Never Again
He woke slowly. In fact, it took him a rather long time to realize he was even awake.
He was comfortable in a way he hadn’t been—ever.
Every part of his skin touched something soft, smooth, and warm.
Sheets.
Pillows.
Thick blankets, nice and heavy but strangely not too hot.
He could feel that he was inside, and the room was large. Something about the sound of the air suggested a stone building.
And there was light! Clear, bright sunlight from a summer morning.
A bird flew past the window. Then another. And Harry finally registered the birdsong. Beautiful! Swallows. Other sounds began to filter in, all far away and muffled, suggesting he was in a large building, on a first or second story, with people many rooms away, or outside.
At last, Harry was convinced he was actually awake, and he slowly pushed himself to sit upright. The room was indeed large and the walls stone, but expectations stopped there. The room was lavish in a way Harry had never imagined! It was like something out of Windsor Castle or Blenheim palace. The bed was a massive four poster, but the canopy was built into the wall behind the headboard, hovering some ten feet off the floor and covered with expensive looking cloth: the orphaned posts, still easily six feet tall, sure ornate carved wood with finials thrusting upwards. The interior walls were covered with shimmering fabric. Besides the bed the room held a wardrobe, two dressers, many small tables, armchairs, a small couch by the deep-set windows…he stopped cataloging.
Out of habit he reached for the small table by the bed for his glasses, hoping that whoever brought him here had thought to leave them, but they weren’t there.
His mind short circuited and for a moment he frantically squinted around trying to find them before he realized—he didn’t need them!
His eyes shot wide, and he stared around the room again. His vision wasn’t, perhaps, quite as good as it had been with his glasses, but it was a near thing.
“Wow,” he said to himself.
Harry was just beginning to wonder if he could, or should, get up, and do…something…when the door opened.
A young woman walked in, a witch, with dark curly hair piled on her head, wand handle visible in a holster against her wrist. Her robes were every bit as traditional and well-made as Malfoy’s: probably a pureblood.
Though she marched in with confidence, her gaze was fixed on a small stack of parchment in her hand. It wasn’t until she had reached the dresser across from the bed—which Harry now saw was littered with potions bottles, books, stacks of parchment, and a small, portable cauldron set-up—that she glanced over and realized Harry was awake.
She paused in her movements for a heartbeat, looking at him intently, but said nothing. Her eyes scanned all of him that she could see above the bedclothes, her steady gaze unfazed and clinical, like a doctor.
“Your color is better. Do you have a headache?” Without waiting for a response, she spun to the dresser, plucked up a small vial of familiar looking potion from Harry’s many stays in the Hospital Wing, and thrust it at him.
“I…um…” Oh, actually, yes, he did have one. His head was splitting. “Yeah.”
The witch huffed, maybe in derision at his lack of eloquence, but maybe it was just a breath.
Harry took the vial and downed it and immediately felt relief.
“Mmm,” she said making notations on her parchment. “You may experience frequent headaches over the next two weeks as your brain adjusts to your corrected vision. And that is on top of what I am told was a rather intensive and extensive legilimency incident.” Her voice was tight as she scribbled on her paper, making marks as she looked back and forth between it and Harry. “And some rather brutal—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”
“No, wait, brutal what?” Harry asked anxiously. “What are you—”
“Shh!” She said, stepping closer and taking out her wand.
Harry flinched and scooted back across the bed scrabbling around for a wand he knew wasn’t there.
She ignored him and waved her wand. Nothing happened. Well, Harry felt a wave of mild tingling wash over him, and over a dozen glowing lights appeared in the air between them, elongating and twisting to form runes and numbers. Harry froze, wishing to high heaven he’d taken runes so he’d have some clue what she was going to do to him!
But the witch merely examined the runes for a moment, then flicked her wand to send them flying over to the top parchment on the dresser, the lights dimming and colors fading as they went.
“Temperature finally normal. Heart somewhat elevated, but not dangerously so. Blood pressure normal. Oxygenation normal as well, finally.” She stated it all in a flat voice, turning her attentions to the supplies on the dresser. Fire bloomed below the small cauldron, and she began adding bits of this and that from the vials and jars nearby—some of which struck Harry as familiar. Yet another thing to confuse him!
“I’m sorry,” Harry said tightly, “Who are you, and what are you doing? Where am I? What happened?”
She shot him a cold look. “My name is Seren. I’m an apprentice Healer and so, I am healing you. I just noted some core signs that help healers track a person’s health. I am told you may be more familiar with muggle terminology; they all it ‘taking vitals’ for all that sounds like some barbaric ritual to harvest organs.” She paused, looking at him for the first time almost like a person and not a clinician. Her face softened, slightly and she stepped over to the bed, perching on the edge. “You are in my father’s home,” she said gently. “And you are safe. No one who steps foot on his estate while you are here will do you any harm. He took an oath on it.”
