Chapter 9
Deep within the Sahara desert on the Northern border of Niger, there existed a small oasis. It was a modest refuge from the surrounding miles of hard red earth and struggling brown grass, nestled against a steep hill of hard rocks and dry sand. An underground spring rose to the surface and pooled into a stream that tangled down rocks and sands until it evaporated in the hot morning sun. A stunted, twisted tree rose to meet the sun with the barest hint of green leaves decorating its branches.
A brown lizard clinging to the side of a rock scurried into the shadows when a hooded figure appeared on the horizon.
His black form swayed in and out of focus like a mirage. No trace of foot steps were left on the dry mud plain beneath his feet. The desert was still and soundless, holding its breath as he reached the soft clay ground where the spring disappeared into nothing. He paused for a long moment looking down at the soft mud and small tracks of bird feet.
A clay fragment colored with red paint laid amongst the wet earth. He nudged it with a pale, bare foot.
It was the afternoon before the wizard found a small gap no larger than a child’s torso in the piled brown rocks. Light from a long, slender elderberry bush lit up the inside of the opening and revealed the dark tunnel leading down. Three hundred feet down the tunnel went through tight turns and pools of cool, clear water. The walls hadn’t felt the touch of a human hand or the warmth of the sun for more than five hundred years, but they were not deserted.
The insubstantial wisp of a silver snake drifted through the opening and into the cool darkness. Its body filled the dark tunnels with an eerie light and its tongue flicked out cautiously at each turn deeper into the tunnels. Deeper and deeper it went. When the tunnels ended in tightly packed mudslide walls, its flexible body turned on a dime and returned the way it came. Its search was systemic and exact.
The hooded man drew up to his full height frowning in the hot summer sun. Silver mist had returned to his wand unorganized and uninformed. He had a decision to make and only a few hours before the heat drawing down on his robe would force him to retire.
He walked away from the hillside. The sand was coarse in texture and scratched his skin as he walked. On his waist was tied a belt with a satchel of eucalyptus, Nordic fir and yakh tundra moss. The coolness it emulated spread underneath his light cotton robes but didn’t protect him completely from the pounding heat of the sun. A Persian incantation came out low and even through his lips.
A ring of white fire surrounded fifty meters of hillside and caves. The parched grass and red clay rocks were sapped of all color in the shadow of the white flame. With a wave of the wizard’s wand, the flames snapped together into the center of the circle with a roar and an explosion of sand, pebbles, rocks and mud.
Another wave of his wand and the rubble was suspended. It froze midair and revealed the empty forty foot crater where a stream had once flowed. At the bottom there was the ruin of sandstone columns and archways.
The wizard dodged suspended boulders and brushed away sand. As he walked down to the bottom of the crater, he had only a prickling intuition of danger before the first scorpion struck. For five hundred years, the scorpion had been smaller than a songbird and petrified in stone. When the rocks around it broke apart, blue hieroglyphics carved on its smooth armor plating lit up and its long asleep flesh had doubled and tripled in size. Its tail, five feet in length and armed with a curved venomous tip, shattered a boulder just beyond the wizard.
A spell blasted the first scorpion out of the air. The second scorpion was darker in color but no smaller than the first. It came scuttling along the ground and dodged the first strike that sent shards of hard stone pelting in every direction. As the second spell hit it square on, the third scorpion was striking the hooded wizard from behind. Its tail struck an invisible barrier encircling the wizard and bounced off. When it struck again, the barrier faltered and allowed the tail to land next to the man’s foot. His incantation heated the liquid venom inside the scorpion’s tail to a boil that melted the meat and flesh inside of its body and sent venom racing towards the scorpion's own heart. As that scorpion laid down to die, another two took its place.
The smaller scorpions were faster than their larger compatriots. Two out of every three spells the wizard sent their way missed and the third spell ricocheted off their thick armor. They scurried to either side of the wizard as another three scorpions joined their ranks. They snapped their pincers at the invader and pushed in closer.
Inside the circle, the hooded figure was still and contemplative. He turned for a split instant and then was gone. The scorpions clicked their pincers and searched the deserted ground where he had once been. The sun began to sink low and cast a red glow over the parched land and rubble.
Then the man was back. In his hands he held a great longbow. It was brown, lacking in all embellishment and taller than the wizard. He drew it back without an arrow and aimed at the first scorpion that rushed at him. The bow thrummed like the deepest note of a bass being plucked. What should have been empty air smashed into the scorpion and turned it into a gory mess of insect parts.
The next three scorpions were killed in the same way. As the wizard went deeper into the pit, smaller enemies appeared. A venomous cobra struck at the bare foot from the shadow of a hole in the rubble and was crushed underfoot. An eagle in a straight dive with its talons outstretched smashed against a barrier from above and twitched as it lay dying.
In a last desperate attempt to preserve their secrets, the water bubbling up from the ground began to gush onto the dry land and drowned the old altar in brown, frothing water. It rose and rose until it reached the wizards bare feet. It burned him where it touched and the man drew back.
Frowning, he waved his wand upwards but the water didn’t move. He made white fire in the palm of his hand and tossed it into the water but it extinguished immediately with a hiss. He summoned the white snake again and sent it into the water but it didn’t return.
Sighing, he turned and pointed his wand to the bare desert mud plains to the South. Energy built and congealed around him like a heat wave. He spat out a spell like a curse and the ground exploded in the direction he pointed. The vibrations shook the ground for hundreds of miles around.
Acidic water flowed to the new gorge, a mile long and fifty feet deep.
The ruins of a temple were finally revealed to the wizard. The stone was darkened and damaged by the water. He ran his fingers over the columns and archways. The sun became a scarlet ball on the horizon and left a lavender sky dotted with stars. Finally, the wizard paused over a panel on the temple’s floor. When incantations had been cast and there was no sign of danger, he punched directly through the tile with his fist.
