Crime and punishmet
— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —
Crime and Punishment
New wave of nausea hit him. Harry gagged again, his trembling hands gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet so hard his knuckles turned white. Vomiting on an empty stomach was its own special kind of torture, each heave sending spasms of pain through his abdomen. Yet somehow his body found more to expel — bitter, acidic bile that burned his throat and left him gasping.
Harry slumped back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. A bitter aftertaste coated his tongue, but it was nothing — nothing — compared to the crushing weight of guilt pressing against his chest like a physical thing. Behind his closed eyelids, the scene replayed endlessly: Malfoy's blood spurting from his chest, his body crumpled to the floor, the widening pool of crimson staining the carpet. And Selwyn's face. His usual playful grin turned to a scowl of horror as he stared at what had been done to his friend. And when he shifted his gaze to Harry...
The soft click of the bathroom door made Harry jump. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He instinctively tensed, his body bracing for punishment even as his mind screamed at him to run. But where could he go? He was trapped — trapped in this time, in this flat, in this nightmare.
"I told you to wait in your room." Riddle's voice sliced through the silence, deadly quiet.
The careful control in his tone made Harry's stomach lurch more violently than any shout could have. Another wave of nausea forced him to lean over the toilet again, his body heaving as the acrid stench filled the small space. His face burned with humiliation.
"Pathetic," Riddle said, coming closer. Harry caught the movement of the wand in his peripheral vision and flinched. But it was only a cleaning spell, its soft tingling washing over him, removing the dirt and sour taste from his mouth.
"Follow me." It wasn't a request.
Harry got up unsteadily, leaning against the wall. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, and his movements were slow and sluggish as he trailed after Riddle towards the library. Their footsteps echoed in the oppressive silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
As they entered the library, Riddle gestured to the armchair and Harry sank into it, his legs grateful for the support. He kept his eyes on his hands, watching them twist in his lap as Riddle leaned against his desk, arms crossed, radiating controlled menace.
The headache returned, but this time it seemed more subdued, as if held in check.
Like the future Dark Lord's fury.
"Tell me what happened. Exactly." Riddle demanded, his voice unexpectedly even. "And feel warned, Potter, if I get the slightest inkling that you're even thinking of lying to me, I will not hesitate to use Legilimency. Are we clear?"
Harry's throat tightened but he managed a nod. Only a nod.
"I'm waiting," Riddle prompted, when the only response he got was silence.
Harry's head throbbed as he struggled to find the words. The memory felt raw, dangerous to touch. But once he began to speak, the words flowed like a river. He couldn't risk lying — he didn't dare, with Riddle's threat of Legilimency hanging over him — so he confessed everything: the simmering anger, the deliberate way he'd goaded Malfoy, the wild rush of satisfaction as the first spell flew.
His voice trailed off as he described how quickly things had spiralled out of control. Both of them losing themselves in rage and fear until Harry — cornered, desperate, certain that Malfoy was about to win - had cast Sectumsempra in a last-ditch attempt to get out of it intact.
"After that..." Harry's eyes remained on his hands, unable to meet Riddle's. "Selwyn couldn't help him and called you. You know the rest."
Silence stretched between them. Harry didn't dare raise his eyes, knowing that Riddle's unnatural calm meant his anger was at its peak. His growing headache made this very clear.
"Let me ask you one question, Harry," Riddle's voice was deceptively gentle. "When you cast that spell, did you know its effects?"
Harry shook his head.
"And you cast it anyway."
"I didn't think it would hit him," Harry whispered.
"Never cast a spell you don't mean to hit," Riddle hissed. The sudden harshness in his voice made Harry flinch, as if slapped in the face. "Never."
Harry remained silent. The pain in his head eased slightly.
"Sectumsempra," Riddle pronounced each syllable with careful precision. "A rather elegant piece of dark magic. Multiple invisible blades, designed to slice through flesh and bone. Really hard to counter, better to doge it, but you have to know it first."
"How did you—"
"Know the spell? Know how to uounter it?" Riddle's lip curled in contempt. "Unlike you, I make it my habit to understand the tools at my disposal. Be grateful I took the time to analyse this particular spell after our last duel. Without that knowledge, Abraxas would have bled out. The standard healing spells only accelerate the bleeding."
Harry blushed, remembering Selwyn's attempted healing spell.
"Not talking now? Nothing to say to me?" Riddle's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Not even a word of gratitude for saving your victim's life?"
Harry's blood boiled, shame and defiance warring inside him. "I know I screw up! But he started it — he cast the first spell, and he wasn't exactly holding back either!"
"And that's your excuse? That he cast the first spell? And who provoked him?" Riddle snarled, his careful composure shattered slightly. Harry grimaced as the pain behind his eyes exploded with new intensity. "In case you hadn't noticed, he was the one who ended up bleeding on the carpet in his ancestral residence, not you," he added this time with a voice that clearly showed his growing fury. "When will you learn to think before you act? When will you stop behaving like an impulsive child who leaves nothing but chaos in his wake? Isn't it enough that you've already disrupted your timeline? Must you actively destroy this one as well?"
