bargained with. If we give them the illusion of what they want, we can extract concessions, set limits. A war leaves nothing but corpses. If we play this right, we might actually have something left to rebuild."

"Wouldn’t chopping off the snake’s head kill the rest of its body?" Ron had asked.

"We’re not fighting a snake, Ron. We’re fighting a Hydra."

She had been right. The pureblood elite—the wealthiest, most entrenched families in Britain—were a many-headed beast. Kill one, and another would rise in its place, stronger, angrier. Appeasement was the only way to lull them into complacency, to convince them they still reigned while the rest of the wizarding world slowly reshaped itself beneath them. It was all for show.

And if Voldemort died—if Harry died—nothing would change. They would find a new leader, a new tyrant. But if he survived, if he played along, if he made himself useful to the Ministry, to Shacklebolt—perhaps he could help dismantle them from the inside.

His role in the war wasn’t over. The cost was steep, the price nearly unbearable, and he had no choice but to endure it.

For now, though, he was of no use to anyone, bleeding out on the cold stone floor of his prison.

With shaking fingers, he tore his filthy flannel and wrapped it around his leg, knotting it tightly. A scratchy blanket lay beside him, but the space was so small that if he stretched out, his feet would hit the far wall while his head still rested against the door. He barely had enough room to spread his arms.

He lay there for hours. Maybe longer. He had no way of knowing.

The only sound that accompanied him was the relentless taunt of his heartbeat, a hollow echo drumming against his skull, filling the silence with a rhythm he couldn’t escape.

Eventually, his searching hands found a bar of soap, a tiny metal drain in the corner, and a rusted pipe that trickled a miserable stream of freezing water when pressed.

How considerate of them.

He must have slept. Or passed out. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, he felt no more rested when he woke.

The trembling had subsided. He forced himself upright, leaning against the damp stone to clean his wound. The water was glacial, and in such a confined space, it splashed everywhere, soaking the floor and his only blanket. He decided to ration it, using it only when absolutely necessary—like draining his own filth through the tiny hole in the floor.

The scent of decay was thick, clinging to the damp stone walls like a ghost of past prisoners. It reeked of old blood, mildew, and something sickly sweet—flesh left too long in the stagnant air. Every breath felt like swallowing rot.

At some point, a plate of food slid through the slot. It was no prison gruel. A proper meal—chicken breast, mashed potatoes, peas. A small vial of light green potion was placed beside it.

A rough voice barked, “Drink the potion, Potter.”

Dolohov. Maybe. The boots visible beneath the door were black leather, but Harry didn’t care enough to confirm.

Instead, he kicked the potion. It rolled back under the door, its contents spilling uselessly onto the stone.

Dolohov slammed a fist against the door. The sound crashed through Harry’s skull like a hammer, sending fresh spikes of pain through his already-aching head. He shoved the plate back out, untouched.

He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been since they dragged him here.

"You’ll regret that, Potter." The boots receded down the hall.

The food returned at irregular intervals, always the same, always untouched. The potion, too. Harry ignored them both. He counted time in the aching pulse of his wound, the slow creep of fever in his bones.

Dried blood crusted over his skin in uneven patches, stiff and cracked where it had settled into the fine lines of his hands. When he flexed his fingers, it flaked away in brittle specks, revealing raw, irritated flesh beneath. The wound on his leg itched with the dull throb of something festering, each movement sending a sharp sting through the tender skin.

The door banged open.

Two figures stormed inside—Rabastan and Rodolphus. Blurred shapes without his glasses, but unmistakable.

One of them seized him, slamming him against the wall. The other uncorked vials, the sharp scent of potion cutting through the damp rot of the cell. Harry fought futilely. One of them quickly pinned him against the wall while the other forced the potions down his throat— but he did manage to sink his teeth into someone's hand.

Rabastan howled.

"You bloody wanker!" A stinging hex struck Harry’s arm, searing his flesh like a wasp sting. A punishment, but not a real one.

They wanted him alive. They needed him healed.