He cleared the broken clay away and dug around the small hole with his fingers. He drew out a small yellow scroll so delicate it could have crumbled in the air. Delicately, he pulled it open.
And smiled.
The candlelight in the windows of Malfoy Manor was the first part of the estate that became visible out of the gloom and spitting rain. Any damage from the Order’s invasion had been repaired and the eastern side of the mansion was surrounded by scaffolding and the small, scurrying figure of goblins hauling stones and wooden beams to further expand the already massive wing. Black robed figures stood watch on the sloped rooftops and four watchtowers. Harry’s eyes drifted helplessly towards the top floor of the Western wing where the tallest stained-glass windows were. Behind them was an expansive library, a roaring fire, massive stone chimney, and- he thought he caught a glimpse of- a dark figure looking down at him. His stomach twisted into a knot.
He was marched through the manicured lawn with his suitcase between two Death Eaters and flanked with ten more on either side. The great oak doors at the entrance swung open to reveal a house elf bowing deeply. As Harry stepped inside, the Death Eaters melted away like fog.
This house elf was unfamiliar to him. His jaw was square, his ears were as droopy as a hound dog’s, and his little eyes were hard and shifty. He bowed again to Harry so low his ears brushed the floor. “You’ve been requested in the library.”
Harry grimaced and passed his suitcase onto the little elf when he held his hands out to request it. “There’s orange cake packed in there, can you make sure that it gets to my bedroom?”
“Of course, Master, of course.” He cradled the suitcase close as he bowed yet again. He led Harry forward through the manor, muttering quietly, “We are more than capable of making a delectable orange cake, who knows what ingredients went into this…”
He listened to the old house elf’s quiet rantings as they walked the familiar path deep into the manor. He struggled to keep his heartbeat under control and his mind focused on one object. He hadn’t chosen an elephant or a bicycle to fix his mind on as Arthur Weasley had suggested, but rather the pretty, heart shaped and freckled face of Ginny.
At first, the library appeared to be deserted. The great dining table was full of books and parchment but there was no Dark Lord sitting at the head of the table. Without his presence, the great library could have been pleasant. The large stained-glass windows cast rainbows across the long rows of books and the fireplace crackled merrily. The house elf disappeared with his suitcase at the entry way with a snap. Harry’s attention was caught by the movement of dark feathers near the fireplace. The Dark Lord’s large, black eagle was balanced on the edge of an armchair with its yellow talons digging into the red velvet. Its yellow eyes were fixed intently on Harry. Now he could hear the faint sound of a quill scratching on parchment and knew with an indescribable certainty who sat in the chair.
He approached the fireplace quietly.
His eyes were drawn helplessly to the velvet footrest that he had leaned over when he had been taken for the first time. Ginny’s brown eyes were upside down crescents when she smiled. Her eyelashes were lighter than her hair. He had to stay focused.
“Did you enjoy your time with the Weasley’s, Harry?” The Dark Lord’s voice had an icy quality that could send a cold sweat down his subordinate’s backs, but Harry was beginning to be able to discern the moods lurking beneath the frost. He felt the pull of his emotions through their bonds like the subtle pull of the moon. The Dark Lord’s amiability made his anger spike.
“You erased my memories of Ginny.” His voice was flat. “Why?”
“Oh, that.” Lord Voldemort raised his wand lazily and aimed it at his companion. Harry stiffened and his eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated on the hand that ruffled through his hair, the brown eyes that crinkled into crescents when she smiled, the smell of strawberry in her hair… or was it vanilla… The shape of her in his mind became hazy: was it a young woman he was thinking of or a man? His expression smoothed and his bright green eyes became clear and blank.
“Let’s try that again,” Voldemort said. “Did you enjoy your time with the Weasley’s, Harry?”
“It was fine.” Harry looked towards the fire. He was supposed to be keeping his mind focused on counting numbers, he didn’t know when he had stopped or why but he began again. He saw Lord Voldemort smile.
“Come sit with me,” he said and tied the letter he had been writing to the eagle’s leg. The dark wings of the bird spread wide, and it took off towards an open window. With a wave of the Elder Wand, the Dark Lord conquered a table, a set of wizard’s chess and two goblets of wine. The pieces and the board were made of smooth black and white marble. The little warriors looking up at them seemed indistinct, as though they had been touched with countless hands, and the base of the board was carved with tiny, elaborate and horrific scenes of war.
Harry did not want to play but he knew he wasn’t being asked so he sat down in the armchair opposite the Dark Lord with the white pieces. He was a decent chess player on a good day, but he didn’t like the thought of playing against an opponent who might be peeking into his mind at any point.
“I won’t read your mind.” The Dark Lord said with a knowing look. “Unless you’d like to practice your occlumency.”
“No, thank you.” He said glumly.
He made the first move with a pawn that gave him a doubtful look backwards. The Dark Lord’s responses were quicker and more confident. Harry did his best to keep his attention divided between a protective barrier in his mind and the game, but he soon felt as though his brain was overheating from the effort. It was more than enough work for him to try not to fall into his opponent’s traps. Twice he had caught himself just a moment before placing a piece that would cost him his queen and he had lost a pawn and a bishop during moves he had thought were fool proof. These chess pieces were too well-behaved to scold him directly when he made a bad move, as Ron’s pieces would have, but sometimes they turned back and gave him a disapproving look when another piece was smashed to bits by their opponents.
Harry held a white pawn in his clenched fist pressed against his chin as he stared down in deep contemplation. He didn’t see the Dark Lord’s eyes tracing his hair, neck, shoulders and fingers. When he looked up the Dark Lord was examining the board and sipping from his goblet.
“If you place your rook there, my knight will take it.” Lord Voldemort said idly and Harry drew back the piece he’d been about to place with a sigh of frustration. He thought he might be able to turn the game if he could take out the black queen. He chewed on his lower lip as he thought. “If you were still in school, you’d be in your NEWTs year. What classes would you have been taking?”
”Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration and Charms.” Harry moved a pawn further up the board diagonally behind his rook.
“All the classes necessary to become an auror.” The Dark Lord placed a knight in a position to take either a white pawn or the remaining white bishop.
Harry didn’t deny it. He had decided the best way to handle the maniac who had him imprisoned was to refuse to engage with him whenever he could so he stayed silent. He thought he saw an opening to take the Dark Lord’s king, but it would only work if his mind wasn’t being read. One, two, three, four, five…
“It surprises me that you wouldn’t rather pursue Quidditch. Isn’t that where your passion lies?”
Harry placed the white bishop against the edge of the board and left his pawn behind. “Maybe if I lived in a different time I would have.” The thought of Quidditch made a memory itch at the edge of his consciousness. He’d flown during his summers at the Weasley house, passing a ball back and forth through the air with Ron, Fred, George and…
The Dark Lord’s cold fingers brushed the back of his hand as he moved his knight. Harry jerked away with his heart pumping madly in his chest. The touch had been feather light and innocuous. Voldemort didn’t look up or comment on Harry’s wide eyed expression. The knight he’d moved impatiently removed his sword from its scabbard and eyed the pawn he could take on his next move.
”Your move.” Voldemort said. Harry tried to refocus on the game, but his mind was scattered by the simplest touch. It won’t happen again. If he placed his white rook on the same row as Voldemort’s queen, he could corner the queen between the rook and his knight. It only happened because of the potion we took. It might leave his king vulnerable if the Dark Lord decided to sacrifice his queen. There’s no chance he’d want it to happen again. Flustered and uncertain, Harry moved his rook up by one square.
Voldemort swiftly responded by placing his black bishop closer to Harry’s castled king, leaving his own queen undefended. Harry examined the board with some despair. If he wanted to have any chance of saving his white king, he would have to give up his offensive measure altogether, which the Dark Lord had no doubt seen. He moved a pawn forward to defend his king and delay his inevitable defeat.
“Ask.” Voldemort moved his knight into position to take the white king. Harry looked up from the game he had lost, startled. The Dark Lord began to move his places back into their original position to set up for a second game. “You have a request to make. I won’t wait all day.”
“I thought you weren’t going to use occlumency against me.” Harry’s tone came out surly.
“If I had used it for our game, I would’ve won in ten moves. You’ve been wanting to ask for days. Spit it out.”
Harry didn’t like being pushed to make the request before he was ready, but he also suspected he might have said nothing at all if not prompted. The feeling of the Dark Lord’s cold finger brushing against his knuckle was still on his mind, but he didn’t want to be a coward, either. He thought that if Remus Lupin or Sirius Black had been the spot he was in now, they would’ve done what they had to do. Harry chewed on his lip. “Is Teddy going to be able to go to Hogwarts?”
Voldemort did not immediately respond. He moved a pawn forward on the board and waited for his opponent to make a similar move. “That depends.”
Harry didn’t like that answer one bit. “On?”
The Dark Lord idly rolled the base of one of his pawns on the chessboard. Harry sensed he was suppressing a smile. “Well. For one thing, your Teddy is bound to be affected by his father’s affliction as a werewolf. Then, once you take into consideration that he’s the son of two rebels and he’s not exactly pure blood…” Voldemort shrugged. He set up a bold formation by moving his bishop towards the center of the board.
“But what will he be able to do if he doesn’t get an education?” Harry couldn’t stop himself from sitting on the edge of his seat.
He only looked down to consider the board when the Dark Lord tapped his finger on it, clearly not about to answer until Harry continued with their game. Harry considered placing a pawn so that it would be directly able to be taken by the Dark Lord, but he thought it wouldn’t do much to help his cause if he deliberately threw the game Voldemort wanted to play. After a long period of consideration, he moved a pawn forward defensively.
“It would be against the new standards of admission to accept a student like Theodore Lupin.” The Dark Lord said and moved forward his own pawn. Harry’s stomach sank. Then, Voldemort really did smile. “But rules can always be bent.”
There was something suggestive in his voice that Harry didn’t like. He decided to try and change the subject. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Are they ever going to be able to leave the Burrow?”
Again, Lord Voldemort glanced significantly down at the board. Harry impulsively placed a knight in the center of the board and his opponent gave him a look that said his lack of effort had been noticed. Still, he took advantage of Harry’s poor move by taking his white knight from him.
“The Weasleys should count themselves lucky to still be alive and in one piece.” Voldemort took a sip from his wine goblet and said breezily. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can win against me in wizard’s chess, I’ll let you have your pick between allowing the Weasley’s the freedom to leave their home or giving little Teddy the chance to attend Hogwarts. How’s that?”
“Are you serious?” Now the sight of his missing knight was stinging. “Can we start the game over again?”
“We have only just begun. Make your move.”
Harry redoubled his concentration on the game, furrowing his eyebrows and chewing on his bottom lip as he thought. He tried to remember back to all the lessons Ron had given him in the Gryffindor common room. Control the center of the board. Castle early. There was a trick to seizing an opponent’s pieces Ron always managed to do that neither Harry nor Hermoine could master. It required a trap to be sprung on two pieces at once so that the opponent would have to sacrifice one or the other. It took Harry minutes to decide to move a piece across the board while it took the Dark Lord only a moment, but he didn’t seem impatient. He refilled his wine goblet and watched the fire as Harry took his time.
Soon Harry’s king was being backed into a corner. He had a rook, a bishop, five pawns and a queen left. Voldemort had his queen, a bishop, a knight, two rooks, and six pawns moving ever closer to the king that Harry had castled. Ron might have been able to see a way out, but Harry could not. When the checkmate came, he leaned away from the board sulkily.
“Maybe by the time Teddy is ready for school you’ll have won a game.” Lord Voldemort’s red eyes were glittering with amusement. His eyes lingered over his opponent. “Now, what should my reward be for winning the game?”
