His Sovereign

A sharp shove made Harry stumble into the dinning hall. It was a cavernous expanse of cold, black marble, its polished surface gleaming beneath the eerie glow of floating chandeliers. Their dim, bluish light flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and something more elusive—something metallic and faintly acrid, like old blood so deep into the stone that no amount of scrubbing could ever erase it.

Despite the oppressive darkness, the scene at the long dining table was one of unsettling elegance. The Death Eaters were draped in their finest robes, dark silks and embroidered velvets catching the candlelight. They sat with the poised refinement of aristocrats, dozens of eyes fixed on Harry as he strode deeper into the room like a thestral caught in the wandlight.

At the head of the table sat Riddle. Not Voldemort, not the inhuman wraith Harry had once known, but something worse—whole, restored, unbearably striking. His high cheekbones and angular features were carved by shadow and light, his crimson gaze languid. He did not need to demand attention. It was freely given.

"Harry," he greeted smoothly, his voice a rich purr of satisfaction. He stood, a gesture almost courtly, and pulled out the chair beside him. "Come, sit. I insist."

The walk across the dining hall felt like the walk across the clearing where this all started. Suffocating, inevitable, right into Tom Riddles arms.

Harry’s pulse quickened, his skin prickling, every part of him acutely aware of the Dark Lord’s proximity.

The Dark Lord’s fingers ghosted through Harry’s hair, a featherlight touch, deceptively gentle—claiming—before he guided him to his seat. The touch lingered just long enough before Riddle leaned in, breath warm against his ear, “Good boy.”

The words slithered through him—soft, intimate, not English. Parseltongue.

Heat crept up Harry’s neck, shame curling in his gut. He dropped his gaze, praying the Death Eaters hadn’t caught the meaning, hadn’t seen the way his breath hitched at the sound.

The chair beside him screeched against the marble as Bellatrix wrenched it back and dropped into place. Harry could feel her glare burning into the side of his face, could picture the way her fingers twitched for her wand. His own hands clenched around the arms of his chair, anchoring himself.

Riddle’s gaze flicked between them, delight simmering in his eyes. Clearly, he knew exactly how the seating arrangement might provoke the mad witch, as if he was playing with his pawns.

“I’m so glad you could finally join us for dinner, Harry.” Riddle’s voice was honeyed, mocking. “I hope the accommodations have helped calm you down since your arrival.”

Harry’s head lifted, his gaze dragging across the table. The faces blurred, shifting like water—eyes, mouths, expressions slipping in and out of focus. Too many of them. Too many people, too many threats. A sea of watchful gazes, some curious, others sharp with suspicion, all of them fixed on him.

A rough voice spoke from beside Bellatrix, sharp enough to break through the haze. “I’m sure he won’t be much trouble, my lord. We’ve made sure of that.”

The blur resolved itself into Rodolphus Lestrange, his smirk jagged and cruel.

Harry’s lips moved before he could stop them, his voice flat. “Get me a wand I’ll show you how much trouble I can be.”

The goblet in Rodolphus’ hand slammed onto the table, wine sloshing over the sides, dark as blood.

Silence.

Then— A low, rich chuckle. The kind that slithered under the skin.

The room tensed, all eyes snapping toward their leader. Riddle’s lips stretched into a slow, unnatural smile.

A quick wave of the elder wand. Harry choked. His tongue wrenched against the roof of his mouth, sealing itself in place. His throat convulsed as he pushed himself back from the table, wheezing out of his nose. Silverware clattered to the floor.

Laughter reverberated around him. Bellatrix’s high-pitched giggle, a low snicker from somewhere further down the table.

“We’ll have to remedy your little outbursts,” Riddle mused, his voice a silken thread of amusement.

His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, until two fingers pressed against the underside of Harry’s chin. The touch was deceptively light, almost thoughtful—before he forcefully gripped Harry’s chin, making his jaw ache.

His heart pounded against his throat, his breath hitching before he could stifle it.