Rabastan shoved him back to the floor. Rodolphus kicked him hard in the ribs on the way out.

Hours later, the fever broke. The wound closed. The pain dulled.

After that, he took the potions without a fight.

But he refused the food—starvation brought hallucinations. Hermione. The Weasleys. Sirius. Dumbledore. Faces he would never see again. They drifted through his mind like ghosts, their voices soft, familiar, aching. The visions bled into nightmares, dragging him back to the Battle of Hogwarts, forcing him to watch his friends die while Tom Riddle held him close, unscathed.

Eventually, his captors made it clear they would force food down his throat, too. So he ate. But the nightmares remained.

They never let him be. Whenever he felt close to relief, they would bring him back.

Dolohov. Rabastan. Rodolphus. Macnair. They took turns—bringing his meals, his potions, his torment.

They took turns hexing him, too. Curses flickered beneath the door. Stinging hexes, cutting hexes, the Cruciatus. He had insulted them at first, but eventually, the words ran dry. His throat raw. The curses kept coming. Rodolphus was particularly brutal, he harbored a personal vendetta against Harry for the Sectumsempra attack.

Nothing hurt as much as Voldemort’s, though.

His scar burned constantly, more than ever before. It was the only link to the outside world. When it ached, when the pain sharpened, he clung to it. That meant Voldemort was losing.

But sometimes, it pulsed with something else. Something warm. Something pleasurable. A sensation that dulled the pain, spread through him like thick honey.

He feared those moments the most.

The door was never opened, not since the time they forced the potions on him.

Until one day it did.

Harry blinked into the light. A silhouette stood in the doorway—tall, composed, whole.

Ton Riddle smirked down at him, nose perfect once more, lips curled in triumph.

"Had enough, my soul?"

Harry clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching against the dirt, but he didn't lift his head.

"Now, now. Don’t be rude."

Voldemort stepped closer.

"Kneel before your sovereign."

Dread coiled deep in Harry’s gut.

Voldemort’s shadow stretching long across the stone floor.

Harry found himself once again at the end of the Elder Wand. His body tensed, expecting pain. He wasn’t disappointed.

But instead of the cruciatus curse, an invisible force took hold of his limbs. His traitorous body shoved itself off the wall and planted itself face-down in the dirt. He fought against it, struggling to regain control, but his body was too weak to resist properly. His knees slammed against the hard floor as he was forced to bow, forehead nearly touching the ground. Only then did Voldemort release the spell.

Gritting his teeth, Harry struggled to stand, but his body betrayed him.Voldemort shook his head in disapproval. "Perhaps your stay wasn’t long enough to teach you manners, but there will be time for that."

A familiar giggle sounded from behind him. "A little longer, my Lord, and he'll learn his place."

Harry saw the blurry vision of Bellatrix flanking Voldemort, her wild grin splitting her gaunt face.

"We can’t keep the Boy Who Lived locked up forever. For now, Bella, it will be your job to keep him in check." The evil witch’s grin faltered, twisting into a scowl.

Riddle extended a hand in front of Harry’s face, holding something familiar. Instinctively, Harry reached for his glasses, desperate to finally see clearly. "There is much for us to do, and people must see how merciful their new lord is—to treat their savior with care."

With his vision restored, Riddle’s fair face came into focus. Behind him, Bellatrix bit the tip of her crooked wand with her yellowed teeth, her manic smile in place again. Next to her, the youngest Malfoy stood with his arms behind his back, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

Voldemort stepped aside, gesturing for Harry to exit the cell. Harry hesitated, uncomfortable at the narrow doorway he would have to pass through. But the need to leave that hellhole outweighed his reluctance. With shaky legs, he stepped over the threshold.

Halfway through, Riddle’s hand snaked up to grip his chin, forcing their faces into unnerving alignment. His crimson eyes burned into Harry’s emerald ones as Harry recoiled. With a cold, measured smile, Riddle intoned, "If you step out of line, don’t think I won’t bring you back down here. You would do well not to forget my generosity."