Harry looked away, feeling heat starting to rise in his cheeks but refusing to let his expression show anything other than stony indifference. With the Dark Lord’s eyes on him, it was hard to forget about what had happened not far from the fireplace a week ago. One, two, three, four… Heat was spreading from his face down to the rest of his body and making his palms sweat. He wasn’t sure if it was coming from himself or from the bond, but he didn’t like it.
“Maybe some other time. You can go to bed now.” Relief washed over Harry, and he stood up quickly, avoiding Voldemort’s eyes. When he took his first steps, his legs felt slightly wobbly. The Dark Lord’s eyes and voice followed him as he made his escape. “Come see me tomorrow evening. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“Is there anything I can get you, sir?” The ancient house elf who had brought him water in the first days of his imprisonment was approximately the size of a Pekingese dog and so wrinkled that her sagging forehead covered three-fourths of her eyes. Her nose was short and bulbous. Botchie twisted a dirty rag in her tiny fingers nervously as she peered up at him.
The other house elves were watching him, too. There was the grumpy, hound-dog like elf who had led him to the library and two younger house elves bustling around the kitchen. Unlike the house elves at Hogwarts, they didn’t seem pleased to find a wizard in their midst but kept their eyes down and their hands moving at their work.
The kitchens were smaller than he expected them to be, given the splendor of the rest of the house. In the center of the room, tables were stacked with silver plates loaded with breads, salads and pastries and large bowls of steaming, hot soup. Three large stone ovens were built into the rounded hearths with fires crackling merrily beneath them. Hams, plucked chickens, green herbs, carrots, threaded ropes of onion and garlic hung in rows along the edges of the kitchen. There was black soot on the walls near the stoves and no hint of finery or gold, except for the serving dishes.
Every other time Harry had attempted to break into the kitchen he’d found the doors locked. The morning after his return, he’d continued his routine of prowling around the manor looking for a gape in the wards keeping him imprisoned without much enthusiasm or hope. He’d spotted the plain brown door he’d never been able to get through an inch open to let a little house elf carrying a plate of food above its head out and had quickly and quietly slipped inside.
”Yes.” Harry said, thinking quickly. “I’d like tea.” One of the young house elves ran frantically to heat up the water. “Er, my bedroom is really dirty, the floors need to be mopped.” The other young house elf disappeared with a snap. “A flower vase spilled over in the hallway on the second floor.” With a low grumble, the floppy eared house elf disappeared. Harry’s tea was carried over on a silver tray, with a pot of honey, a small pitcher of milk and a side of biscuits. “Actually, I’m a bit more hungry than I thought, I think I’d like a…a… roasted pheasant.”
At this, the old house elf’s wrinkled face screwed up until her features were completely hidden behind flaps of skin. What little could be seen of her eyes were squinting suspiciously up at Harry. The young house elf turned on her heels without so much as a blink and disappeared.
”I want to take a bath, but there aren’t any towels stocked in the bathroom.” Among the bowls, spatulas, and whisks, there was a thick meat cleaver. He could see the cold sharp edge amongst all the food and mess. If it was at all possible, Botchie’s tiny eyes narrowed even more. “I, uh… I spilled water on the floor and used them all to mop it up.”
The little house elf bowed low and spoke in a wavering, dry voice to the floor. “Botchie is old and no good any more, Botchie cannot carry towels, Botchie can only beg the guest’s forgiveness for her uselessness…”
Harry cast about for anything else. He thought if he insisted on Botchie carrying towels to the bathroom, her twig-like body would snap in two, and Hermoine would never forgive him. He pointed over the old house elf’s head. “Looks like whatever’s in there is burning.”
Grey smoke with the fatty smell of meat was pouring out of the top of one of the great ovens. Botchie gave a high pitched yelp like a dog that had been stepped on and hustled across the kitchen with surprising agility for so old a creature. Harry moved as quietly as he possibly could towards the table. Three thousand sixty-four, three thousand sixty five, three thousand sixty six. His heart beat out a steady, calm rhythm. His hand shot out to grab the cleaver.
It would not budge from the table. It might as well have been welded into the wood for all the good Harry’s pulling at it did.
Botchie pulled the ruined turkey out of the oven, adjusted the coals and wood in the hearth and slung a huge, uncooked pink turkey from off of a hook and slid it on a rack to enter the fire. The turkey was twice as large as the little elf but she handled it with ease.
As she worked, one of the young house elves popped back into the kitchen. Harry grabbed hold of the tea he’d been given and pretended to be really enjoying it. The pretty young house elf immediately began levitating cups, pots of boiling water and little lemons. To Botchie, she squeaked, “The mistress needs sliced lemons for her and her friend’s tea, I must go back and attend to them.”
”Restock the biscuits so our supply doesn’t get low.” Botchie sent a tray of biscuits hurtling through the air towards the other house elf. The young house elf nimbly balanced the trays and pots in the air around her and quickly turned on her heel and disappeared.
”Shall I deliver a sandwich to your room as well, master?” Botchie clasped to her hands together and lowered her head to address Harry.
“No.” Harry said firmly. Among the many utensils in the room, many had hard, sharp edges. “I don’t want a sandwich. I’d like a treacle tart.” Botchie, who was balancing a soup bowl in the air, having a carrot peeled and sliced to fall into the soup and stoking the fire in the hearth, stared at him. Harry had to steel himself to say what he had to say. “Unless, the service in the house of Malfoy really is unable to even provide something like a treacle tart…”
For a moment, Harry was afraid he was going to be shouted at.
Botchie and everything flying through the air were frozen. Her watery little eyes were wide and unseeing. Then, she flung herself down to the stone floor and all the things she’d been keeping aloft fell down with her. Hot soup filled with carrots, peas and chunks of beef spilled over the floor and a spoon clattered noisily across the floor. Thick tears squirmed out from underneath her wrinkles and smeared down her dirty frock. Experienced with house elves and filled with guilt, Harry rushed forward just in time to stop her from slamming her head on the ground. Her voice was reed thin but echoed off the walls.
