Cut and Captured

There was no time to prepare himself.

Horrified—barely even think about how impossible it was for the man who had killed his parents to be here, alive and very much corporeal—Harry felt the hand of Lord Voldemort come to rest on his left shoulder. Immediately, he went rigid, a chill passing through him, hands clenched into fists on his lap. He wanted to run, but the threat was too close, and it was as if the potions, somehow knowing he was magically fixed to his seat, made him freeze in place instead.

‘Refreshing, Lucius, wouldn’t you say?’ Lord Voldemort said, amusement clear in his voice. ‘The Boy Who Lived finally has the good sense to fear me.’

‘I expect this is the Fly-to-Flight response—though it appears to be suppressed. A short-lasting fluke, I’m afraid,’ Lucius Malfoy returned. ‘The boy will be his usual defiant self once the last of his latest treatment wears off, my Lord. Although, Severus’ notes in the boy’s records propose making it a more permanent fixture.’

‘How very much like Severus,’ Voldemort said, and the grip on Harry’s shoulder tightened. ‘I must say, there is hardly anything more satisfying than a docile Gryffindor. What a pity it is not long-lasting.’

Just as suddenly, Voldemort removed his hand, saying something else to Lucius Malfoy as he did so; Harry could not hear over the choked sigh of relief that passed through his lips in that moment, courtesy of his potions. His mind screamed at him that he was in danger, defenceless, yet the potions pumped him full of the same calm he had woken up to, leaving his brain and his body at odds, almost like the physical space directly around him, not the company he was in, mattered to the Fly-to-Flight response.

Within an instant the dark wizard had passed to the opposite side of the table. And it was then that Harry first really saw Lord Voldemort, stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils... cloaked in black robes of the highest quality.

Voldemort sat down in the chair which Lucius Malfoy had drawn for him and turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh as he took in the boy’s expression, and a half-memory of the same laugh echoed in Harry’s head.

‘Harry Potter,’ the man said, his eyes fixed on Harry’s own, ‘You must be curious as to why you are here now, the guest of honour at my rebirthing party. I confess I myself am curious as well. You see, I had rather hoped, as you can well imagine, that you would have been dead by now.’

Were it not for the potions, Harry was sure the colour would have drained from his face.

‘But even the best made plans are subject to unexpected change,’ Voldemort said. He brought the tips of his fingers together, contemplating Harry with a cruel expression. ‘…Instead, it seems I should thank you twice over.’

‘Thank me?’ Harry managed.

‘Now is not the time to be modest, young Harry. Yes, I must admit I am most grateful to you—in your naivety, of course. First, for sparing Wormtail. A coward and a fool, as he always has been, and yet he sought to find me, to aid me rather than face the wrath of that blood traitor Sirius Black and his little band of friends,’ Voldemort said, and for a moment Harry was reminded of the dream that had left his scar burning before the Quidditch World Cup, Voldemort and Wormtail had been speaking behind the door—they had killed someone, were plotting to kill him. But there was no time to dwell on that as Voldemort continued, ‘And second, for helping to restore me to my physical form. You have proven yourself most loyal.’

Harry knew he couldn’t have heard right, knew that Voldemort was taunting him, that it was some kind of trick.

‘I never helped you—’

‘Indeed? I do not know whether the wizarding world will agree once news of my return has spread, along with the fact that you yourself played a most vital role in the ritual. Poor Harry, naive boy, what will your friends think of you when they learn what you have done?’

Voldemort’s gaze intensified; he pressed the tips of his fingers together more forcefully, and Harry was hit with a flash, the elegant purple dining room suddenly obscured by a large cauldron simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness…

Harry’s heart thumped wildly. The vision left as quickly as it came, leaving a prickling sensation in the back of his head, like it had been ripped from him. Harry scrunched his eyes shut, willing away the feeling as Lord Voldemort laughed softly from across the table.

‘My my, but it seems you are forgetful,’ Voldemort mocked.

‘A rather common side effect of the extensive blood loss, or so his little journal would have it seem,’ said the voice of Lucius Malfoy. ‘Potter has yet to earn his memory jogging tonic, my Lord.’

Harry had almost forgotten the other man was in the room. He opened his eyes, wanting to cast Malfoy a menacing glance, but his eyes locked instead on Voldemort’s own. Another series of flashes passed before him more quickly than he could make sense of them, so sharp around the edges that he thought his head would split in two. He was struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, felt the tip of the knife penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes… He was barely conscious, watching a tall skeletally thin man stepping out of a cauldron… He was going to die before the other man had the chance to kill him…

And then it was over, and Harry let out a cry, pressing the heel of his palm against the centre of his forehead as he doubled over the table, his face scrinched up in pain.

‘That hurt, didn't it. Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?’

Harry didn't answer. He didn’t even know what that was. All Harry knew was that it had seemed real. So real, in fact, that it took him a moment to remember where he was and that he was no longer bleeding and in pain, but quite healed.

‘W-what… what was that?’ Harry rasped out.

The Dark Lord’s laugh rang out again, but he did not answer.