Harry swallowed. “Promises can be broken.” He’d experienced broken promises too many times to trust his safety to one.
“Not magical ones. At least, not without grave consequences.”
Slowly, Harry nodded. “And who exactly is your father?”
She hesitated and Harry felt like cold fingers were trailing down his spine. “When you are well enough to be upset without endangering your recovery—”
“And when will that be?!”
“Possibly tomorrow, if you follow my instructions!” she snapped before regaining her composure. “When you are sufficiently recovered, all will be explained. No one will make you wait longer than necessary.”
“Why can’t you tell me who your father is?” Harry asked, plaintively. “Is he…is this…?” He looked away. “Am I a prisoner?”
Seren retook her seat on the bed, posture stiff. “You are not free to leave, currently, so in a way, yes.”
“Great.” Harry swallowed and fixed his gaze out the window.
“No healer worth their license would let you leave in your condition. The amount of acromantula poison in your system would have killed you, and despite multiple doses of antivenom you will be weak from it for a few more days.
“Beyond that…your situation is complicated. My job is to heal you, not fathom out deep and disturbingly complex political situations, or explain them to you. Ah, ah! No, more. For today,” she said with strong emphasis. “You are confined to this room, and you will be checked on and monitored regularly. Your health alone warrants this.”
Sighing she snapped her fingers and summoned two sheets of parchment, one with her notations earlier. She compared the two for a moment. “For the present, I will have some light food sent up. It will appear on that table. When you are done, cross the utensils on the plate and the tray will vanish. Drink plenty of water. There’s a pitcher there and it will refill itself when empty. The ensuite is through that door. Help yourself to clothes in that wardrobe. They should fit well enough. You are welcome to any books in the room. The games are charmed to play against you if you think you can handle sitting.
“Do not tire yourself!” she said sternly. “If you are nauseous, if you are in pain, if you are tired, you will come lie down immediately.” Her fierce look brooked no opposition.
“If you require basic necessities, call for Mindy. She is a house elf and will get you food, clothes, or other sundries as you need them. Note that she cannot move people through the wards nor can she carry messages without approval from the family. If you are in pain, or other discomfort, touch this bracelet for three seconds and it will summon me.”
She gestured and Harry noticed for the first time that he had a lightweight silver bracelet circling his let wrist.
“If you are tired, but have trouble sleeping, this,” she pointed to a vial on the small table. “Is dreamless sleep. One swallow only.”
He did not respond, beyond a brief nod, so she neatly stacked the parchments and headed for the door. She had nearly reached it when Harry spoke.
“What happened to Cedric?”
She stopped and gave him a puzzled look. “Who is Cedric?”
“The-the other student, who touched the cup with me. He was hit with something, a red spell.”
Seren cocked her head. “I do not know. But I will enquire.” She left.
Harry tried to occupy his mind. Food appeared. He ate some but had little appetite. He could tell he hadn’t eaten much recently and needed to pace himself anyway.
He played chess. Ron would be devastated at his incompetence.
He looked through books. There were several interesting ones, but his mind could only focus on the childish and frivolous. He spent some hours with a wizarding adventure novel, but when he put it down he found he could barely remember the characters’ names.
He spent several episodes looking out the windows. The room was indeed on the first floor, and the ground floor was not only exceedingly tall, but elevated over a half cellar level, like many massive country mansions. Even with the various decorations on the stone façade, escape out the window (sans broom) would be ill advised. Below a wide gravel drive wrapped close to the house; beyond a green lawn with grass somehow both tall and neat looking sloped down towards a forest of tall, ancient trees that blocked the view. The casements were locked but angling his head Harry could see the drive winding off through the forest in one direction, and the glint of a lake or pond, or maybe a river, in the other.
Seren returned not long after sunset, again calling forth the glowing numbers that told her something of his physical state. This time she insisted on examining his injuries, such as they were.
“How long have I been here?”
The answer was only two days. Today had been the 26th. Tomorrow would be the leaving feast at Hogwarts.
“Can you tell me what happened? Why am I here?”
She only smiled at him sadly, pronounced him healthy, and said someone would see him in the morning.
Hopefully someone with answers.
He took the dreamless sleep.
When Harry woke next, with daylight already flooding in the windows, someone was sitting at the table where his food appeared.
Harry sucked in a breath, trying not to panic.
Taking stock of himself without moving he found he had no new injuries, his head felt clear, so he was unlikely to be drugged, even his leg felt almost normal.