“Look at me,” Riddle murmured. The command slithered under his skin, coiling tight around his ribs. Harry clenched his teeth, forcing himself to meet those crimson eyes, a glare burning in his own—too fierce.

Riddle hummed, the sound almost pleased. “You’ll learn in time.”

Then, with a flick of his fingers, Harry’s chair jerked forward, yanking him back into place with a sharp crack against the table’s edge.

Riddle smiled, slow and satisfied.

“Let’s eat.”

The conversation resumed as if nothing had happened, the rustle of napkins, the clink of silverware.

Harry forced himself to breathe, to adjust to the sensation of his tongue stuck in place. It was a childish punishment—he remembered the Weasley twins casting it on Ron when he complained too much, remembered laughing— He wasn’t laughing now.

Harry sat rigid as golden plates appeared—piled high with meats, glistening vegetables, pastries steaming with unfamiliar spices. The scents were overwhelming, rich, decadent—suffocating.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain was a domestic sound, a fragile illusion of normalcy in a place where corruption had long since taken root. Each delicacy was a reminder that he was trapped in this illusion of civility. Conversation started up around him, a low buzzing in his ears.

Lined against the walls, half a dozen house-elves stood in silent anticipation, their large, glassy eyes fixed downward, their small bodies tense and unmoving until a single flick of a pale hand summoned them forward. They moved noiselessly, refilling goblets, replacing empty plates with new delicacies, ensuring their masters lacked for nothing.

Harry stared down at the food on his plate, the jinx slowly wearing off until his tongue was free. He could eat if he wanted, but the thought sickened him.

He had to focus, hopefully gather Intel for Kingsley.

Riddle’s voice broke through the murmur, smooth and unhurried.

“Lucius,” he said, spearing a thick cut of meat with his fork. Blood dribbled from it, pooling on the plate. “How has the public reacted to my most recent charitable donation?”

Lucius straightened slightly, carefully dabbing at his mouth before replying, “My Lord, your generosity has not gone unnoticed. Many have sung their praises at the success of the new monarchy.”

Riddle tilted his head, expectant.

"But...?" His voice slithered through the air, like a knife gliding over silk. The candlelight flickered, dimming slightly.

Lucius cleared his throat, carefully choosing his words. "There have been some concerns, my Lord. While the Hogwarts Restoration Fund has been met with great enthusiasm, and your contribution has been lauded as—well, as nothing short of magnanimous—there are still whispers, those who question the sincerity of our efforts."

Riddle chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. "Oh?"

Lucius nodded stiffly. "There is skepticism, my Lord. Some believe that—despite your generosity—the damage done, particularly to Diagon Alley, has left wounds that will not heal so easily. The people remember who was in control when those streets burned."

Then, Bellatrix laughed, high and wild, shattering the tension like glass. "The Dark Lord has given them peace, has rebuilt their precious school, and yet they complain?" Her dark eyes shone feverishly. "How ungrateful. They should be kissing the ground you walk on, my Lord!"

The sound of Riddle setting his fork down was deceptively soft, but the effect was immediate. Bellatrix’s breath caught.

His gaze flickered to her, unreadable. She paled, shrinking just slightly.

"Tell me, Lucius," Riddle said finally, swirling his goblet between his fingers, "what else have they been whispering?"

The question cut through the air like a knife, and Harry felt the room grow colder, the air thicker. He wanted to scream at them all—how could they sit there and pretend this was real?

Lucius swallowed. "The people have not fully embraced the monarchy, my Lord. Some still... doubt."

Riddle’s fingers tapped against the table, an absent rhythm that sent tension coiling through the room. "Doubt," he mused. "A most inconvenient thing."

A current of satisfaction curled through Harry at the revelation.

Riddle’s gaze swept across the table, lingering on Harry for a second too long. Green defiant eyes stared up at him, his jaw tightened.

Riddle smiled.

"If they wish for a grander display of commitment, then they shall have it. I have given, and now it is time for others to follow." His gaze settled on Lucius, then drifted to the Notts and the Lestranges. "Your families will match my donation. One million Galleons each. For the Restoration and Reformation Movement."