Riddle leaned forward and placed his hand on the arm of Harry's armchair, his grey eyes fixed on the younger boy. "Or perhaps this is about your schoolyard rivalry?" The future Dark Lord lowered his voice to a whisper. Harry could almost feel his breath on his cheek. "Do you hate Draco Malfoy so deeply that you'd prevent his very existence by eliminating his bloodline? And you dare call me cruel?"
Harry gaped, words failing him before he finally managed, "That's not— I never wanted— Malfoy will recover, won't he?"
"Recover?" Riddle laughed, a cold, sharp sound that made Harry recoil. The future Dark Lord straightened up in one quick, graceful movement. "Oh, he'll live. I made sure of that. Brandon will even prevent the scarring — the physical ones, at least."
The implication hit Harry like ice water. "Malfoy wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't what?" Riddle cut in, his voice razor sharp. "Let this go? Don't be naive, Potter. The Malfoys practically own the Wizengamot. One word from Abraxas or his father and you'll be rotting in Azkaban, trapped in the past, unable to save anyone." As he leaned back against the desk again, a little more composed, his eyes gleamed dangerously. "And what of your great plans? The binding oath won't be broken just because you're imprisoned. You will rot there, powerless to prevent the future that you are so desperate to hold on to. That is, of course, if luck stays by your side and the Aurors watch you closely enough to make sure no stray Dementor kisses you."
Harry's chest tightened as the reality of his situation crashed over him. No return to Ron and Hermione. No stopping Voldemort. No saving anyone. His voice came out small, almost childlike: "But he's one of yours, isn't he? Your follower. You can control him, make him—"
Riddle's laugh was like broken glass. "Oh, now you want me to act like the Dark Lord? How convenient." His smile was cruel. "But I'm not Voldemort yet, Potter. My influence has limits — limits you've just tested rather spectacularly."
A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine. "So what..." His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "What happens now?"
"Now?" Riddle's expression shifted to something almost contemplative. " Now I must convince one of my most valuable and vindictive allies that my rash half-brother's continued existence is worth more than the satisfaction of his wounded pride. I have to ensure that your moment of reckless stupidity doesn't destroy years of careful planning." His voice hardened. "I have to clean up your mess, Potter. Again."
Harry felt the weight of shame and fear press down on him, but there was one more question that needed to be answered. His voice was barely a whisper: "And what are you going to do with me?"
Riddle studied him for a long moment. The pain in Harry's head had almost completely subsided, which meant that the worst was behind him — for now.
"For now? Nothing. Your punishment can wait; I must deal with this mess first. But if you are that desperate to repent..." He summoned a thin book from the shelf with a casual wave of his hand then looked meaningfully at Harry's cheek and his injured arm. Harry almost forgot about it; guilt and fear overshadowed the pain. "Heal yourself. I don't have time for this. And do your best — that welt on your cheek looks like it's a remnant of one of Abraxas's favourite curses. It's quite close to the eye. It would be... unfortunate if you lost your sight."
He thrust the book into Harry's trembling hands. At the doorway, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. His voice was soft but carried an unmistakable threat: "And Harry? Hurry up, because when I get back, you'll have to give me the wand."
o.O.o
Life has a strange way of returning to normal, even after you've almost killed someone, Harry thought bitterly as he returned to his routine. The endless hours at Borgin and Burke's still dragged on, the evenings at Riddle's flat remained stifling and the constant fear of destroying his own future still gnawed at his insides. The one bright spot was the absence of Abraxas Malfoy from his schedule — no more History of Magic lessons meant no more sitting across from that sneering face, no more enduring lectures on 'proper wizarding heritage' delivered in a way that made Harry's blood boil. But this gap in his schedule brought no peace — instead, it left him torn between relief at avoiding Malfoy's wrath and a creeping dread at what he had done — and what was yet to come.
The waiting was driving him mad. Harry knew Riddle too well to think he would let this go. Punishment had never been a question of 'if' but 'when' — but so far, Riddle had always punished him swiftly, decisively. To let Harry stew in his own fear? This was new. And it was working a little too well.
When Harry arrived at work the next morning, his face was still a mess, even though he had spent half the night trying to heal it. The injury — now a pale patch across his cheek — was still alarmingly noticeable. At least Riddle's threat of losing an eye had turned out to be just that — a threat. Small mercies.
Naturally, Borgin's beady eyes were immediately fixed on the mark. "Another souvenir from a duel?" he asked, his thin lips twisting into something between a smirk and a sneer. The way he'd emphasized 'another' made Harry's face burn with shame and anger.
Riddle, busy arranging some cursed trinkets nearby, hadn't even looked up. "Indeed, Mr. Borgin," he'd replied smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "And now we're working on his healing spells. Aren't we, Harry?" The false brotherly affection in his voice made Harry want to gag.
"He'd better learn them quickly," Borgin grumbled, flashing his yellowed teeth. "We can't have customers thinking we're hiring some sort of abused child."
Harry had to bite back a hysterical laugh at that one. If only Borgin knew. Fortunately, the rest of the day passed peacefully, and by the end of his shift, even Mr. Borgin's mood had improved as he counted the galleons in the till.
Between shifts in the shop, Harry's life was consumed by his preparations for O.W.L., sometimes with Riddle, sometimes with his Slytherins. Their rigid schedule was almost a comfort now — who would have thought he'd ever seek solace in studying? Hermione would have been proud — but thinking about her only made everything worse, so he tried not to.