Then, with a sharp shove, Voldemort sent him stumbling forward—right into his arch enemy’s arms. The youngest Malfoy looked equally mortified, barely managing to keep Harry upright.

"Take him to his room to get ready." With that, Riddle vanished in a whispering hiss, as if the darkness itself had swallowed him whole.

Bellatrix's grin stretched wider, her dark eyes gleaming as she stepped closer. "My Lord is far too generous with you," she cooed, crouching until she was level with him. Her fingers twitched around her wand, barely restrained. "Such a shame, really—I’d have taught you obedience my way."

Her voice dripped with honeyed malice, but there was frustration beneath it, a flicker of resentment at the leash Voldemort had placed on her.

She reached out, tracing a long, jagged nail down Harry’s cheek, her touch deceptively gentle. "Skin and bones. Like a half-starved stray." Her lip curled. "And yet, still so defiant. How adorable."

Her nail scraped down his cheek, sharp against his skin. A shiver curled in his spine, but the sting barely registered. It was almost... distant, like a memory of pain rather than pain itself.

Bellatrix laughed. "Oh, this will be fun."

Then, just as quickly, her amusement vanished. She shot Draco a sharp glare. "Take him," she snapped, stepping away as if the mere act of being near Harry disgusted her. Her high-heeled boots echoed across the floor as she went ahead leading them out of the dungeons.

Harry shoved away from Malfoy and dragged himself along the wall, doing everything he could to keep up. He didn’t want to be levitated again. Malfoy walked close behind him, his presence looming.

When they reached the first set of stairs, his knees hit the stone floor. He knew it should hurt, but all he felt was pressure—distant, muted, as if someone else’s body had taken the fall.

"Draco! Make sure the brat keeps up," Bellatrix’s shrill voice pierced the air, dripping with disdain.

"Come on, Potter," Malfoy sneered, reluctantly hoisting him up by the upper arm to steady him.

A sudden rage overtook Harry. "You’re a coward, Malfoy," His voice came out hoarse, his throat raw from disuse— and the screaming.

Malfoy dragged him roughly over the last step. "Some of us know when to adapt, Potter. You should try it." he muttered through gritted teeth.

"You’re following a tyrant," Harry replied in shaky breaths. His muscles ached, and his chest felt constricted from the physical activity.

"Whereas you chose to follow an old coot who could hardly save a school, much less the fate of the wizarding world."

"Draco!" Bellatrix shrieked from ahead. Malfoy sped up at her reprimand, practically dragging Harry through the manor’s grand foyer.

The manor was as opulent as ever, adorned with portraits of Malfoy ancestors and ancient magical artifacts. But now, banners lined the archways, a familiar insignia resembling the Ministry’s “M.” This one was a “V,” intricately designed, a wand cutting through its center. It was viridian, lined with silver.

"At least I chose the winning side," Draco remarked, jutting his chin toward a banner that read: "For Voldemort and Valor!"

"At least I’m not Voldemort’s bitch," Harry said in a broken whisper.

Draco smirked, his Slytherin arrogance shining through. "In case you haven’t noticed, Potter, that’s exactly what you are."

Harry stared at him. The words felt like they should sting, but instead, they just… sat there. Heavy.

They reached a long corridor—the most extravagant yet. At its end stood massive green double doors, silver serpents winding throughout. Bellatrix stopped before a door to the right of the main room. Malfoy wasted no time shoving Harry inside.

The room was huge and luxurious. A sitting area with plush couches and a mahogany desk stood before a stone fireplace. A dark Persian rug lay beneath a green sofa. A small terrace overlooked an intricate hedge maze.

Harry regarded everything numbly. The vastness felt wrong, too open after so long in confinement, the warmth and luxury as foreign as another life. The light streaming through the windows was blinding, and he ducked his head, staring at his battered feet—something real, something familiar.

"I’ll be by to escort you down in an hour," Bellatrix’s fingers twitched again, longing to strike." Make sure he’s—presentable. And if he gives you trouble…" She twirled her wand between her fingers, itching to put it to use.