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius said smoothly. "It is only right that we contribute as well."

Harry noticed Rabastan shift uncomfortably in his chair. Nott Sr.’s jaw tightened. Even Lucius, ever composed, faltered for just a moment before he forced a smile onto his face. Bellatrix alone nearly jumped up with her manic excitement.

“The Lastrange family will double our donation, my lord!” She said through a smile with too much teeth.

There was a stuttering moment where half of the table schooled their reactions in Voldemort’s presence. Harry saw Rodolphus pale and Nott conceal a vindictive snicker in a bite of roast potato. Lucius leaned away from the table, taking a sip from his goblet, barely able to swallow the look of contempt he shared with his wife during this absurd scene. Narcissa only sighed out of her nose before Rodolphus recovered himself and the conversation.

He inclined his head stiffly. “Yes, darling.” The words clipped. “What a wonderful idea.” Harry was almost impressed he was able to control himself despite the twitch in his eye.

"Yes," Nott echoed a hair too quickly, the ghost of a grin directed toward Rodolphus. "An excellent idea."

“Yes I thought so,” Bella took up.

Riddle’s lips curled slightly. "How fortunate that you all see reason." He leaned back, lifting his goblet. "Ensure that this generosity is properly publicized. The people must know who their benefactors are. Who truly seeks to rebuild their world."

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius murmured.

Bellatrix smirked, watching as the three men forced smiles onto their faces, each one knowing they had no choice but to obey.

What a joke. It was a game, a sickening performance. The Death Eaters, their obedient smiles, the house-elves cowering in the corner, all of it was part of a cruel, orchestrated farce. Harry's head hurt from how hard he was clenching his teeth. How he wished he had his wand—how he longed to stand and tell them all exactly what he thought of their "charity."

Riddle took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes gleaming over the rim of his goblet.

This performance of benevolence, this masquerade of peace.

He dug his nails into his palms, the anger burning hotter, but he knew one thing: if they succeeded in rewriting the wizarding world’s story, everything the order had fought for would be lost. This wasn’t just about power—it was about erasing the truth. And if they won, no one would even remember how they feared his very name, now a campaign slogan.

People might actually believe in Tom Riddle.

Harry felt far away.

The world blurred at the edges, the conversation at the table fading into a distant hum. Voices rose and fell—Lucius’ careful flattery, Bellatrix’s sharp laughter, the occasional clink of silver against porcelain.

He blinked. The candlelight wavered, casting strange shadows across the long dining table. The wine in his goblet remained untouched, the plate before him a forgotten arrangement of rich, red meat.

"You haven't touched your food, Harry," Riddle observed, his voice summoning Harry back from his thoughts. Heads turned in his direction from around the table. "Is something not to your liking?"

Snickers followed his comment.

Harry glanced down at his untouched plate. His stomach twisted with revulsion at the thought of sharing a meal with these monsters.

"I'm not hungry," Harry replied tersely.

“Eat.” Riddle commanded, his eyes flashed, the irises darkening to the color of congealed blood.

Harry’s fingers trembled as he reached for the tiniest piece of steak. It seemed to grow heavier the closer it came to his mouth. The bite was a struggle, but he swallowed, the sensation of the food sitting in his stomach like lead.

Riddle watched him with cold, unblinking eyes that made Harry’s breath quicken. “If the food is not up to your standards, I can have the elves prepare something more… suitable. I won’t see you unsatisfied.”

A sharp giggle broke through the tension. Bellatrix’s voice dripped with mockery. “Oh, he’s too good for our hospitality, my Lord. Ungrateful.” She leaned in, her eyes gleaming, the cruel delight obvious in her expression.

Rodolphus leaned forward with a smirk. “No darling, not ungrateful. Unusually green, I’d say.”

Harry was too preoccupied with not sicking up to mind their comments. Begrudgingly, he took another bite, and another, until Riddle turned his attention to the Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, candlelight warping his features, deep shadows carving across his face. His expression eased, eyes half-lidded—Harry loathed the quiet smugness of it. Riddle commanded the room effortlessly, every gaze drawn to him, feeding on their deference greedily. His red tongue flicked out, tracing his bottom lip with lazy precision.