The visitor glanced over, clearly aware he was awake, but after a cursory glance he looked down at a neat sheet of parchment on the table before him. A minute later he took a sip from and ornate china teacup.
Swallowing to try and force down his fear, Harry slowly sat up. No one else was in the room. Nothing looked different from the day before. He could still see without his glasses. He still had no wand.
“Will you join me?”
Harry’s head snapped towards the visitor, startled. Long fingers gestured to a china teapot on the table along with a tray of breakfast fare. The motion was so graceful it was almost grotesque.
Well, there was nothing threatening about tea, or breakfast. The man was sitting very casually, his attention almost whole absorbed on the words in front of him. Harry instinctively knew this was a show, that he was the sort of person who noticed everything and forgot nothing, even if you thought he wasn’t paying attention. There was something about him that reminded Harry of Dumbledore. Not physically; this man was much younger, his hair thick and brown and just long enough to sweep gracefully over his ears; he was clean shaven and bore none of the wrinkles the Headmaster carried. But there was an immensity to his presence that was almost suppressive and would remain regardless of his posture. Like sharing the room with a panther. He was a predator. Harry tried to avoid people like him, always. Had he the choice he would stay as far away from this man as he could. But he was trapped. He couldn’t leave; he didn’t know where he was or what had happened. Was Cedric okay? Was anyone? Was the cup supposed to be a portkey?
Harry needed answers, no matter who they came from.
Gingerly, Harry slid from under the bedclothes, eyes locked on the man the whole time. When he did no more than glance Harry’s direction before returning to his papers, Harry began to slowly walk around the bed and towards the table.
As he approached, the man shuffled his papers together and set them aside, reaching for the teapot and filling a cup. The steaming liquid made Harry’s eyes water.
“How do you take your tea?” the man asked mildly.
“Um, black.” Harry reached for the back of the chair opposite as the man lifted the cup to pass it over. Though his expression did not change Harry got the impression he was approved of Harry’s simplicity. As Harry’s hand gripped the chair back his eyes fell on the objects aligned on the table, things which he’d not noticed in his focus on the visitor. He froze, paralyzed, staring at them with eyes so wide they hurt.
A green plastic solder, legs twisted, partially crushed, arm ripped off, uniform badly scratched.
Beside it a creased, warped, old piece of lined notebook paper. “Harry’s Room” was scrawled poorly over it with blue crayon. Harry remembered the day he made that sign. How he’d hidden the broken stub of crayon so carefully; tried to write the words so neatly; been so quiet stealing the cello tape. The triumphant, hateful look in Vernon’s eyes when he found it, stealing away any joy Harry’d had from the sign by rubbing it in that, ‘yes, this is the only room for freaks! Aren’t you grateful?!’
Next to that was a familiar looking deadbolt. Harry recognized the pattern of scratches on the back of it; he’d spent months staring at it, wishing, willing it to spring open.
For one horrible moment, Harry stared at the objects in horror. He felt like he was back there—
‘Get in there, boy!’
Like the walls were closing in and the doors were all locked.
‘No food for a week! You hear me! NONE!’
They knew. Harry didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but it didn’t matter. They knew.
‘You don’t tell anyone any business that goes on in this house! Never! If anyone asks any questions, any at all, you’ll regret the day you were born!’
Harry gasped in a ragged breath, eyes jerking to the man sitting calmly across the table, watching him. Suddenly, Harry leapt backwards, away from the offending objects; away from the evidence that the secret was out.
Those things couldn’t be here unless someone had gone to Number 4, had seen the cupboard, the locks, the stupid, fucking catflap; had seen the space under the floorboard where he hid things; had probably seen the wrappers and scraps of overly preserved non-food from the convenience store left from last summer. Unless they knew!
Harry was hyperventilating, trying desperately to take a breath and failing miserably. His legs turned to jelly, and he stumbled, flailing. He wanted to run, to hide, to crawl into a small dark space and wait for it all to go away. He didn’t dare look up at the man. The man who knew.
Harry stumbled against something, a desk or a chair, it didn’t matter. He turned and fled to the nearest wall, mere yards away and collapsed against it, only half angled away from the man.
He heard a rustle of fabric and then of paper. A greyish white object floated into his field of vision, coming to hover where he could finally see it was a newspaper, and could easily read the headlines.
It was a London Times, dated June 25th. “DRILL-MAN ARRESTED IN FINANCIAL SCANDAL.”
The paper folded down, revealing the front page of the evening edition. “SURREY COUPLE ARRETED FOR EXTREME CHILD NEGLECT AND ABUSE.”
Harry shuddered and turned away. Oh, how he hated that word! He wasn’t…they’d never…it wasn’t that bad! Honestly, it was…it had been horrible, yes, but not…not that.