Secundus Lestrange maintained his cold attitude during Potions, which paradoxically helped Harry to concentrate and improve. They had already worked through more than half of the O.W.L. examination list, and Harry's brewing skills were showing noticeable progress under the middle Lestrange's exacting supervision.
When Secundus spotted the scar, he didn't say anything — typical lawyer restraint, Harry supposed. Instead, he simply adjusted their brewing schedule without comment, pulling out different ingredients than planned and preparing them for what Harry recognised as a healing potion.
"Dittany essence. Drop by drop," Secundus instructed, his voice as precise as always. "Count to three between each drop. The colour should shift from copper to silver gradually."
Harry followed the instructions precisely. The potion bubbled softly, its surface rippling with shimmers as each drop fell.
"Now stir counterclockwise seven times," Secundus continued, watching Harry's technique with critical eyes. "Make wider movements. The consistency will be smoother."
When Harry finally completed the potion, Secundus approached to examine the result. The liquid shimmered with the correct pearl-like sheen, and its consistency seemed perfect. After a long moment of scrutiny, Lestrange gave a slight nod.
"Apply it."
Harry blinked in surprise. "What?"
"The potion. Apply it to your..." Secundus made a vague gesture toward Harry's cheek, his composed demeanour never wavering. "If you've brewed it properly, you should feel a tingle."
Harry hesitated for a moment, surprised by the order, but eventually complied. As he dabbed the potion onto his cheek, a tingling sensation spread across the scar, confirming that he had indeed succeeded in brewing the potion properly.
"Acceptable." Secundus had already turned away, pulling out another set of ingredients. "Now, let’s move on to the Draught of Peace. Try not to drown it in hellebore this time."
Unfortunately, if Secundus was ice, Brandon Avery was pure fire. His newly fuelled hostility was palpable from the moment Harry stepped into his Liverpool flat. The potion might have erased the scar from his cheek, but it couldn't erase Avery's memory of having to patch up Abraxas after their duel, nor his obvious opinion that Harry was an idiot of the highest order.
"Wand on the desk," Avery ordered, jerking his chin toward an ornate stand.
Harry, already exhausted by his constant antagonism, felt a flicker of defiance. "Afraid I’ll beat you in a duel like I did Malfoy?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cutting.
Avery's face darkened dangerously. "Beat him" He let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what you call almost killing someone with dark magic you don't even understand?"
Harry held his wand. But what followed was the most gruelling Herbology lesson yet. Avery grilled Harry mercilessly on every detail of healing herbs and their properties, his questions becoming increasingly specific and obscure. By the end of the session, Harry's head was spinning with Latin names and precise growing conditions.
"Your homework," Brandon announced as Harry prepared to leave, his smile sharp enough to cut glass, "will be a comprehensive essay on the twenty most effective plants for treating curse damage — with detailed explanations of why they work." His eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. "Since you're so interested in this particular branch of magic."
After several mind-numbing hours of Divination, Harry had come to an unfortunate conclusion: Professor Trelawney wasn't entirely to blame for his poor performance in her class. No, his fundamental problem with Divination ran deeper — perhaps all the way back to that bloody prophecy that had turned his life upside down. Whatever the reason, even Rosier's carefully maintained mask of patience was beginning to crack under the weight of Harry's spectacular lack of talent.
"The futures keep shifting," Rosier muttered, his perfectly manicured fingers spreading the ornate divination cards across the polished mahogany table. The cards themselves were works of art — hand-painted and gilded around the edges, made for his great-great-grandmother, as Everett made sure to mention at least three times. As a result, Harry was afraid to even touch them. "Just like your attention, Harry." He flashed that practiced smile that never quite reached his steel-blue eyes.
They had already suffered through tea leaves (where Harry consistently saw nothing but soggy plant matter) and crystal ball gazing (which proved equally unsuccessful, though Everett praised Harry's "creative interpretation" of the swirling mists). Now they were tackling cards, and Rosier had insisted Harry memorize every single meaning.
"Remember what I told you during our first lesson?" Rosier asked, adjusting the sleeve of his impeccable silk robes. "The key to passing is creative interpretation. However—" he plucked the Death card from the deck, turning it between his fingers with theatrical precision, "—one must know the rules before breaking them." His blue-grey eyes flicked up. "Now, tell me, what does this card signify in conjunction with The Tower?"
Harry suppressed a groan.
Care of Magical Creatures proved to be the week's surprising highlight. After he finally managed to answer all of Macnair's theoretical questions to a satisfactory standard (though the man's perpetual scowl suggested 'satisfactory' meant 'barely tolerable'), MAcnair apparated them both to his family's farm on Scotland's east coast.
The farm was a magical menagerie stretched across rolling hills, and Harry couldn't help but notice how Macnair's usual drill-sergeant demeanour softened slightly among the creatures. His posture remained military-straight, but there was a hint of warmth in his eyes that Harry had never seen before.
Harry managed to do the impossible — impress Macnair — not once, but twice. First, when he spotted the thestrals grazing in a distant field. Macnair's eyebrows had risen slightly, but to Harry's relief, he didn't ask the obvious question about whose death Harry had witnessed. The second time was with the hippogriff. Without hesitation or instruction, Harry approached the creature like an old friend — maintaining eye contact, bowing with perfect timing, and showing the kind of respect that would have made Hagrid proud. When the hippogriff bowed back, Harry confidently stepped forward and began scratching behind its ears, completely at ease.