"For years, the wizarding world clung to the illusion of balance…”

The words slithered from Riddle’s lips like poisoned honey, smooth and unwavering. The room pulsed with quiet approval, the scrape of silverware, the clink of goblets. It pressed down on him, thick and oppressive. He spoke of strength. Bloodlines. Monarchy.

Harry thought of his friends. His parents. The order. Everything he stood for, everything Riddle sought to erase.

His fingers clenched into his trousers, twisting the fabric until it bit into his skin. His knee bounced under the table, restless.

Riddle’s voice dipped lower, “…A Ministry that bowed to the whims of the undeserving, diluting our bloodlines.”

The faint clink of a goblet against porcelain.

“Order has been restored…”

His hands fell limp onto his lap, head bowed down.

“No longer do pureblood families hide in the shadows while mudbloods claim equality they never earned.”

No longer.

“No longer do we apologize for our strength, our heritage, our right to rule…”

The words swam together, blurred and indistinct, sinking beneath the thick, cottony fog in his mind.

“Filthy mudbloods… bloodtraitors…”

The edges of Harry’s vision blurred. The walls felt too far away, the candlelight too dim. His heartbeat was a distant thing, slow and heavy, as if submerged underwater.

The death eaters clinked their goblets—celebrating, cheering. The sound was sharp, unnatural. Harry kept his gaze down, staring at his full plate, watching the way the candlelight made the oil on the meat glisten, red and slick.

He felt Riddle’s gaze on him. Studying. Calculating.

"Even the most defiant can be taught."

Suddenly he was back on his chair, surrounded by enemies—Voldemort’s words mocking him.

The celebrations from his followers reverberated through the dining hall, but Tom Riddle simply watched Harry—his prize.

“Fear commands obedience,” Riddle continued, tilting his goblet slightly, watching the wine swirl, “but admiration commands loyalty. And a lasting empire must be built on loyalty.”

He took a measured sip, then set the goblet down with a quiet clink.

“There are those who still resist,” he admitted, “those who hesitate to accept the new order. They crave stability, reassurance. They need to see that our rule is not tyranny, but balance.”

His lips curved slightly.

“And what better way to demonstrate unity,” he said, voice smooth, effortless, “than through a union?”

The shift in conversation sent unease crawling up his spine.

Riddle exhaled, as if discussing something tedious but necessary.

“Marriage is a political necessity. A symbol of reconciliation—of peace. A chance to show the people that even those on opposing sides can find common ground.

Something about the way he said it made Harry’s mind short-circuit, as if the words themselves were poison flooding his thoughts.

Riddle’s expression remained calm, almost reasonable. “It is a sacrifice, yes. One that must be made for the greater good. But in time, the world will come to see it as destiny—as balance restored.”

Riddle was still watching him. Patient. Expectant.

Then, softer—more intimate—he spoke again.

“You understand, don’t you, Harry?”

A marriage for unity. A political move. Some poor, unfortunate woman bound to Riddle for the sake of his twisted vision of peace.

The thought made his skin crawl.

“No one would believe it,” he said before he could stop himself. His voice was hoarse. “No one would believe that you—” Harry swallowed. “That you could ever be capable of love.”

The word itself felt foreign in his mouth. Heat crawled up Harry’s neck, a deep, unwanted flush blooming across his cheeks.

Riddle leaned forward, his hand curling around the nape of Harry’s neck—softly at first, almost like a caress. A mockery of gentleness.

“Who said anything about love?”

Then, in a flash, his fingers twisted into Harry’s hair, yanking his head back with sharp, practiced ease. The world tilted, his throat bared to the candlelight, vulnerable. A shudder raked through him as a dull, burning sting spread across his scalp, his breath hitching despite himself.

“This is about control,” Riddle hissed, something dark coiling beneath the surface. His grip remained firm, a silent reminder of his power. His thumb ghosted over Harry’s pulse point. “Control over perception. Control over the narrative. Control over the future of our world.”