The rustle of the paper drew his attention. Yesterday’s morning edition proclaimed, “DURLSEYS FACING DECADES IN PRISON, HEFTY FINES.”
And this morning’s edition. ‘DAY 3 OF DURSLEY SCANDAL REVEALS HOUSE OF HORRORS; COUPLE BLAMES ‘MAGIC’ CHILD FOR ABUSE.’ Another paper proclaimed, ‘TRIAL OF THE DECADE ON THE HORIZON.’
Harry jerked back certain his heart had actually stopped. These were muggle papers! With magic in the headline! Even so, many muggleborns, and even some purebloods, read the Times; what if…what if it…
He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t breathe!
“Your name is not mentioned.”
Harry jumped at the sound, head snapping up to meet dark eyes staring placidly at him over the rim of the teacup.
What? he thought. He couldn’t find the breath to actually speak.
“The magical world knows nothing of this. The muggle papers do not mention your name, or any details which would point to you.” It was said calmly, slowly, in a voice that was low and rich, powerful, but with a nearly totally flat tone.
Harry stared, processing. Since entering the magical world, Harry had had his name paraded and dragged out by everyone. Hermione was now his best friend—closer even than Ron after the fiasco with the goblet and the dragon, and Ron’s immaturity of Krum—and almost the first thing she had ever said to Harry was ‘I know all about you, of course’ because she’d read books about him! Everyone was always talking about him, reading about him, writing about him, watching him all the fucking time, it was becoming expected. To have this protected from that was…
It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. Ever. It was as big, or bigger than Hermione helping him get past a dragon! Bigger than Ron with a broken leg telling a mass murderer he’d have to go through him to get to Harry. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it was.
Gratitude like he’d never felt smote him almost to the floor. As it was, he swayed dangerously. Lifting shaking hands, Harry covered his face. For a long minute, or several, he simply focused on finding his breath, on relief that no one knows. They don’t know it’s me. They don’t know what happened. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.
Oh God.
Slowly he relaxed his hands, still keeping his fingertips on his temples and eyes on the floor. “Thank you,” he whispered, swallowing thickly, knowing the man would hear, knowing he—whoever he was—was somehow responsible for keeping Harry’s name away from the papers. Seriously, that was…unbelievable.
Harry actually contemplated thanking the man on his knees! Groveling it with his face pressed to the carpet or kissing the man’s shiny leather boots. Not seriously, but the thought did cross his mind, and it did not feel like as much of an exaggeration as Harry had expected it to.
Just as Harry was beginning to think he was calm enough to straighten the man spoke again.
“Never again.” There was a hardness this time that was jolting.
Harry jerked upright, hands clenching into fists by his shoulders, staring as the man held his gaze. Slowly he stood, and Harry could see that he was tall; probably the tallest person he knew besides Hagrid. Tall and thin enough to be just the healthy side of skeletal.
“You will never see them again.”
He stepped forwards and Harry could feel power and rage coming of him in waves.
“You will never see that place again.”
Another step and he was practically towering over Harry.
“You never even need see Surrey again, unless you wish it.”
And now he was towering over him. Harry stepped back but he was already nearly flush against the wall. Just as the position was becoming uncomfortable those long, pale fingers curled under his jaw and lifted Harry’s face higher.
Harry had never been the focus of such intensity. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. It was…like he mattered.
“I do not make promises, Harry. Deals, bargains, yes; and I keep my word, but I do not give without expectation. However, in this, I will make an exception. For you. You have my solemn vow that so long as you draw breath, you will never again want for food or drink, of any kind that you desire.”
Harry gasped in a shocked breath and forgot how to let it out.
“You will never want for light, for fresh air, for clothing, for instruction—”
Harry couldn’t look away. He couldn’t even picture this; a life without deprivation. Without fear that every good thing would be taken away. The man’s eyes were actually blue, he noted randomly, so blue they were almost black.
“—for companions,” the man continued, “for entertainment, employment, or money. Anything you desire, anything I can trust you with, will be yours.”
Why was he crying? Harry wasn’t sure, but something about this moment was so intense, so intimate, so charged, so world-rockingly momentous…and he felt the tears escape.
“No one shall lock you away. No one shall deprive you. No one shall make you afraid.”
A cold thumb swept over the apple of Harry’s cheek, brushing away the tears there. The action was repeated on the other side. Harry could not look away.
The hand shifted to cup the side of Harry’s face, long fingers reaching nearly to the back of his skull, thumb pressing lightly on his temple. No one had ever touched Harry like this. He shivered at the contact, automatically leaning slightly into it. Though the man’s expression did not change, Harry knew he liked it. If he meant what he’d said so far…To never worry if he would be safe again, be fed…Harry wasn’t sure there was much he wouldn’t do for that. Leaning into a hand was nothing.