“Botchie is a bad house elf! Botchie deserves to be punished for being unable to serve a guest of the house of Malfoy! Botchie has disgraced her ancestors, Botchie has…”
”No, no, no.” Harry said quickly. “The service has been really good! Best I’ve ever had- the tea was delicious.”
The little house elf kept sobbing. “Botchie is not able to cook three dishes at once anymore, Botchie is too old and should not be allowed to stay in the house of Malfoy.” One of the other house elf materialized with a pop into the kitchen and hurried forward to clean up the spilled soup. Harry could only awkwardly pat the old house elf on the back and try to stop her from harming herself.
“There is being time to be punished after the work is done,” the other house elf squeaked. “We is needing fresh ingredients to redo the soup. Botchie must start the roux if we are to have it ready before noon.”
The house elf’s words were much more effective than Harry’s had been. Botchie got to her feet clumsily and levitated the soup pot over to the sink where a brush and soap scrubbed vigorously at the leftovers. As the pot was scrubbed, three onions and garlic took to the air and were chopped vigorously. On top of that, flour, butter and eggs raced through the air to add themselves to a bowl.
”Botchie is honored to be able to make the guest what he likes,” she said in her quavering, thin voice. “Botchie is old but Botchie can still cook, yes, she can! Botchie will make the treacle tart, the soup, and watch the fires.”
It was mesmerizing to watch. Measuring spoons, spatulas, whisks, lemons, tomatoes, molasses, and bowls hovered in the air above the old house elf conducting them all with a mad glint in her eyes. She was so focused on perfectly preparing each ingredient and stoking the fires that she didn’t even notice Harry quickly squatting down and snatching up the knife she had dropped onto the floor. It was curved and only large enough to peel potatoes. He put it in the sleeve of his robe and quickly straightened up, just in time.
”Potter?” It was a cold, drawling voice Harry recognized. He spun around, startled and guilty. Draco Malfoy was standing at the entrance to the kitchen and looking at him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
Harry pointed to the cup sitting mostly untouched. “Getting tea.”
“Why wouldn’t you just order the house elves to get it for you?” There was half exasperation and half suspicion in Draco’s voice. He was wearing a three-piece black suit with a white shirt buttoned tightly around his neck like a Victorian. “I was sent to find you. You’re needed in the drawing room.”
“What for?” Harry tried to ask calmly but it came out a little strangled. His hand was sweating behind his back where he was keeping the paring knife hidden.
“I don’t know,” he said with a sullen shrug. “Mother sent me to get you. I was supposed to be studying potions with Ysvley but he’s gone off to fix up some Ministry employee who got jumped. Come on then, I haven’t got all day.”
Harry’s heart had sunk down to the floor. If the Dark Lord had been peeking inside his head while he reached for the knife, he could be waiting in the drawing room for him, for some new torment. Four hundred eighty-three, four hundred eighty-four… He had to keep his emotions under control. Draco moved to the side as Harry went to the door, holding his wand tightly and far away from Harry. His suit had golden buttons and a pocket square on his chest.
Harry couldn’t help but grin, despite his worry. “Training to be a vicar, are you?”
“Shut up.” Malfoy reached up and tugged his collar. “Get moving, Potter.”
The sleeves on Draco’s old castoffs were longer than Harry’s wingspan. The fabric was baggy around the shoulders and the sleeves trailed down to his palms. It was only that that allowed Harry to keep hiding the paring knife with his hand awkwardly tucked up and holding the knife in place. Draco was sneaking glances at Harry.
”I thought they’d have you skinned and dismembered after what happened at the wedding.” As they rounded a corner of the hallway, a Deatheater in black robes and a white skull helmet bowed to them. Draco waited until they were out of earshot to keep speaking. “Yet you look fine to me. Why is that?”
Harry didn’t want to correct him or even think about what had happened after the wedding. His tone was flat. “Do you have your master’s permission to ask that question?”
Draco flared up in anger. ”Fine, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re still just a prisoner.”
Harry didn’t respond and they walked the rest of the way in stony silence. They finally came onto a set of large, white French doors, in a quiet part of Malfoy Manor. Draco opened the door for Harry with a sneering civility.
The walls of the room were salmon pink and framed with white panels and five-foot-tall portraits of witches in elaborate, medieval clothing yawning and sipping tea out of small cups. The young house elf who had been hurrying about in the kitchens glanced their way as they entered from where she stood with a tray of biscuits held aloft near the furniture. Narcissa was sitting on a stiff-backed couch leaning across to whisper with a honey blond, middle aged witch in a chair. They quieted abruptly when Harry entered and looked over to him.
“Hello.” Mrs. Malfoy said politely to him. “This is Irena Witherington. Come on over.”
Draco fixed a smile on his face and went over to shake her hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Witherington, how have you been?”
”Well,” she beamed. She looked at the young Malfoy heir with an ingratiating smile. “Very well. But look at you! Marriage must suit you, I think you’re filling out. A new wardrobe will be needed soon, won’t it?”
”Perhaps just a thing or two for the winter.” Narcisssa said.
Irena did not need an introduction to the boy in front of her. She looked Harry up and down, then addressed her friend in a posh, nasally accent. “So, this is him. He’s exactly as I imagined he would be.” To Harry, she raised her voice like he was either deaf or stupid. “Hold out your arms and stand up straight.”
Harry did as he was told with his heart pounding. The witch pulled a measuring tape out of the pocket of her stiffly pressed navy-blue robes.
“Best not to get too close,” Narcissa advised.