Instead, she stormed out, the door slamming shut behind her. Harry exhaled sharply, his muscles unclenching for the first time, a shudder raking through him as the air felt slightly less suffocating.

"This way, Potter." Malfoy strode into an adjoining bedroom.

It was equally extravagant: a four-poster king-sized bed with silver hangings, dark mahogany furniture, and dark green drapes. At the center of the floor, three house-elves bowed so low their pointed noses bent against the ground. They wore stained pillowcases, and the smallest, a female, had a tattered ribbon tied around one ear.

"Welcome, Master Draco," they chimed in unison.

"You—fill the bath. You—lay out his wardrobe. And you—make sure he looks presentable." Draco ordered them around harshly.

Harry took a couple of steps back involuntarily.

"Yes, s—sir!" The elves scurried to comply, snapping their fingers, sending clothes and shoes flying throughout the place.

"If you would follow Mipsy and Zinky this way, your royal master, sir," the small female elf said, grabbing Harry’s arm. He barely had the strength to resist as they led him into an adjoining bathroom.

Like the rest of the rooms, the bath was extravagant. He was ushered toward a four-footed tub large enough for three. With a snap, Mipsy filled it with steaming water.

"Make sure he uses the potions," Malfoy instructed.

To Harry’s mortification, another sudden snap vanished his ruined clothes, leaving him stark naked in front of the tub as one of the elves shoved at him to get in.

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed covering himself as best he could with his grimy hands.

With a flick of her wrist, Mipsy removed Harry’s glasses and set them aside.

“You’re looking worse for wear, Potter,” Malfoy snorted, lounging in a velvet armchair like this was any other day.

Harry tensed when Malfoy made no move to leave. “What are you doing?”

The Slytherin crossed his legs, arms draped over the chair’s sides. “It’s my job to keep you in line now. That means I have to watch you—constantly.”

Harry scowled, resigned to his fate. With difficulty, he climbed into the tall tub, drawing his knees to his chest in a weak attempt at modesty. “So, you’re my new nanny?”

Malfoy scoffed.

The bath should have been soothing—the warm water and healing potions seeped into his bones, stripping away layers of grime he hadn’t been able to wash off in the glacial water of his cell. Tiny elf hands began scrubbing at his skin and tangled hair.

“Stop, no— I can do it myself,” Harry snapped, swiping at the bony arms attacking him. “I order you to stop!”

“They don’t take orders from you, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, inspecting his nails. “That’s why I’m here, and I order them to keep going.”

Harry sucked in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The scents, the touch, the sheer feeling of it all overwhelmed him. Every brush against his raw skin made him flinch, but he forced himself to focus on the warmth—the chance to finally be clean, no matter how invasive the process felt.

“Cut his hair,” Malfoy’s voice snapped him back. “Give him a shave, trim his nails, and brush his teeth.”

“Right away, young master Draco,” Zinky chirped.

"This is ridiculous," Harry muttered, watching as the elf trimmed his nails with sharp silver clippers.

"It's part of your rehabilitation," Malfoy said cooly from behind him. "You can't go out into society looking like a feral creature."

Harry snorted.

Mipsy made quick work of trimming his hair, tufts falling into the bathwater as Zinky yanked his foot onto the rim of the tub, clipping his toenails with clinical efficiency.

Then came his teeth. The elf wielded a tiny toothbrush and a bowl of foaming potion, and before Harry could protest, she shoved the brush deep into his mouth, scrubbing every surface with ruthless precision. He gagged, instinctively trying to push her away, but Malfoy’s warning came before he could act.

"Stay still, or I'll Petrify you."

Grinding his teeth, Harry forced himself to breathe through his nose and endure it.

He had never had his teeth brushed for him before. Never had a manicure or pedicure. And after this, he never wanted one again.

Finally came the shave. He didn’t grow much more than peach fuzz, but at least when it was over, he felt a fraction more human.

Malfoy watched with undisguised amusement, taking in the sight of Harry being handled like a lifeless doll, his dignity peeled away with each precise movement of the elves.