The other hand came to rest on the wall on Harry’s other side. The man leaned closer, until his face was hidden beside Harry’s head.
“You are mine now, Harry. I always take care of what is mine. You shall never want again.”
Slowly, the man pulled his head back, looking down at Harry from an angle reminiscent of Snape, but without the loathing that always colored the potion master’s expression. Harry looked back and forth between the dark eyes, wondering if he dared believe it. For a brief moment, he imagined a red light glowing like coals behind the blue. Perhaps that should have been ominous; perhaps this position should feel ominous, threatening. Perhaps he should be frightened, or offended, or…something.
But he wasn’t. Oh, he was scared enough of the situation as a whole, his ignorance, his loss of freedom, the lack of any familiar faces. But right now, all he could feel was safe. For the first time in perhaps his entire life, Harry felt truly safe. It wasn’t the promise, or the idea of never starving again; the real offer was not a thing, but rather a person. Someone to see him; to watch, not out of curiosity or because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and not even because they cared, but because they took responsibility—for Harry. To take care of him.
Still somewhat numb, Harry simply nodded. Though the man hadn’t asked a question, Harry felt he had been waiting for a reaction of some kind.
“Good boy.” The hand on Harry’s head slowly withdrew, fingers trailing almost lovingly on his cheek, making Harry gasp in another breath. The hand settled on his shoulder, gripping gently. “Come. Eat with me.”
He pushed off the wall and steered Harry back to the table. A wave of his wand—a long, white one that emanated power—the mementoes of Harry’s childhood vanished, never to be seen again.
The hand did not leave his shoulder until Harry was fully seated. He watched still rather numb as the man loaded a plate with cheese, fruit, a croissant, and a boiled egg. When he set it in front of Harry, Harry had to swallow back more tears. Molly Weasley was the only one who had ever plated a meal for him. It was small, this thing, so small, and at the same time it was enormous.
“You may ask questions.”
Harry merely watched as he loaded his own plate with less than half the food on Harry’s. There were too many questions! Where to start?
To buy time Harry grabbed blindly for the teacup the man had poured him earlier, before Harry had seen the things from Privet Drive. It was still steaming, and perfect.
“What should I call you?”
Something about the question pleased the man. “You may address me as ‘sir. Believe me when I tell you that for me that is informal in the extreme. I understand you have a hard time with formalities. We shall work on it.”
“Um, thank you,” Harry said, more confused that earlier. “Sir,” he added, belatedly. “I meant, um, what is your name? Is this your house?”
“It is not. When names are necessary, I am known as Lord Rhion Gaunt.”
That name meant nothing to Harry, but he was pretty sure it was an assumed name anyway. “What happened to Cedric?”
The man paused in buttering his toast and examined Harry, gaze still too intense for a normal person, and only the slightest bit surprised.
“You never cease to surprise me,” he said with a breath that was almost a huff. “Three days in a strange house, wounded, your past exposed, wards keeping you on an unfamiliar estate, and almost your first question is to ask after the welfare of another, and not even a close loved one, but a competitor? It’s a wonder you aren’t a Hufflepuff.”
Harry shifted and frowned. “Cedric is a Hufflepuff. There’s nothing wrong with Hufflepuff. Is he alright? He got hit by something.”
“A stunner. As were you.”
“A what?”
The man dropped his hands to the table and frowned. “Entering OWL year and you don’t even know what a stunner is? You aren’t that poor a student. What is that fool doing with that school?”
Harry shrank down in his chair. “Can you just tell me—”
“A stunner is a spell that renders its target temporarily unconscious. They generally last a quarter to half an hour but may last several hours if the caster is strong or overpowers the spell, or if the target is hit by multiple casters.”
“Oh. So…so, he’s okay, then?”
“The Hufflepuff was returned to Hogwarts with the cup seconds after I stunned him.”
“You stunned him?”
“And you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“But, why?” Strangely, Harry felt betrayed by the information. He’d imagined this man, Lord Gaunt, in the role of rescuer. “Why would you…when you said all of—”
“Hush, child,” he replied, both gentle and commanding, reaching out and covered Harry’s hand, which lay motionless on the table in a tight fist, with his own. “Your life is currently an enormous gordian knot, tangled by political machinations that began generations before you were born. No explanation will be simple or straightforward, not and also be complete.”
Slowly he withdrew his hand and returned to his breakfast. The temporary loss of eye contact felt like a reprieve.
“To return to the subject of your rival—”
“Friend.”