‘It seems Dumbledore has not trained the boy as well as I had first imagined, although this shall later need to be confirmed. He is less advanced than is prudent, no doubt his skills are only passably formidable. I fear using him will be all too easy,’ Voldemort said, more to Lucius Malfoy than Harry himself, who was still nursing his forehead. Quickly, however, he turned his attention back to Harry. ‘I asked you whether you want me to do that again, Harry. I will not repeat myself.’

‘No,’ said Harry, daring to look the dark wizard in the eye as he spoke.

‘Then let’s hope that you give us no need for it,’ Voldemort grinned, then nodded his head at Lucius Malfoy who bowed slightly in response and proceeded to walk towards Harry.

The blond-haired wizard pulled the golden phial of Forget-Me-Not Tonic out of his pocket, uncorked the stopper, and poured the shimmering liquid into the heavy-looking goblet which stood at Harry’s place at the table.

‘What do you say, Potter? Malfoy said, picking up the goblet and holding onto it as he stared down at Harry.

There was nothing he could do for it. Once the seal had been broken, the tonic would begin to lose its potency if not drunk, and Harry didn’t want to risk Malfoy taking it away.

‘Please,’ Harry said quietly.

‘Come now, Potter, that won’t do,’ the man tutted.

‘Please, Malfoy,’ Harry said through clenched teeth, casting him a furious glance.

‘That’s good enough for now, I suppose,’ the other man said, rolling his eyes, sneering as he gave the cup to Harry who drained it in one gulp.

Harry frowned as he set the goblet down on the table. He hadn’t had a reason to take a memory jogger for some time, but he immediately noticed that the tonic didn’t have the same plum aroma that it usually did. In fact, it had no taste at all.

‘Is something wrong, Potter?’ Malfoy asked.

‘This doesn’t taste like it normally does,’ Harry said.

‘And why ever should it?’ Malfoy returned, raising an eyebrow. He turned back towards Lord Voldemort at the other side of the table and said, ‘There’s a chance it will not last long given the other potions still coursing through the boy, my Lord.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Harry said quickly.

‘I think what Lucius means, young Harry,’ Voldemort said cooly, eyes glowing, ‘is did you really think you could escape by choosing to sit in the place nearest the door?’

‘No, it wouldn’t have been the right time to try. I wouldn’t have been able to find my way back to the room to get my kit, and I wouldn’t get very far without it, I think,’ Harry answered, horrified, before he could stop himself. It was just as it had been when he had felt compelled to answer Malfoy’s obviously rhetorical questions to him earlier, only a thousand times stronger. ‘Besides, I would still need my wand.’

‘And do you know where your wand is, Potter?’ Voldemort returned.

‘No,’ Harry said. He bit his lip, willing himself to keep quiet to no avail, the urge to reveal more overwhelming him and causing him to burst out, ‘But if I stole Malfoy’s, I could probably summon it. I can Accio things from a far distance, so it wouldn’t be that hard. Trying wouldn’t be worth the risk though, not until I know what Malfoy is capable of. Hermione taught me that.’

‘It’s as I told you, Lucius, the boy schemes just like that old buffoon,’ Voldemort said, lazily waving his hand as if to underscore the point.

Harry had never wished he could do wandless magic more than in that moment; he would have cast Giberrius on himself so that every word which came out of his mouth would have come out sounding like absolute nonsense. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?!

A candle must have flickered in just the right place, because at that very moment the rim of the goblet Harry had drunk from gleamed on the table before him, catching his eye. Harry looked from the goblet to the two dark wizards who were staring back at him expectantly. Perhaps they expected for Harry to suddenly remember everything that had happened? But that wasn’t how the Forget-Me-Not Tonic was supposed to work, it set in gradually…

‘Constant vigilance!’ a gruff voice shouted somewhere from the recesses of his mind.

It suddenly struck Harry as odd that he would have taken a liquid given to him by a known enemy without a second thought.

Three drops would have you spilling your darkest secrets to anyone who would listen…

Of course, Moody’s lesson on Unforgiveables!

Veritaserum.

How much of it had been in the liquid that Lucius Malfoy had given him? Was it Veritaserum pure? Had it been mixed with his Forget-Me-Not Tonic and that was why it tasted different—no, the potion was clear and odourless, he remembered.

Malfoy scoffed and bent down so that he was eye level with Harry. ‘What other secret thoughts have you hidden from me since you woke up?’ he asked.

‘That you don’t know about the Caretaker’s Clause.’

‘What is that?’

‘Well, you read my emergency card when I was having an emergency, so my Medipotions Kit must've recognised you as my temporary caretaker and given you access to its contents,’ Harry replied. ‘I don’t know how it works or how long it lasts, but I can’t lie to you if you ask me questions about my condition until it wears off, I think. Oh, and I didn’t want you to know that it’s not optional for me, I need my memory jogger. It’s standard protocol.’

Harry was smiling as he said all of it, evidently pleased that he had managed to keep the secret plain on his face. He couldn’t even hide the truth of how happy it made him.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ This time it was Voldemort who spoke.

‘No. What would I be forgetting?’

‘Your snake, Nefeli.’