Abruptly, Riddle released him.

Harry’s head snapped forward, strands of hair falling into his eyes, but he didn’t move to fix them. His breaths came too fast, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Riddle’s hand returned to the table, fingers tapping lightly—a steady, maddening rhythm.

“And, of course,” he continued, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “it ensures that no one forgets exactly where they belong.”

The words barely touched Harry. He was too tired. He was too tired, too hollow, his mind floating somewhere beyond this nightmare of a dinner. He stared at Riddle blankly, and in return, Riddle gave him a slow, satisfied smile, as if amused by his silence.

It wasn’t fair.

How could Riddle just sit there, unaffected, with everything falling into place as if the universe itself bent to his will? While Harry’s life had been twisted into something unrecognizable.

This was hell.

Riddle turned slightly, his gaze landing on Narcissa. “How are the preparations coming along for the engagement gala?”

Narcissa, ever poised, gave a small nod. “Everything is nearly ready, my Lord. We are finalizing the guest list, ensuring that only the most influential and… loyal are in attendance.”

Riddle’s attention returned to Harry. “I expect you to be cooperative, Harry.”

The words were casual, but the weight behind them was anything but.

“For the public,” Riddle continued, as if explaining something obvious. “We must show them that the Dark Lord and his future consort are a team.”

What is he saying?

“In three weeks' time, we will be hosting a gala here at the palace to celebrate our victory,” he announced smoothly. “That is where we will share the news of our engagement.”

Harry blinked.

“The time for fighting is over,” Riddle added smoothly. “The public needs to see that we are on their side. And what better way to rally their support than by having their Boy Saviour join me—willingly.”

Engagement.

Join me.

Harry’s mind screeched to a halt. His breath caught in his throat.

No.

No, this couldn’t be real.

But the way the Death Eaters smirked, the way some exchanged glances filled with barely restrained amusement, told him he had heard right. Riddle wasn’t talking about some nameless girl.

He was talking about Harry.

The realization hit like a curse to the chest, and the next thing Harry knew, he was on his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. The sharp sound cut through the quiet amusement at the table.

“No!” he snarled, his voice cracking with fury. “I’m not marrying you—you’re delusional if you think that’s going to happen!” His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling with sheer rage. “And if you think I’ll be anything but uncooperative, you’re even more insane than I thought!”

The room was deathly silent.

Bellatrix’s nails clawed into the tablecloth. Narcissa’s lips barely parted in the faintest of gasps. Draco had gone pale.

And Riddle—Riddle simply smirked.

Like he had been expecting this. Like he was enjoying this.

Slowly, he set his goblet down, fingers gliding over the rim before lacing together atop the table. His crimson eyes locked onto Harry’s, glinting with something dark and knowing.

“Now, now,” Riddle murmured, his voice almost soothing. “Let’s not be dramatic.”

A sharp twinge lanced through Harry’s scar, a warning of Riddle’s displeasure—but he ignored it. He couldn’t hold back anymore. The haze he’d been under was gone in an instant, replaced by something hotter, fiercer.

Defiance.

“They’ll never believe you!” he snarled, swiping at Riddle’s stupid goblet so that it clanked loudly on the floor. “I won’t let them!”

Riddle exhaled slowly, as though Harry’s resistance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His gaze was heavy, indulgent, as if he were entertaining a child’s tantrum.

“We will shift the people’s opinion,” he said smoothly, gracefully, as if the matter had already been decided. “We will educate those filthy Mudbloods and half-bloods who put our world at risk.” His tone was almost casual, as though he were discussing something as simple as the weather. “It may take time… but you, Harry—”

He purred his name, letting it slither off his tongue like silk, like poison.

“—you are the key to achieving that.”

He leaned forward, spreading his arms across the table, radiating control. There was not an ounce of doubt in him. He knew his authority. Knew that, in the end, he always won.

“I will show the world who you belong to, my precious soul,” he whispered in Parseltongue.

The words slithered through the air, curling around Harry like a trap.

Something inside him snapped.