“Hmm. If you say so. He has been hailed as the champion of the tournament, but is making a rather large fuss about having agreed to share the victory with you; he is insisting on delaying any victory ceremonies until you can attend and receive your share of the triumph. He has also made a number of scenes about your safety and whereabouts. It has rather dampened his warm reception as Champion.”
Harry stared at his plate, where he had been mindlessly shredding the croissant. “Oh.”
“How you manage to inspire such loyalty in everyone you meet I shall never comprehend.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t do that.”
“Oh, I assure, you; you most definitely do. It has been endlessly frustrating.”
That did not sit well with Harry, but he let it lie, forcing himself to eat some of the croissant pieces and a slice of…pear? Seemed like a pear.
“So, um, what exactly happened, that night? How… why am I here?”
“Mmm. Those are different questions. You are here because I wish you to be safe and your injuries to be treated.”
“Am I a prisoner?”
“Miss Lestrange said you had asked that.”
“Lestrange?”
“Ah, I see. She did not tell you her surname.”
“You mean Seren?”
“I do.”
Harry frowned. That name was familiar. Where had he heard the name Lestrange before? Somehow it sat uneasily with him, but he couldn’t place it. “Okay?”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “That name means nothing to you?”
“Lestrange? No, well, something. I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t recall where right now.”
The man nodded, studying Harry. Slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Harry, he selected a dark berry from the bowl and lifted it to his lips. How was everything he did so eerily graceful?
“Why did you stun us?”
“So, I would not be forced to fight you.”
“But, why…I don’t understand. Was the cup a trap, then?”
“Of course,” Lord Gaunt said with a huff.
“By you?”
“At my behest.”
“Why?”
“I needed something from you, which would not hurt you, well, not much, but which you would be unwilling to give me.”
Harry looked at him sideways. “And you couldn’t have just asked?”
The man actually laughed! It sounded strange, like he wasn’t used to doing it. “Unlikely. I prefer to not reach for a thing until I know I can take it without reprisals.”
Well, that was certainly ominous. “What was it?”
“Blood. Yours, specifically.”
“What?!”
“A small amount, less than a teaspoon, taken from your arm, while you were unconscious. You will have a small scar; the price of the ritual. But no, I could not just ask. It had to be forcibly taken. That does not mean it had to be traumatic. I thought you might prefer to be unconscious for such an event. I certainly preferred it; I abhor screaming and futile, pointless fighting by those too weak to be effective.”
“I am not weak!”
“I was speaking relatively.”
Harry frowned, still indignant.
The man sighed, all but rolling his eyes. “You have potential, great potential, but you are yet a child. You have not even come into your full power, not to mention the blocks and binds I found on your magic.”
“The what?”
Lord Gaunt ignored him. “You could never had bested me and would only have injured yourself trying. I am never wasteful.”
“So…so it was just a little blood?”
For some reason the man’s face darkened. “And answers. I needed answers which you possessed. I find conversation tedious, so I took them from your mind.”
“My—my mi—” Harry cut off as the memory of the night in the graveyard, of the presence in his mind, the pain, the scenes of his entire life, came flooding in as it hadn’t the past two days. He’d been so focused on just getting through the day, on wondering where he was and if Cedric was okay, he hadn’t even thought about what had been done to him. The red eyes. “Yo—that was-was you?”
The man studied him closely, clearly wondering what Harry would do with this information. “Yes.”
“You…that…that hurt!” Harry cried, literally cried, again.
“I know.”
“You hurt me!”
“Yes.”
“But…but you said…”
“I said that today. Three days ago, you were not mine to protect. Now you are.”
“But why?”
“Because I have decided it will be so.”
“No, why did you…why…” Harry couldn’t even put a word to what had happened.
The man leaned back. “It is called Legilimency, the reading of another’s thoughts. It is difficult and practitioners are rare. Defense is equally difficult. I am the most skilled, and most powerful Legilimens today, possibly in centuries. I cannot be fooled. The practice is impossible to regulate or control. It is rarely as invasive as what you experienced. Typically, only the surface thoughts are read, or even available. But digging deeper, bringing up memories, motivations, these are more difficult, more painful for the…the recipient. Resistance can also make it more painful. ”
He took a sip of his tea. “I think you know what happens with people attempt to lie to me.”
Harry shuddered. He felt exposed, used, vulnerable. That his was coming from the same person who mere minutes ago had promised such beautiful things…
“I…I feel...I don’t…”
The man huffed a breath. “Let us be frank with one another, Harry. What I did to you the other night would be treated in our world as a kind of mental rape and prosecuted as such, had anyone the authority to prosecute me, which they do not. I freely admit I took everything from you. Everything. I was exceedingly thorough, and I was not gentle. It was most informative.”