Irena stayed where she was, and the tape measurer went to Harry. It measured the distance between his wrist and elbow, elbow and shoulder, shoulder to neck. When it got to his wrist, Harry slightly moved his arm so it wouldn’t come close to what he was hiding. As it worked, the two women picked up cups of tea, looking very similar to the witches in the portraits around them and Draco sat down in a nearby chair, picking at a biscuit and looking bored.
“So, the Countess demanded the baby be pricked by a Ravenous Sanguis-Suckling Pod before any inheritance from her side of the family was passed on, but Camilla put up a big fuss and claimed her mother-in-law cursed the boy with Exspiravit’s Hemophilia herself and it was all a big conspiracy to keep the heirlooms all to herself.” Irena’s nasally voice picked up where she had left off, her tone low and full of intrigue.
“I might have believed her,” Narcissa said. “If I hadn’t seen the boy myself. One year old and already his nose is as big and hooked as a hawk’s, he certainly didn’t get that from Anthony or Camilla.”
“Exactly,” Irena sniffed. “The Countess has too many friends in high places. Camilla will have to have the boy take the test or give up altogether, and if that happens, it’ll all go to a distant cousin, some half-blood who sells ice cream in Surrey.”
“Excuse me,” Harry interrupted, losing patience. “Am I being fitted for new clothes?”
“Yes, boy, you are.” The witch seemed surprised to be spoken to by him, she turned away from him to Narcissa and spoke as. “Really, you would think it’d be enough for a traitor to be fitted in Draco’s old clothing. Herman Chiswick has been waiting to be fitted for two whole years and the Honorable Lady Beatrice Babington sends me owls every day demanding I attend her, where am I supposed to find the time to create him a brand-new wardrobe?”
Narcissa shrugged daintily. “I don’t question the master’s orders.”
Harry’s stomach sank as the two women dove back into conversation. He could think of a few reasons why the Dark Lord would want him in new clothing; perhaps he was sick of seeing the hem of Harry’s pants drag along the floor or he was still trying to bribe him into forgiving what had been done to him. Somehow, it still gave him a deeply uneasy feeling. When the measuring tape ran from his ankle to the inside of his thigh, pressing almost against his privates, he had to fight back the urge to smack it away.
“—I’ve never had to argue someone out of frills before, you know I love a good frill, but for a woman as squat as Dolores Umbridge, I just can’t advise it, but what did she do when I told her a simple fashion might suit her station better? She insulted me and put a silencing charm on me, as if I were her servant!”
Her friend tutted in concern. The measuring tape went over his collarbones, shins, and up and down his back three times before Irena summoned it back to herself. She idly opened a large, leather-bound journal and a quill began to rapidly sketch out a human form. It took on Harry’s slender dimensions and even had his messy black hair. A formal dining jacket was sketched, then a full-length robe, a hunting suit, lounge wear.
“—That’s nothing compared to what Eugenia Rigby is going through trying to make sure little Victor gets into Hogwarts, but you know what the statue says, it’s only for purebloods, seven-eighths just won’t cut it, but she just won’t listen.”
“They won’t be in such bad company. I know the Smiths are sending their children to Worthington’s.”
Irena shuddered. “With the Smiths, the Hepburns, and the Carringtons, as well. The school is bound to be so full of traitors and their relatives I don’t know how they’ll manage to fit them all.”
“Sir.” The young house elf approached with the silver platter held high over her head. The treacle tart was creamy orange in a pie crust with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The house elf beamed as she presented it to him.
”Thank you.” Harry smiled weakly. “Excellent service.” He sat down on the couch with his treacle tart as Witherington’s quill continued to fly across the page. The tart was soft and sweet in his mouth, creamy with a tang of citrus. He spoke in a low voice to Draco Malfoy. “Only purebloods are being allowed to attend Hogwarts now?”
“Or the well connected.” Draco said softly back. “They’re reconstructing Hogwarts from what I’ve heard so that there’s only one dormitory. They’re getting rid of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and…” Harry’s fist clenched and Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And… I’ve heard they’re getting rid of Quidditch at Hogwarts.”
Harry gaped. “Getting rid of Quidditch? Quidditch? Are you sure?”
Draco nodded grimly.
“How could they do that…” It seemed unreasonably cruel. The thought of Hogwarts, the first place he had ever felt happy and at home, being changed even a little bit was unspeakably cruel. The thought of Gryffindor tower being abandoned and left to grow dusty made the treacle tart turn to ash in his mouth. He set it aside.
“Well, you should know that the school governors are putting together a petition to bring Quidditch back.” Draco said quietly. “My father spoke to Headmaster Carrow personally but he just doesn’t have the sway he used to. Carrow was one of the Dark Lord’s original followers and he wasn’t blamed for any of the security failures of the wedding like other top Death Eaters were so he’s being held in very high esteem at the Ministry at the moment.”
Harry remembered Alecto Carrow. He and his sister had cornered Albus Dumbledore and jeered as he fell hundreds of feet from the tower to the hard ground below. “He’s the headmaster of Hogwarts now, huh.”
“He’s one of the hardliners.” Draco sneered. His voice stayed low enough to be drowned out over the gossip and sound of teacups clinking against plates. “Him, the Justice of High Order Albrecht Althaus and the new members of the Wizengamot— they swagger around the Ministry and try to catch employees doing anything they deem to be disloyal to the Ministry, like eating sandwiches made in Muggle shops or wearing sneakers.”
“You’re a Death Eater,” Harry said. “Can’t you do anything?”
”I don’t have a position at the Ministry and neither does my father.” Narcissa gave Draco a hard look and invited her friend to look through the window at the spot in the garden where she planned to build a gazebo. Draco was silent for a moment and then he threw his arms over his head and stretched. “You want to play a game of exploding snap? There’s a set of cards in the parlor.”
“Sure.” There were only long and empty hours before Harry’s appointment with the Dark Lord in the evening and he was eager to hear about what was happening in the outside world. They rose to leave.