The scene drew the attention of Macnair's older brother, who came bounding over with an enthusiasm that hit Harry like a punch to the gut — he moved exactly like Charlie Weasley. The resemblance only increased when the elder Macnair's face lit up watching Harry with the hippogriff.
"Well, well," he said, grinning. "Looks like we've got a natural here, Alastair. Want to take him for a ride?"
The hippogriff nudged Harry’s pocket expectantly for treats.
Harry didn’t need to be asked twice. He was in the air before either Macnair could blink, mounted on the hippogriff's back with the ease of someone who'd been born to fly. The creature spread its massive wings, and suddenly they were soaring over Scotland, the spring wind whipping Harry's eternally messy hair into an even more impressive disaster. For a few precious moments, he was free — no Tom Riddle, no oath, no crushing weight of time itself. Just Harry, the wind, and the endless sky.
The euphoria of flight still buzzed through Harry's veins as he spun through the Floo network. It wasn't quite the same as his Firebolt, but Merlin, just being in the air again, had lifted his spirits like nothing had in weeks. The feeling lasted just as long as it took him to get out of Riddle's fireplace and straighten up, brushing the soot off his robes.
Then he saw Sebastian Selwyn.
The tall Slytherin was lounging in one of the armchairs, his long legs stretched out in a picture of casual elegance, laughing at something Riddle had just said. The moment Harry appeared, though, the easy smile died instantly. Selwyn's dark eyes fixed on Harry with unmistakable hostility, and all traces of his previous good humour vanished like smoke.
The change stung more than Harry wanted to admit. Of all Riddle's followers, Selwyn had been the most approachable, treating Harry with an easy friendliness that, while clearly condescending, had at least been bearable. Now, that warmth had been replaced by arctic frost.
"If you need more copies, I can make them," Selwyn said smoothly, rising from the chair. "I've finally cracked the enchantments — brilliant work, really. Whoever created this map was quite the genius." He flashed a sharp, sardonic smile. "And had quite the sense of humour, I must say."
Riddle, of course, looked pleased.
"You've done excellent work, Sebastian," he said, his approval subtle but unmistakable.
Sebastian stepped toward the fireplace, but not before firing one last glacial look at Harry that screamed 'you're dead to me' louder than words ever could. As the green flames swallowed him, Harry’s attention drifted to the coffee table.
And his stomach dropped.
There, spread out on the dark wood, were three sheets of parchment. One of them was unmistakably the Marauder’s Map. Or rather, it looked exactly like the Marauder’s Map. Next to it lay two identical copies.
A cold, creeping dread curled in Harry’s gut.
"What are those for?" Harry asked before he could stop himself — though, deep down, he already knew the answer.
Riddle didn’t even look up as he stacked the maps neatly.
"For keeping track of you at Hogwarts, of course," he said mildly, as if explaining a completely reasonable precaution rather than a blatant invasion of privacy. "I can't have you wandering off unsupervised, now can I?"
Harry’s fists clenched at his sides.
The fact that Riddle was using his father’s map — his father’s legacy — to spy on him made his stomach churn. But, like so many other humiliations of this time, there was nothing he could do about it.
And judging by the smirk playing at the corner of the future Dark Lord's lips, he knew it.
That evening, utterly unbothered by Harry’s foul mood, Riddle casually invited him to their usual chess game, as if nothing had happened. As they moved their pieces across the board, Riddle slipped effortlessly into his usual routine — subtly digging for information, disguising interrogation beneath the guise of light conversation. Harry did his best to be as engaging as a brick wall, offering curt, monosyllabic replies in the hopes that sheer stubbornness might put an end to it.
It didn’t.
Riddle, as always, was relentless and before Harry even realized it, he was recounting his surprisingly decent afternoon at Macnair’s farm, his mind briefly escaping to the feeling of wind against his face, the power of the hippogriff beneath him, the pure freedom of flight.
He caught himself too late. Riddle had leaned forward slightly, fingers idly turning a captured pawn between them. His expression remained unreadable, but Harry knew that look — the one that meant he was absorbing every word, every tiny reaction. It made Harry’s skin crawl.
Still, the biggest problem wasn’t the chess game. Or the fact that Riddle knew exactly how to get under his skin.
It was that, even now, over a week later, Riddle had yet to address Harry’s punishment.
Not once. Not even a hint.
The silence finally broke on Thursday afternoon when he decided to fill the gap in Harry's timetable left by History of Magic.
"Follow me," Riddle ordered, leading Harry up the narrow staircase to the attic. Harry had only ever passed through here on their way to astronomy lessons on the roof. He was surprised to find the attic itself was quite spacious, though empty except for a row of training dummies against one wall. They looked like something out of a creepy Muggle shop window.
"We're going to have a practical lesson," Riddle said this in that pleasant voice that always meant something bad, for Harry, of course. With a fluid motion of his hand, he summoned one of the dummies: a headless, armless torso that reminded Harry of a tailor's dummy, covered in what looked disturbingly like skin. Harry really hoped it wasn't human.
"Cast Sectumsempra on it."
Harry froze.