Harry endured it in silence. He barely felt present for most of it. If compliance made it end faster, so be it.

When the bath was finally over, they wrapped him in a thick towel and led him into the adjoining bedroom, where a raised platform and a three-pane mirror awaited him. Racks of clothing, shoes, and accessories surrounded the space.

“Crimpy has arranged a many outfits for the consort,” one elf declared proudly, gesturing to the selection.

Malfoy strolled through them, inspecting everything with thinly veiled distaste.

Meanwhile, Harry fought Mipsy for his towel, clutching it like a lifeline.

“Can I at least get some pants?!” he snapped.

Mipsy stomped a tiny foot. “The royal master does not be wanting to collaborate!”

“Potter, drop the towel,” Malfoy said, arms crossed. “I need to see if anything else needs healing.”

“No, that’s enough. I won’t—hey!”

With a flick of his Hawthorn wand, Malfoy vanished the towel.

Harry flushed crimson, scrambling to cover himself as Malfoy circled him like a particularly smug vulture.

“You can’t just—” Harry’s words died in his throat as his reflection came into view.

He looked horrible.

Skinny—more so than he’d ever been, even at the Dursleys’. His ribs jutted out, his shoulders sharp and bony. Though the medicated bath had erased most bruises, faint scars and half-healed gashes marred his arms and legs. His face—he couldn’t stand to look. The hollow-eyed stranger staring back was barely recognizable.

“If these scar, the Dark Lord will have my head,” Malfoy muttered, flicking his wand over Harry’s skin to heal the last of the wounds. Harry vaguely wondered why Voldemort cared.

A small purple vial zipped through the air into Malfoy’s waiting hand. He tossed it to the nearest elf. “Rub this all over him.”

Malfoy sat on an armchair to the side, once again watching the show with a bored expression.

Harry recoiled once again, but tiny elf arms ushered him back towards the center of the platform.

He groaned as the thick liquid was smeared across every inch of him. They even took turns hopping onto a stool to reach his upper body.

When they finally deemed him clean enough, Harry was given a pair of pants. Only pants. He had never dressed faster in his life.

His fresh scars were gone, along with the small ones earned over the years—cuts from gardening at the Dursleys’, nicks from careless accidents. But the major ones remained: the jagged mark over his chest from Slytherin’s locket, the ever-present lightning bolt on his forehead. The latter pulsed with a dull, ceaseless ache—a constant reminder of Voldemort’s presence.

“You—get his measurements.”

Harry stood rigid as Crimpy scurried around him, taking his size like at Madam Malkin’s.

“Finally, I get to fix that disaster of a wardrobe,” Malfoy mused, flicking through the selections.

Harry ignored him, staring at his arms—arms that had once been filled out from Quidditch training. Now, they looked foreign, gaunt.

Malfoy waved a wand through the selection of trousers, his brows creased in serious thought as he contemplated the options.

“It’ll be a casual outfit for tonight so it shouldn’t be much work,” he said and finally selected a black pair of straight trousers that looked identical to all the rest in Harry’s opinion.

“What date is it?”

Malfoy gave him a sideways glance before responding, “September 28.”

The date blurred in his mind. Two months? It might have been longer… or shorter. Time had lost meaning.

“Thanks for returning my wand, by the way. Real considerate of you to bring it back personally.” Malfoy sneered.

Harry barely registered the remark. “Is Kingsley Minister?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, he was elected the day after the treaty was signed. Now turn around so I can see how these look from the back.”

Harry complied, hoping his cooperation would encourage Malfoy to answer more of his questions.

“When was Voldemort crowned?”

Malfoy flinched at the name. “The Dark Lord,” he stressed, “was crowned a week after Shacklebolt’s official appointment. It was an extravagant event, splashed across every page of the Daily Prophet. People were wondering where their ‘boy savior’ was.” His tone dripped with mockery.

Harry was glad he’d missed it. The cell had been a nightmare, but the idea of being paraded by Riddle in front of the wizarding world made his skin crawl.