”Draco,” Narcissa said from the window. Her face was tight. Her friend looked on with greedy curiosity as Draco obediently outstretched the hand holding his wand and let his mother summon it. “Be careful.”
Exasperated, Draco said, “Mum. It’s fine.”
As they walked out the double French doors, Harry asked. “Did you go to Argentina, then? For your honeymoon?”
”We were delayed for three days after the wedding, but yes. We went to Argentina to visit Astoria’s extended family and travelled through the Yucatinga Rainforest for a day and a half on broomstick to reach the Fuente de Vida Abundante. Do you know what that is?” He didn’t wait for Harry to answer and continued in his usual, know-it-all way. “Nine of the largest waterfalls you can imagine. They disappear into this cavern with a black hole at its center. The air above it is magically charged and all sorts of beasts flock there to drink or take in the energy. Broomsticks stop working within a few miles of it and muggles can’t go near. One of the great mysteries of the world where that water goes, do you remember learning about that in Hogwarts?”
”Yeah.” Harry said. It hadn’t been in a class he’d heard it mentioned but Hermoine who had recited it out of a book.
”Oh.” Draco paused for a moment. “Well, anyway, the students of Castlebruxo need to be able to tame a magical creature, fly into the canyon and get a cup full of water before they’re considered adults. The water is supposed to fully mature your magical abilities and the further down you go the more powerful it is.”
As they sat down in a corner of the parlor that was half-sheltered by a large bird of paradise in a white and blue porcelain vase, Draco explained how they had ventured north after spending three days with his new wife’s old playmates and cousins to the islands of the Caribbean. He had found the white sand beaches dirty and had to apply a sun-repellant charm every hour. Astoria had enjoyed using a bubble-head charm to look down from the surface of the ocean into the water. Harry listened with polite interest as he shuffled the deck of cards.
They organized the cards in their hands and began drawing from the communal deck with careful fingers. Picking up an exploding card would mean discarding their hand and taking a blow of stinging fireworks to the face. All Hogwarts students developed a thick skin to that pain after years of practice.
”Astoria isn’t living here now, is she?”
”We have an apartment in London.” Draco drew an exploding card and endured black smoke rushing at his face with a stoic expression. “Three blocks down from St Mungo’s and connected to a floo channel that Astoria can take to her internship at the Ministry’s library.”
“I would have thought you’d have moved into the manor after you were married.” As Harry’s brought his hand back from placing a six of clubs down, the paring knife in his sleeve slipped out and clattered softly down to the carpeted floor. Harry’s heart went to his throat. He let three of his cards slip out of his hand and hastily bent down to pick them and the knife up. Draco’s eyes followed him suspiciously and lingered on the back of his neck.
“We aren’t going to move into the manor.” Draco said finally. The line of his mouth was flat and hard. His eyes stayed on the cards in his hand and didn’t look up to catch Harry’s flushed face or slightly trembling hand. “It’s a bit... crowded.”
Harry understood.
The icy ball of anger that seemed to always be in his stomach whenever he saw Draco, his old schoolmate, walking free and easy in the new world that the Death Eater had created began to thaw. The position of power Draco had once thought promised to him had disappeared with his father’s reputation and his home was occupied, probably permanently, by a man no one dared defy. He remembered how Draco had swaggered around the school when the Death Eaters had been gaining power and how proudly he had bragged about the privilege of being entrusted with a mission by the Dark Lord. It might as well have been a lifetime ago. He saw little of his old enemy in Draco’s creased brow and thin, serious face.
“How’s your internship at St Mungo’s going?”
Draco was happy to go into explanations of the difficult and monotonous tasks he had to take on at the magical hospital. There were countless bedsheets to be folded— “A task for house elves”—and potion ingredients that needed to be ground. The first floor’s Artefact Accident room was where he spent most of his time. He followed a healer around who was competent, Draco reluctantly admitted, but had a cough that no potion or spell could cure. His goal was to end up in the Alchemy Room where the best potion makers spent their time carefully brewing and experimenting with new potions. Harry didn’t take any of his complaints about work seriously. He knew Draco too well for that.
When Draco ran out of things to disparage, they played in companionable silence. A few times Draco stretched and seemed ready to leave, but each time Harry suggested they play another round. As the sun set, Harry couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at the clock every few seconds. He bounced his leg with restless energy and their game became increasingly quiet. Finally, Harry threw down his cards and rose.
“I have to go.” He didn’t say who he was going to see.
Draco didn’t need to ask. He shuffled their deck of cards and said, “Be careful.”
Deep within the heart of the Congo Basin rainforest, next to a sluggishly moving green and brown river they called the Ubangi, there were two large iroko trees. Their trunks were pale, spotted and rose tall, straight and proud with thick branches spreading out across a grey, misty sky. Between these two moss-covered trees, there was a patch of bare, mundane earth with thin sprigs of grass growing. For five centuries, no animal tracks or fruit had disturbed that earth.
Humidity hung dense and hot over the thick canopy, covered the ridges of mountains in the distance and rolled like sweat down every leaf and branch. The lonely cry of a bird split the lazy quiet of the midday heat. A canoe that locals carved out of the trunks of fallen, mammoth trees floated gently down to the riverbank and halted there. The man in the small boat surveyed the empty shoreline from beneath his dark robes, cast aside the long oar he had used to push himself from the riverbed and climbed onto the muddy shore.
He walked slowly and deliberately with his bare feet leaving a trail in the path behind him. His eyes fell onto the empty sky that shimmered slightly between the two large tree trunks. A slender dark wand was lifted and a scrawling red text was drawn in the empty air. The ruins hovered in the air for a moment before the blue sky behind it sucked it in. The man did not hesitate but stepped forward between the two iroko trees and disappeared.
The river continued its slow and weary crawl downstream. A troop of monkeys passed by the riverside on their search for ripe fruit and unsuspecting insects. The sun sank down past the thick blanket of clouds and cast the forest in deepening shades of yellows, oranges and violets. Bats swarmed from their caves to feast on insects above the dark river.