"No." He took a step back. "I won’t."
Riddle’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked... amused.
"You won’t?" he echoed, voice dipping into something soft, something dangerous. "Need I remind you of our arrangement, Harry?"
"I know what that spell does," Harry snapped, hands clenching into fists. "I won’t—"
"You already have," Riddle cut him off coldly. "Or have you forgotten about Abraxas so quickly?" He took a step closer, voice calm, measured. "Since you’ve added this particular spell to your arsenal, you might as well learn to use it properly."
"I didn’t mean to—"
"Intent is irrelevant."
Harry flinched.
Riddle watched him carefully, his gaze sharp, unyielding. "You used it. Now you’ll master it. And don't make me repeat myself."
And that was it.
No room for argument. No option but obedience.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. He took a breath, ignored the sick feeling coiling in his gut, and pointed it at the dummy.
"Sectumsempra!"
The spell slashed across the mannequin's torso. Harry's stomach turned as the surface split open like real flesh, dark red liquid oozing from the wounds. It looked disturbingly real.
"Good," Riddle murmured, stepping next to him. Too close. Too at ease. "Now, watch carefully. The incantation is Vulnera Sanentur. Pay attention to the wand movement..."
His wand moved gracefully in an intricate pattern as he demonstrated the healing spell, and his teacher's voice slipped in as naturally as if they were reviewing transmutation rather than learning a spell to neutralise the effects of a dark magic curse.
For what felt like endless hours, Riddle had Harry practice various healing spells, starting with the counter curse for Sectumsempra and moving on to other medical charms. But he did it in true Dark Lord fashion: before Harry could learn to mend, he first had to learn to wound. And, naturally, Riddle demanded nothing less than perfection in both.
"Let's just say I see potential," Riddle said casually, sending the healed dummy back to the wall three hours later. He didn't specify whether h meant Harry's talent for healing or hurting, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know. "That's enough for today. Oh, and before I forget — I've cancelled your lesson with Secundus for tomorrow. You'll have... something else to do this afternoon."
o.O.o
Harry stood in front of the fire in Riddle's living room, a handful of Floo powder trembling in his palm. He could see Riddle's reflection in the silver vase on the mantelpiece — a distorted, elongated figure looming behind him. The future Dark Lord had shed his outer robes, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands casually tucked into his pockets with an air of calculated nonchalance.
"You will start by apologising to Abraxas. For your disrespect. For the duel. For the outcome. Try your best to sound sincere. Then you will accept whatever punishment he sees fit. I've given him full discretion in this matter."
The worst part was that Riddle's voice sounded so normal, so ordinary. As if he wasn't sending Harry to a private torture session with one of his most vengeful followers. Harry’s grip on the Floo powder tightened. His nails bit into his palm.
"There will be no rebellion, no backtalk, no resistance," Riddle continued, his voice was steady, conversational. "In short, you won't bring me any more shame than you already have." His lip curled slightly. "If you find yourself unable to return under your own power, I'll send Bug to bring you home."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Harry could feel Riddle's eyes boring into him, fixed on the top of his head. His heart pounded so hard he was sure Riddle could hear it.
"Do you understand?"
Fear and anger twisted together in Harry's gut. Not trusting himself to speak without losing his temper, he only managed a jerky nod.
"Then go," Riddle said lazily, as if sending Harry off to what could be hours of torture was nothing more than an inconvenient errand.
The Floo powder slipped through Harry's trembling fingers, some scattering across the hearth. The flames flared green, and he forced out the words that felt like a sentence:
"Woody Bay Manor."
o.O.o
The green flames spat Harry out at the base of the grand staircase in Woody Bay Manor's entrance hall. As he stepped from the fireplace, dusting soot from his robes with trembling hands, his eyes immediately found the small figure waiting by the hearth. His heart clenched painfully, as it did every time — no matter how often he visited the manor, seeing this younger version of Dobby never got easier.
The house-elf stood straight-backed in his pristinely pressed pillowcase, those familiar large green eyes watching Harry with careful neutrality. Harry managed a small smile despite his nerves, earning a slight widening of those tennis-ball sized eyes. Even knowing this wasn't his Dobby — would never be his Dobby — Harry couldn't help but treat him with kindness.
"Master is waiting for young Mr. Riddle in his study," the elf announced in that higher, less weathered voice that always made Harry's chest ache with memories. The sound of his false surname made his stomach clench, but he kept the gentle expression on his face as he nodded to the house-elf.
Though Harry had walked this path numerous times during his forced tutoring sessions, the journey now felt like a march to his own execution. Each step up the grand staircase and through the left wing's corridor seemed to stretch endlessly. His palms were slick with sweat, and despite his attempts to maintain composure, he could feel tremors running through his body.
He was terrified, yes, but beneath the fear simmered a growing anger — anger at Riddle for forcing him into this, anger at himself for not even trying to find a way out.
Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find another fireplace, to escape while he could. But Harry knew better. The oath bound him, and he knew Riddle well enough to know that his threats were not empty words. Just survive this, he told himself. In a few weeks, you'll be at Hogwarts. You'll find a way out of this nightmare.
The door to Abraxas Malfoy’s study loomed before him, its dark wood carved with intricate patterns of ivy and thorned roses. Before he could knock, the door creaked open on its own.