Without hesitation, Harry grabbed his fork and drove it down toward Riddle’s hand with all the force he could muster.

A collective gasp rang out around the table. But Riddle was faster.

At the last moment, he pulled his hand back, the motion as effortless as if he’d been expecting the attack. The fork buried itself deep into the polished wood of the table, the tines standing upright, quivering from the impact.

Riddle’s smirk vanished.

For the first time that night, his patience ran out.

Harry’s scar exploded into pain. With a lazy flick from his wrist, Riddle sent Harry flying backward. His back slammed against the marble floor with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from his lungs—just in time for the torture to begin.

"Crucio."

White-hot agony ripped through him, searing every nerve in his body. His spine arched off the ground, his fingers clawing uselessly at the air as his body convulsed against the curse. It felt like he was burning alive from the inside out, like his bones were being crushed and reassembled over and over.

It went on and on, stretching time into something unbearable.

And then—blessedly—it stopped.

Harry barely had time to gasp for air before he caught fragments of conversation floating above him.

“…Dark Arts position at Hogwarts coming along, Dolohov?” Riddle asked, his tone as smooth as ever.

Harry could barely comprehend the words, his mind too fogged with pain, but Dolohov’s voice responded, steady and composed, as if he weren’t watching someone writhe in agony a few feet away. “We have made several advancements in the curriculum, my Lord. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve reincorporated some of Salazar Slytherin’s ancient texts…”

Before Harry could suck in another breath—

"Crucio."

The curse—heightened by the power of the elder wand—slammed into him again, forcing an agonized scream from his throat—only for the sound to be silenced mid-way.

Riddle had cast a Silencio on him.

Not out of mercy. Never out of mercy.

His screams were simply interrupting the conversation.

The pain was worse like this, somehow—trapped inside him, unable to escape, his body shaking and seizing in silence while the dinner table discussion carried on as if he weren’t writhing at their feet.

And yet, through the agony, something else lingered.

A strange pulse beneath his scar, a sick, twisting pleasure that didn’t belong to him.

Riddle was enjoying this.

Not just in the way he always enjoyed power, control—but something deeper, something darker.

The realization made Harry’s stomach churn, but the pain was too much to process it. He could do nothing but endure it—until, finally, finally, the curse lifted.

Harry collapsed against the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His limbs felt detached from him, too heavy to move, too wrung out to even try.

Above him, the sound of clinking silverware, the murmur of idle conversation.

Someone laughed.

The scent of warm treacle tart drifted through the air, sickly sweet and utterly surreal.

The world was a blur of sound and sensation, muffled and distant—until one voice cut through it all.

"Draco, escort Harry back to his room. He’s done for tonight."

Harry barely registered the hesitant scrape of Draco’s chair as he stood.

He was done.

For tonight.

Harry didn’t know if he’d been half dragged or levitated back to his quarters. There were flashes—ornate palace hallways, then darkness. A marble staircase, then darkness. Scowling portraits of ancient Malfoy ancestors, then darkness.

Eventually, he was shoved through one last set of doors and collapsed onto a couch in his sitting room. The fall knocked the air out of him, sending pain radiating through his ribs. Everything hurt. Even the ends of his hair felt sore. He was trembling so violently he feared he’d roll off the couch, hit his head, and finally—mercifully—black out.

“...dn’t keep your mouth shut for once in your life...” Malfoy’s voice cut through the fog.

A blond head flickered in and out of his vision. Small elf hands pried off his shoes, unbuttoned his collar, but being rid of the constricting fabric hardly brought any relief.

“All that effort! Now your outfit is ruined,” Malfoy huffed, slipping off Harry’s glasses. He lifted his wand, casting light into Harry’s eyes, checking for a concussion. Harry groaned and tried to turn away, but his head lolled uselessly to the side.

“Hey.” A firm hand patted his cheek—not hard, but enough to make him flinch. “Don’t pass out yet. You need potions for the tremors and to prevent long term effects.”

Harry groaned. As much as he longed for some relief from the pain, the thought of drinking something right now made his stomach roll—unconsciousness was a better option.