Harry kept himself extremely still as he tried to process this, staring at the teaspoon he was twirling in his fingers. “You…you’re talking about the memories.”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” Harry sighed in relief. “That…that wasn’t so bad, actually. I mean, it was…awful. I never told anyone about…a lot of it, and I never wanted people to know. But that wasn’t…that wasn’t the worst part.”
“Oh?”
Harry shook his head, biting his lip. “No. It was after that. It, you did something.” He waved his hand around the side of his head. “Something in my head and…and it hurt.”
The man studied him again. “Yes. I imagine it did. Breaking blocks and bindings on a child’s mind and magic always does.”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”
The man sat back. “I know. Someday I may explain it to you, but not today. Know that they are illegal—outside extremely limited medical or criminal cases of extraordinary necessity—and they are anathema to everything our world values. And I was not the one who placed them on you.”
“You removed them?”
“I did. Your magic may be unsettled for some time. One reason I have instructed that only I share information with you about your situation is that unsettled magic is more prone to lash out accidentally. You may experience extreme accidental magic in the coming weeks, or even months, which may endanger those around you. When possible, I will arrange opportunities for you to use your magic, frequently, supervised by myself or my most trusted vassals, to help it settle.”
And that brought up another pressing concern.
“Do you have my wand?”
The man studied him closely. “It is in my care.”
Harry swallowed. “Can I…can I have it?”
“Not yet,” he replied, head slightly cocked. “Soon. When I am confident you understand the situation and will not do anything rash.”
“How long—”
“That depends on you.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing specific. It is not a task to perform, Harry. Simply show me you can be reasonable and calm, make rational choices, not be goaded into foolish decisions, follow simple instructions…Show me you are willing to engage me as a potential ally, not an enemy to be fought or fled from, and you shall have it.”
Harry’s eyes widened as he processed this statement. He licked his lips and stared down at the plate, now empty. “An enemy,” he echoed. Suddenly, Harry knew who this was. Who had attacked him, trapped him, and…rescued him? Protected his secrets? Brought revenge on the Dursleys. He took a deep shuddering breath. Think!Think like Hermione. You can’t fight your way out of this; you have no wand; you don’t know where you are. He promised not to hurt you; he probably doesn’t mean it, but you have to play the game.
“You, ah, picked a different name, then?” Harry asked at length.
Lord Gaunt—Lord Voldemort—smiled. “Clever lad,” he said silkily.
Harry actually felt a shiver of pride at the words and almost hated himself for it. No one had ever called him clever, but God!
“I’m really not,” he said, hoping he wasn’t actually blushing. “Hermione is the clever one.”
“Ah, yes, your little muggleborn,” Voldemort answered carelessly, as if Hermione were a toy or a pet. “She is rather clever, for some things. But she has nothing like your instincts, does she?”
Harry scowled at him. “She’s like my sister,” he growled, offended on Hermione’s behalf.
Voldemort waved away his ire. “She’s useful and earnest and ultimately irrelevant. More to the point, I am most pleased at your composure. I had feared either that you would fail to make the connection,” he gestured between them, “which admittedly would have been easier but rather boring, or that you would dissolve into hysterics—or worse, heroics.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Both of which are tedious.”
Harry sighed heavily, leaning his forearms on his knees, and hung his head. It was a vulnerable position, he couldn’t even see the man if he chose to lash out, but without a wand, without information, Harry could hardly be more vulnerable anyway.
“Did you find what you were looking for, in my head?”
He could feel the smirk even though he couldn’t see it. “Oh, yes. I did indeed. That is why you are here, alive, safe...” He leaned forward, hand sliding across the table to rest tantalizingly close to Harry’s place. “Cared for.”
Harry shuddered, leaning away and covering his face with his hands. “Fucking hell,” Harry said under his breath. “So why didn’t you do it? Why am I alive, then?” he challenged.
Voldemort studied him, mouth quirking between a smirk and a grin. “You should be proud, Harry,” he said teasingly. “You prevented a war.”
“What? How?”
With a gracious nod that was completely out of place to Harry’s state of mind, the man continued. “You won my tournament. You took the cup. You came to me and in your mind, I found a way for every obstacle in my path to simply melt away.”
Harry stared, horrified at the reference to ‘my tournament.’
“I originally took your memories to determine how in Morgana’s name you manage to repeatedly thwart me.” For an instant the handsome man transformed into a being out of Harry’s nightmares: skeletal, waxy skin stretched tight, eyes glowing red. Then it was gone. “It is impossible for a child to possess any magic that could do so, at any age. Yet you managed it, twice. Three times if one counts my diary. It is inconceivable—or should be.”
He fell silent, studying Harry with a furrowed brow.
“And…you found it?”