“No, no! Where is the other pair for this cufflink? I can’t send him out looking this informal,” Malfoy snapped, his arms on his hips.

“Mipsy is finding it right away, Master Draco,” the elf squeaked.

Harry seized the distraction. “Why didn’t you go back to Hogwarts? Were my friends allowed to return?”

Malfoy scoffed. “I couldn’t care less about your band of blood-traitors and that filthy mudblood, Potter.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the word itself was distasteful. “If you must know, I didn’t return because the Dark Lord requested my services personally. We Malfoys hold high rank in the palace, and you’d do well to learn your place.”

“So it’s a palace now? Not your manor? Seems like you were shoved aside like old toys.”

The elves bustled around Harry, making final adjustments to his outfit, fixing his collar and putting on his shoes.

“It’s an honor to be among the Dark Lord’s closest confidants. Renaming one of our properties was a minuscule sacrifice,” Malfoy sniffed.

“Whatever you say.”

Malfoy huffed and turned away, crossing his arms like a sulking child.

For something Malfoy deemed "casual," Harry had never been dressed so extravagantly in his life. Everything was tailored perfectly. He still looked thin—his cheeks sunken—but no one would be able to tell what he’d endured for the past two months.

He wore iron-pressed trousers, a crisp white button-down with silver cufflinks, a dark green vest, and outer robes lined with silver embroidery and serpent motifs. His shoes were polished leather. He looked like a proper pureblood Slytherin, and he hated it.

The only part of him that remained untouched was his hair. Despite Malfoy’s best efforts—and the strongest wizarding gels—it refused to be tamed. Malfoy eventually gave up and called it a “casual chic” look.

“Why was I let out now?” Harry finally asked, the question that had been weighing on him the most. “What am I getting dressed up for?”

“Stop asking so many questions, Potter! You’ll find out soon enough.” Malfoy took a step back, scrutinizing him one last time before giving a curt nod of approval.

Harry flinched as the hawthorn wand was suddenly pointed at his face, but all Malfoy did was straighten the crooked frames of his glasses.

With a satisfied smirk, Malfoy said, “I suppose this is the best I can do with what I was given to work with.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to his reflection. His fingers instinctively moved to his fringe, patting it down to cover his scar.

The door swung open, and the sharp click of heels echoed through the room. Bellatrix sauntered in, her signature manic grin stretched across her face.

“Is itty-bitty Potter all done up?” she crooned, her laughter ringing through the chamber.

Harry stiffened. A vivid memory flashed through his mind—the Department of Mysteries, her taunting laughter as she danced away from him. It took everything in him not to lunge at her, not to break her nose like he had Riddle’s.

Instead, he clenched his jaw and turned away.

“Still so much fight left in you?” she giggled. “How delightful.” She glanced at Malfoy. “Come along, dear nephew. They’re waiting for us.”

The walk through the palace was grueling. Harry was superficially healed, but exhaustion weighed down his limbs. Keeping up was a challenge, and every time he lagged, Malfoy jabbed him in the back with his wand, ushering him forward.

They eventually reached a grand entrance hall. Before them stood massive double doors flanked by two uniformed guards. Their expressions were stoic, their wands gripped tightly in front of them.

“We’re here to escort the Savior to dinner,” Bellatrix chirped, her voice dripping with amusement.

She grabbed Harry’s arm with claw-like fingers, her nails digging into his skin. Harry recoiled instinctively, but she merely shoved him forward, positioning him directly in front of the doors.

The guards flicked their wands simultaneously, and the heavy doors creaked open.

Inside was a dimly lit dining hall, dominated by an impossibly long table—one that rivaled the Hogwarts welcoming feast. Seated around it were death eaters, each more repulsive than the last.

And at the very end of the table, dressed in sharp, regal attire, exuding power and control, sat Tom Riddle.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

Riddle smiled—a charismatic, knowing smile.

“Ah, Harry, you’ve made it.” His voice was smooth, inviting.

“We were waiting for you to begin.”

He gestured to the empty chair beside him.

“Please, take a seat.”