“Zinky, the vials.”

A brief stretch of darkness…

Then a deep red vial appeared before his face. Malfoy’s hand cradled the back of his head, coaxing the potion to his lips.

“Don’t be difficult, Potter. This will help.”

Harry tried to shake his head, tried to turn away, but the movement made his stomach lurch violently. He barely had time to twist before sicking up all over himself, the couch, and—partially—on Malfoy.

“Merlin’s beard!” Malfoy recoiled, gagging.

The elves vanished the mess in an instant, but that didn’t appease the young pureblood.

Harry’s head spun, he now had it tucked between his knees, nearly falling off the couch if it weren’t for one of the elves keeping him upright.

“Why was I given this insufferable job? I could have worked at the Ministry!” Malfoy whined.

The vomiting sobered him up for his mind to catch up to his predicament.

Engagement.

His heart pounded. His hands curled into his hair, fingers tangling, pulling. His shoulders shook, holding in a sob—futile.

Malfoy groaned. “This was a perfectly good suit too, I—”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Harry snapped, his voice raw, wild. His gaze snapped to Malfoy, wide-eyed and unhinged.

The blond froze, mid-motion, patting at his robes.

“A job at the Ministry? That’s what you want, Malfoy? Well, sorry you got stuck nannying me instead, but at least you don’t have to marry fucking Voldemort!”

His voice cracked over the name. If he could, he’d scream himself hoarse, just as he had while writhing under the Cruciatus Curse at dinner. Except this pain—this despair—was worse. This was final.

Malfoy’s expression flickered. Just for a second.

The three elves inched closer to him, hesitant. Malfoy approached as well arms up in surrender.

“I’m sorry, Potter. Truly.” Malfoy said hesitantly. His tone made Harry’s eyebrows furrow, he never thought he’d have a Malfoy apologizing to him.

“I don’t care about being tortured Malfoy!” Harry raised his voice again slightly. “But I don’t want to marry— I mean, I don’t think I can—.” The room started to spin again, his skin breaking out into a cold sweat and Harry dropped his head into his hands with a miserable groan.

“A fucking engagement?” Harry whispered, voice splintering. He tried to push himself up.

“The royal consort should not be moving in his condition,” one of the elves fretted.

“I’m not anyones consort!” Harry shouted.

The second his feet touched the ground, he collapsed back onto the couch, head landing against the cushions. Above him, the grand chandelier glittered coldly. How he wished it would crash down and bury him beneath its weight.

Tremors wracked his body. He clenched his fists, jaw tight, forcing back tears. Malfoy, elves—none of them mattered.

A few silent seconds passed by before a new red vial was thrust toward him again. When Harry lifted his gaze it was to find Malfoy, kneeling down before him with a serious expression on his face. He didn’t offer any comforting words, there was nothing to say really.

“Take the potion, Potter.”

Harry did. The effects were immediate. The tremors all but stopped, but the aching throughout his body remained.

Malfoy tinkered with a box full of potions vials, every once in a while passing one off to Harry to consume. The elves resumed their efforts to undress him, peeling off layers of his ruined fancy attire and rubbing some sort of minty healing balm that Malfoy had given them onto his skin. It numbed the ache even further, but it didn’t numb his mind.

The engagement.

It consumed him. The reality of it. He thought he understood what surrender meant. He thought he was prepared to endure pain, isolation. But this—

Ginny’s face flashed through his mind. Ginny, screaming his name as she ran towards him at the clearing. He never planned for a future, but if he had survived—he might have loved her properly. Now?

Voldemort’s hands on him, that suffocating embrace when he’d walked into his arms at the clearing—

Bile burned his throat again, and he lurched forward.

“Not again, Potter!” Malfoy snapped, dodging out of the way. He grabbed Harry’s shoulder, steadying him as he dry heaved. “Don’t sick up all the potions I just gave you.”

Harry pressed his palms against his eyes, willing his mind to stop racing. Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe he should just give in. Make it easier for himself.