Still the man did not return.
A pale half moon drifted upwards. A chorus of animals no longer hiding from the heat swelled into a constant, screaming symphony. Serpents hunted sleeping birds and painted frogs with their reflective eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Silver moths fluttered to white flowers.
Suddenly, the earth was shaking. The leaves of the iroko trees shook and birds took flight with cries of alarm. The air between the two trees warped like the water of a still pond being broken by the crash of a stone and a man fell out onto the ground with his hand pressed tightly to his side.
The scent of blood and sulfur was thick in the air.
The earth began to rumble again. A hundred acres of uninhabited rainforest shook and animals trembled. This time it was not a stone breaking the surface but a tidal wave beginning, pulling humid air in like a whirlpool opening. The man struggled to his feet as the surface broke. A hand scorched black and three times of the size of any humans with an extra joint in each finger, reached out for the prey that had escaped it. Its speed was that of a lunging cobra. There was no time to think of a place, to focus, to gather strength.
The man went to the only thing he could. He was gone from the jungle with only the snap of air compressing behind him. The unholy, dead hand lingered only a moment in the silver moonlight and fragrant, damp air before it, too, retreated.
Warm, soft skin was on his palm.
The air was cool, dry and the carpet was soft underneath his feet. His face was so close to Harry’s that he could see every dark eyelash circling his wide, frightened eyes and the stubble coming in on his cheeks. The Dark Lord pulled his bloody hand away from the back of Harry’s neck leaving behind a red smear that streaked across to the young man’s windpipe and allowed him to stumble backwards.
Voldemort put a hand onto the table where maps, books and letters were spread out and allowed himself a grimace of pain. It was four hours past the time he had told Harry to come to library and he knew immediately by the way the nearest book was splayed out that his young companion had been digging through his materials.
He straightened and made his way slowly over to a chair by the fireplace. He pulled the robe that had been hiding his wound off to take a closer look at his injury. A hole had been punched through his abdomen, demolishing his right kidney and half of his liver, along with a section of his intestine, ribs and muscle. He was losing blood but surging with triumph.
“ Vulnera sanentur.” The elder wand was still hot as coals from all the magic he had funneled through it. Part of his intestines began to squirm and regrow. “ Reinvenerate.” His liver twitched uncomfortably inside of him. He wouldn’t call for a healer. He hated the way they fussed around him and the feeling of their skin on his. “ Episky.” The edge of the wound knit slightly together.
Impatiently, he called out, “Harry, come here.”
Harry approached. His face was pale and his steps were stiff and halting. He came to stand just out of arm's reach and looked down at the bare and muscular chest that had been torn into strips of flesh, blood and open organs. His face was carefully expressionless and his eyes fell anywhere besides Voldemort’s face. His fists were clenched and partly hidden by his robes. The Dark Lord’s eyes lingered on his hands. He held the elder wand loosely in his hand between two fingers.
“Kneel down.” He said and pointed to the floor at his feet.
The space between the two men was small enough that all it would take for one to reach the other would be a step. He saw in Harry’s eyes the same calculation.
The air was taut with everything they had ever said and done to each other. All it took was the lightest touch for Voldemort to open up the connection that lay between them and be swept under in Harry’s emotions. He saw himself in Harry’s eyes—his own cold red eyes predatory in a white monstrous face, his pale flesh starkly exposed next to the black robe and red gore.
Emotions swelled and ached in him more unbearably than the wounds he had taken. The anger he felt towards the man in front of him. The exhaustion weighing him down from years of fighting. The painful desire he had for an ordinary life where he wouldn’t have to sacrifice himself. The reluctance he felt to strike out at an injured man. The fear of failure and fear for the people he loved and fear for himself.
The warm, pounding heat like a fire at the heart of it all.
The feeling of it was better than anything Voldemort had ever experienced and yet it was intolerable. His soul clung to it and recoiled and shriveled and expanded.
The moment for Harry to act passed. The eighteen-year-old lowered his eyes and his hands visibly trembled.
”Kneel.” Voldemort said again. This time Harry obeyed. He sank to his knees on the lush carpet with his head down and his expression twisted. The Dark Lord reached forward and calmly plucked the knife out of Harry’s hand. The young man’s face turned paper white.
Voldemort sighed heavily, “Harry…” He leaned forward, ran his fingers through the messy black hair and pulled so that his face was tilted up. He wasn’t displeased. On the contrary, it was an encouraging sign that his captive was already losing his nerve to strike out. “Harry, why must you make this so difficult? Do you want to be punished?” He gave his hair a playful little tug. “Did you really think a three inch blade would be enough?”
Harry’s jaw tightened but he didn’t answer. With his hand on Harry, the elder wand vibrated and thrummed with power. Flesh writhed and muscles knit together. Soon there wasn’t even the stain of blood where the injury had been. The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair.
Harry’s eyelashes were long and dark. With his eyes cast down, they were a pretty fan against the paleness of his face. His lips were slender and well-formed as the statues that the Romans had carved. If he opened them, he thought he’d find Harry’s tongue to be pink, soft and warm. He could put his hands in Harry’s messy black hair again and guide him. Harry would be obedient—could be obedient, if he had to be, if he was trained right.
He had to be patient. To tame any creature required a delicate balance of coaxing and coercion. Moving too quickly would only make Harry desperate.
“It’s obvious I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you from now on.” He couldn’t resist leaning forward to pinch his cheek. He enjoyed the feeling of the smooth skin underneath his fingers more than he wanted to admit. Harry turned his cheek away from the touch. “That’s all right. I’ve given you time to adjust to your life, now it’s time you learned what your role by my side is going to be.”
Harry looked up at Voldemort. He said nothing but his defiance was all there in his face. His eyes were clear and pure and burned like the sun.