Dobby gave a small bow and disappeared with a soft pop, leaving Harry alone on the threshold.
Inside, bathed in the warm afternoon light filtering through the high windows, Abraxas Malfoy sat behind his desk. If there were any lingering effects from their duel, none showed. He looked as he always did: composed, immaculate in his dark blue robes, every inch the aristocrat. The only sign of what had happened was the way his steel-blue eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction as Harry stepped forward.
No words of greeting. No acknowledgement of what had happened between them. Just silence.
Harry paused before the desk, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Riddle's instructions echoed in his head. Say the words. Do not waver. Sound sincere.
He took a breath and forced himself to meet Malfoy's gaze.
"I apologise for my actions during our duel," Harry began, forcing his voice to remain calm. "I should never have provoked you, nor let my temper dictate my actions. It was reckless and irresponsible of me to escalate the situation, and the use of that spell was inexcusable. I deeply regret the harm I have caused you."
Here it was. Riddle should be proud of him.
A triumphant smile played across Abraxas's aristocratic features. "How gratifying to see you finally understanding your place. However, apologies are merely the beginning."
Malfoy rose from his chair with fluid ease, his movements unhurried, practiced. A predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.
"Remove your outer robes."
The words landed like a blow, despite the casualness in which they were spoken.
Harry hesitated — but only for a fraction of a second.
His fingers felt clumsy, uncooperative, as he worked down the silver buttons of his robes. The fine fabric slid from his shoulders, the movement automatic, detached, as if it belonged to someone else. He took perhaps more time than necessary to fold it neatly and hang it over the back of a nearby chair. His eyes darted around the study — all evidence of their earlier duel had been erased, the room restored to its immaculate condition. The flickering movement caught his eye on the portrait above Malfoy's chair. The painted snake had just moved, trying to cross over to the next painting.
"The shirt too. Off." The order was smooth, almost conversational. But there was something in the way Malfoy said it that made the fine hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise. "I want you bare to the waist."
Harry's breath caught in his throat, but survival instinct kept him silent. With trembling fingers, he started at his cuffs, then moved to the collar button at his neck. Each movement became harder than the last, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the small buttons. Still, he forced himself to continue. One button slipped free. Then another. As he worked, he heard Abraxas rummaging through the drawer, the soft sounds seeming to echo in the tense silence.
Harry's heart almost stopped as he turned. Malfoy approached with measured steps, a thick leather belt dangling from his hand. His eyes swept over Harry's exposed torso, lingering far too long. The scrutiny made Harry fight the urge to cover himself. It wasn't neutral. It wasn't idle.
A cruel smile spread across Malfoy's face as he gestured with his belt.
"Turn around," he said, his voice almost a purr. "Hands on the desk."
Harry felt a sickening sense of déjà vu as he faced the desk. The wood beneath his palms was cool and smooth, a stark contrast to the heat of fear and humiliation burning through his body. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
Then — a touch.
Cool fingers trailing down his spine, making him flinch so hard his grip on the desk slipped.
Malfoy chuckled, low and pleased.
"I can't wait to see how this pretty back of yours will look when I'm done with you."
o.O.o
Harry lay motionless on his bed, every shallow breath sending fresh waves of pain through his ravaged back. The cotton sheets beneath him were cold and damp. The room was half dark, the air thick and stagnant with the metallic taste of blood and the acrid smell of sweat.
And silence. A stifling, enveloping silence.
He couldn't remember how he'd got back to his room. The last clear memory was —
Crack!
"You're nothing." Venomous hiss. "A mongrel. A mistake. And yet you dare—"
Crack! With such force that chest slammed forward against polished mahogany.
"—to think, you could—"
Another blow, this time to the shoulders.
'—challenge me—'
Swoosh. An inhuman howl as the leather belt reached the kidneys.
A phantom pain rippled across his back, and Harry gasped. The slight movement triggered another wave of agony, this one very real. He pressed his face into the pillow, but the darkness behind his eyes only made the memories sharper, more immediate.
Palms against the cold mahogany.
"Count. Loudly. And try to keep up."
The first whistle of leather through the air. Then pain — white hot, searing, tearing him in half. Pride held back a scream between clenched teeth, but just barely.
"One."
And almost instantly...
Harry tried to distract himself, grasping at mundane thoughts. Bug must have come for him after he passed out. Oh, how enviously the house elf must have looked at his—
Wrong direction.
Crack!
"I said: count!"
Swish! Crack! Ragged breath.
"Count!"
His fists clenched involuntarily, setting off another cascade of pain. Amazing how connected everything was, how one small movement could—
The fourth strike shattered the resolve.
Scream.
"Finally." Satisfaction dripped from every syllable. "I thought you didn't feel it."
Chest heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The belt fell again.
And again.
...and again.
Harry's breathing quickened, heart hammering against his ribs. But before the memories could drag him under completely, the soft click of the door pulled him back to reality. Quiet footsteps approached. The mattress dipped beside him, and Harry tensed instinctively, a mistake that sent fresh waves of fire across his back.
"It's just me" The words were almost gentle, as if they were meant to be comforting. As if they ever had been.
A whispered spell tickled across his skin, and Harry felt the sticky residue of dried blood and sweat vanish. The cool air against his cleaned wounds made him shiver. The curtains flew open with a sharp swoosh, and Harry squinted as pale light flooded the room.