His arms dropped to his sides—numb. Eventually he realized he’d been changed into green silk pajamas. An elf was combing his hair.

When did that happen? Was he so far gone?

The doors banged open.

“My Lord!” Malfoy dropped to his knees, bowing. The elves followed, their small frames shaking uncontrollably.

Riddle strode forward, ignoring them. His eyes locked onto Harry, and before he could react, strong hands shoved him back against the couch.

A grip, firm and unyielding, grasped his jaw, forcing their gazes to meet.

Red eyes burned into dull green. And then—

His mind wrenched open, memories ripped free. The cell. His conversations with Malfoy. The dinner. Everything spilled out, laid bare.

Then, just as abruptly, Riddle withdrew with a growl.

Harry slumped back, gasping. His skull throbbed, his stomach twisted.

“Don’t answer so many of his questions,” Riddle said smoothly, addressing Malfoy. “He does not need to know what happens outside this palace. That is a privilege he must earn.”

Malfoy swallowed. “I understand, my Lord.”

“Has he taken the potions?” Riddle’s grip latched onto Harry’s emaciated wrist, too tight.

“Yes, but he’s been sicking up, which—”

“He must gain weight, Draco.” Riddle’s voice was calm. “By the night of the gala, he must look healthy. If he does not, there will be consequences for you and your family. Do you understand?”

Malfoy paled. “Of course, my Lord.”

Riddle’s fingers threaded into Harry’s hair, Harry averted his gaze, chin jutting to the side.

Riddle smiled.

“We have a long way to go with you. Don’t we? My soul…” he hissed in Parseltongue.

A thumb traced Harry’s scar. A strange sensation flooded through him—a slow, creeping warmth, dulling everything. His thoughts slowed. Suddenly all his exhausted mind could think about was surrendering to the sensation.

Riddle pulled away.

Harry’s breath stuttered. His skin crawled. His body tensed, instinct screaming at him to get away from Riddle, but he was powerless to move.

Riddle chuckled darkly. “A doctor will examine him tomorrow. Keep him in check. If you need any assistance, Bella would be glad to lend you a hand.”

Just hearing her name made Harry’s blood boil.

“Yes, My lord.” Malfoy responded curtly.

Then, with a swish of dark robes, Riddle disappeared through a door—one Harry hadn’t noticed before.

“Where does that door go?” he asked numbly.

Malfoy turned to him, exasperated. “Didn’t you just hear him say I am not to answer any of your questions?”

“He said not to tell me what happens outside of the palace. This is very much inside.”

Malfoy sighed, looking at Harry with what could almost be described as pity. The expression was quickly replaced with his usual annoyed facade.

“That door is connected to the Dark Lord’s personal quarters,” he drawled.

A heavy weight settled in Harry’s stomach. He vowed to never even go near there, but simply knowing how close Riddle’s presence lingered, just beyond a single door, made his skin crawl.

“Let’s get you to bed. You need to rest if you are to recover.” Malfoy hoisted Harry up by the arm. The elves had gone ahead to prepare his bed, and Harry followed numbly, his limbs dragging like lead.

His mind swirled with thoughts of hollow charity cases, pseudo-civilized Death Eaters, but most of all, the weight of an unwanted marriage.

He didn’t think he’d ever sleep again—not when the moment he closed his eyes, he saw an altar.

The second his back hit the bed, a familiar shimmering vial was pressed into his palm. He barely had the strength to curl his fingers around it.

“Drink,” Malfoy ordered.

He downed the potion in one gulp, the bitter liquid coating his throat like poison. He had no choice. He never did.

His muscles slackened, his thoughts fogged, but the altar remained, seared behind his eyelids in vivid, merciless clarity.

An altar, its dark surface reflecting the candlelight like a dying ember. The air thick with iron, suffocating, cloying. And there, at its center, Voldemort stood, wreathed in shadow. Forceful hands pressing into Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to kneel. The murmur of ritualistic chanting. The feel of a binding magic curling around his ribs, his throat, his eyes.

Then, nothing.

A dead, empty sleep swallowed him whole.