He could feel Riddle's appraising gaze trail over his injured back. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words.
"How are you feeling?"
Harry let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't hurt so much. Really?
"Great. There's nothing better like being beat to unconscious. I recommend it."
"Still that sharp tongue." A hint of amusement coloured Riddle's voice. "Abraxas would surely be disappointed." The mattress shifted as Riddle moved closer. "Don't move for a moment."
The tip of Riddle's wand touched the top of his spine. Harry tensed but lacked the strength to fight or flee. The familiar chill of a diagnostic spell spread through his body like ice water. Riddle's wand moved slowly down to where his back met his hips.
"Two cracked ribs, bruised kidneys," Riddle muttered, more to himself than Harry. "It could have been worse."
"Worse?" Harry choked out. "You've got to be kidding me!" He tried to push himself up on his elbows.
Riddle's hand shot out, pressing between his shoulder blades and pinning him to the mattress. Stars exploded behind Harry's eyes.
"I said, don't move. Unless you'd prefer I leave you to heal naturally?"
Harry bit back a retort but shifted anyway, just to prove he could. The pressure increased slightly — a reminder of who really held the power here. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears of pain and humiliation.
Crack! Swish. Crack! Swish.
The leather belt fell again and again, each strike wilder than the last.
"You're thinking about it. I can feel you trembling," Riddle's voice cut through the memory, his voice neutral, detached. "Stop it. It gets you nowhere."
Harry's eyes snapped open. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he spat.
Riddle just tsked. The next moment, the magic of the healing spell spread through Harry's body like a swarm of angry ants, tickling, biting and crawling into every nook and cranny. Harry clenched his teeth against the sensation but forced himself to remain still, knowing that the discomfort would soon give way to relief.
The hand withdrew. A quiet click of wand against wood. "That should address the internal damage. Now for the rest."
The sharp, herbal scent of healing salve filled the air as Riddle opened a jar. Harry recognised the smell immediately - it was a bit like the one Bug used to bring him after Riddle's beatings. Only this one was more intense and distinct.
"Try not to squirm too much."
The first touch of Riddle’s fingers, slick with healing salve, made Harry flinch. But then they began to move in steady circles, working the salve into his skin with methodical precision. The touch was clinical, detached, yet somehow more intimate than Harry could bear.
"Why?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself.
"Be more specific." Riddle's hands moved along his sides, thumbs pressing carefully against his ribs as if checking their integrity.
Harry swallowed hard, trying not to focus too much on this attentive touch. "Why are you healing me?"
Riddle's right hand paused over a particularly nasty welt above his hip. "Because I won't have someone claiming to be my brother bearing the marks of a common beating."
"But you don't have to do it in person. Could've sent Avery," Harry muttered into his pillow. "Worked fine last time."
Riddle's fingers resumed their work, pressing perhaps a little harder than necessary. His hand slid back, thumbs trailing along the spine. "I could. But I'd rather not have anyone else see the evidence of such... muggle methods of discipline on your skin."
"Bad memories?" Harry couldn't help himself, even knowing it was stupid.
Almost immediately he hissed violently as Riddle squeezed one of his bruises harder.
"Don't forget yourself."
Silence fell again, punctuated only by Harry's occasional sharp intakes of breath as Riddle's hands found particularly tender spots.
"So it's all just about keeping up appearances?" Harry finally muttered, bitterness seeping into his voice. "Wouldn't want to ruin your image?"
"No," Riddle agreed, reaching for more salve. "I wouldn't. And if you had any sense of self-preservation, neither would you."
"Didn't seem to bother you last time," Harry muttered quietly. It was meant to sound snide, but his tone betrayed him.
Riddle's hands moved to his shoulder blades, where Malfoy's belt had left a crisscross of welts. "That," his voice took on an unexpected edge, "was different. Four strokes. Controlled. Precise. No permanent damage. And I used magic." His thumbs pressed firmly into a particularly tender spot, making Harry gasp. "Abraxas, on the other hand..."
"Went completely mental," Harry finished, fingers twisting in the sheets as Riddle's hands found another painful area. "He wasn't punishing me anymore, he was—"
"Taking revenge?" Riddle's hands moved methodically along one of the thickest welts, carefully working the salve into it. "Of course he was. You nearly killed him. Did you expect him to be rational about it?"
The question was probably rhetorical, but Harry answered anyway. "I expected him to punish me. Not treat me like a punching bag for his sadistic impulses."
"The Malfoys have always been known for holding a grudge." A pause. "Though I must admit, his lack of restraint is disappointing. I expected more control, considering you're supposed to be my brother to him."
"Disappointing?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Do you hear yourself? He beat me unconscious, and you call it disappointing?"
Riddle's hands moved steadily down Harry's back, kneading gently. The worst of the welts began to fade.
"That's why I said: disappointing."
"You—" Harry choked on his own anger. "You gave him free rein. Could've set some bloody limits at least."
"I gave him free rein because nothing else would have satisfied his wounded pride." Riddle's voice hardened slightly. "Contrary to what you might think, they are not my mindless servants. And he nearly died by your hand."
Harry's breathing quickened as the memories crashed over him again. "Do you know what he did?" The words tumbled out, his voice rising with each syllable. "He spelled my hands to the desk. My legs to the floor. I couldn't move, couldn't dodge, couldn't—" His chest tightened. "And when he lost it, he just kept hitting and hitting—" The room started to spin. "Even when I— when I—"
Crack! Across the shoulders.
Thwack! Against the ribs.
Swoosh! Lower back.
Crack! Upper thighs.
Throat raw from screaming, voice breaking into guttural, animal sounds.
Crack! Thwack! Swo—
"Breathe." The order came sharp and brooking no dissent. A hand gripped his neck, fingers threading through his hair with unexpected gentleness. "Focus on my voice. Match my breathing. In... and out. In... and out."
It took several long moments to fight back the panic, the steady stroking of his hair never faltering. Harry found himself unconsciously matching his breathing to Riddle's steady rhythm, hating how easily his body responded to the command, how desperately it craved any form of comfort — even from his tormentor.
"Don't dwell on it," Riddle said when Harry had finally calmed enough. His fingers withdrew from Harry's hair, reaching for the jar again. The sharp herbal scent once again filled Harry's lungs.
"Learn from it. Consider it a natural consequence of your actions. And get it through your head that this moment of pain was better than the alternative."
Riddle covered Harry's back again with spread fingers. This time the pressure was stronger but no longer painful. Harry remained silent, fighting the growing shame inside him. He was pathetic.
"It's not just that Abraxas nearly bled to death because of you," Riddle continued after a moment, a contemplative note creeping into his voice. "You humiliated him. A child, a stray who appeared from nowhere, defeated Abraxas Malfoy in his own home, in a fight he started. In a fight that was supposed to show you your place and teach you respect."
Was it just Harry's imagination, or was there amusement in Riddle's voice?
Riddle's hands now moved with sweeping, decisive movements all over Harry's back, kneading the stiff muscles and rubbing in the rest of the salve.
"And worse, you've been monopolizing my attention."
Harry felt his stomach twist. "Have I?" he whispered, hating how small his voice sounded.
Riddle chuckled. "Of course not." His thumbs dug into the muscles underneath Harry's shoulder blades, but now there was only relief. " But Abraxas believes you have. For him, blood is thicker than water. Which makes his lack of restraint with you particularly... telling."
"Telling?" Harry managed, trying to follow Riddle's logic. The fading pain and steady touch made his eyelids feel heavy.
"Mm." Riddle's fingers still worked at a knot of tension near Harry's shoulder blade. "In his eyes, you're my brother. Family. Blood." Each word was carefully weighted. "Yet given the chance, he beat you unconscious. Rather disappointing, don't you think?"
Understanding dawned slowly through Harry's exhaustion. "That's why you let him... you needed to know..."
"I needed him satisfied," Riddle corrected smoothly. "The fact that I also saw how much he can't control his jealousy of you is another matter. I had to give him free rein regarding your punishment, because that was the only thing that would soothe his wounded pride." Riddle repeated firmly. "If I had set limits, he would have seen it as another affront. And he would have become even more vindictive. Tell me, Potter, would you really prefer to trade those few hours of pain for a lifetime in Azkaban?"
The only answer was silence.
"That's what I thought," Riddle concluded, not hiding his satisfaction.
Harry loathed himself for proving him right.
As Riddle straightened up and reached for his wand again, the mattress had sagged slightly. The unexpected spell crawled over Harry's skin, and he felt the fabric of his remaining clothes dissolve. Heat crept up his neck as he instinctively tried to shift away, but Riddle's steady hand on his shoulder kept him still. "You said yourself he struck everywhere. Your thighs and..." A slight pause. "...other areas need attention too."
Harry forced himself to go limp, grateful at least that Riddle's touch remained as impersonal as before. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft sounds of hands working healing salve into bruised flesh and Harry's occasional hitched breaths. The sharp herbal scent filled his lungs with each inhale, making his head swim pleasantly.
As exhaustion pulled at him, the edges of reality began to blur. Harry fought against his drooping eyelids. He couldn't let his guard down, not here, not with him. But the fight against fatigue became harder as these skilled hands continued to chip away at his defences, bringing relief.
But one thing was still bothering Harry and preventing him from yielding completely. In this hazy state, the question slipped from his lips.
"Why..." Harry mumbled into his pillow, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Why are you really doing this? So quick… You could at least wait until Saturday evening."
Riddle's hands didn't pause in their methodical work, moving mercifully to Harry's thighs. The silence stretched so long that Harry, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, began to wonder if he'd only asked the question in his mind.
Finally, Riddle spoke, his voice low and possessive. "Because I don't like seeing another's marks on you." His fingers gently traced a trace of a nasty welt that would run from his left thigh to his right buttock. Harry jerked involuntarily. "You are mine. Mine to punish, mine to break, and mine to put back together."
Harry wanted to protest this casual claim of ownership, but his body betrayed him, melting into the touch as Riddle's hand moved to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair in an oddly soothing gesture.
"Shh," the future Dark Lord murmured. "Sleep now. Don't think too much."
His last coherent thought was that that he should be more disturbed, more defiant since this possessive gentleness was perhaps more terrifying than Malfoy's uncontrolled cruelty, but exhaustion and the soothing herbs pulled him under before he could properly process why.