Something glinted behind Voldemort’s eye. “Oh, yes. Two things, in fact. One magical in nature but having nothing to do with you. A series of random events that resulted in your protection by forces beyond your comprehension. They are surmountable, but their nature renders your demise not only unlikely but…ill advised.”
He paused as if waiting for Harry’s reaction. “So, you’re saying, it’s better for you if I don’t die?”
Voldemort nodded but did not elaborate. “The other factor was not magical but had everything to do with you and your aforementioned penchant for instantly gaining the loyalty of others. I groomed my followers for years, decades, to ensure their willingness to sacrifice for my cause; I have seen you achieve such loyalty in seconds. Your death is to my detriment; but so long as you live as my enemy you will never fail to be surrounded by sycophants willing to throw themselves on the pyre in your place; there will always be more. Some of them may even be clever and capable enough to be annoying. Like your mother, using her sacrifice to fuel magics so ancient they are part of the very fabric of reality.
“But the solution, you see, is so simple. If you cease to be my enemy, then I gain everything.”
Long pale fingers reached across the space between them as if to stroke his fringe from his forehead. Harry jerked back and Voldemort aborted the movement, but kept his fingers hovering just out of range. “You want me to join you? You’re bloody mental if you think I’ll ever do that!”
Voldemort shook his head, tsking. “Nothing so trite. I have no need of you as my follower. Tell me, Harry, what it is you want most in all the world? Can you do that? Because I can. I know exactly what it is you want. What you will give everything to have.”
“There’s nothing! I don’t want anything from you!” Harry snarled.
“Oh, but you do. I saw it, clear as day. In here.” The finger finally made contact and stroked down Harry’s scar. He gasped, not only from the contact but the sensation that swept through him from it. It was not pain, not pleasure, not pressure, but waves of something poured from his scar and he whimpered. It was magnetic, that feeling. “And I knew, instantly, that I could give that to you.”
His touch withdrew and Harry slumped, panting, wanting the echo of that feeling to go away!
“The sad thing, child, is that so many could have given it to you. So many! They may have even done so willingly had they only seen. Had they cared enough to notice what their saint Potter wanted, needed, craved so desperately. It wasn’t even so deeply hidden; just hovering beneath the surface. But they did not see, because they did not care to look. Though willing to lay down their lives for your foolish escapades, for your continued survival, none of your friends, your lauded and plentiful protectors, cared enough to take care of you.”
Harry collapsed fully to bury his face in his hands between his knees. It couldn’t be true.
“They want your friendship. They want your company. They want your noble sacrifice for the greater good,” Voldemort said, whispering just above Harry’s bowed head. “They will help you fight battles and pass tests, but they won’t feed you. They’ll take you on outings, give you a taste of freedom, of family, of belonging, and then snatch it all away to send you back there—where you are alone, and abused, and neglected. In the dark, with only enough food and water to survive; to drown in your pain, your loneliness.”
Cold fingers pried his hands from his face and tipped his chin up. For the second time in half an hour his parents’ murderer wiped away his tears.
“And they don’t even notice, do they? They found bars on your windows, and they said nothing. You begged not to go, but he always sends you back. Doesn’t he?”
Harry swallowed. “He?”
Voldemort again leaned past Harry’s face to whisper in his ear. “Dumbledore knew.”
Harry shuddered. “No. He wouldn’t.”
Red eyes captured his own and Harry could not look away. “Who kept your godfather from receiving his trial, Harry? If there is one person with the political resources to ensure a trial happens or does not, it is that man.”
“No!”
Voldemort’s face turned hard as stone. “He sent a muggle-raised orphan back to an orphanage in London during the second World War, to test his luck without magic while muggles rained fire from the sky for weeks. There is nothing he won’t do for the greater good—as he sees it. He cares nothing for you. Nothing beyond how he can use you to defeat me. Why else did he condemn you to live with those vermin? So that he could save you from them, and in your gratitude you become his weapon.”
“But—the others—”
“Are incapable, incompetent, or oblivious. Your godfather wants to, but he can’t. The same with your werewolf. You learned your first year that your Head of House is not to be relied upon.”
“The Weasleys—”
“Oh, their hearts overflow with warm feelings. They give just enough affection, just enough warmth, for you to think they care. But they don’t understand, do they? They never will. Poor as they are, they have never known a day without sustenance. They have never been alone, abandoned, overlooked. They have their own brood, and you will never be part of it. It will never be yours.
“But now, oh, now, Harry, I can give you that. I alone can and will. It has already begun.”
The hand once again cupped his head: an anchor, an invasion, a blessing and a curse all at once. Harry wanted it to go away, to pull back; he wanted it to stay forever and nuzzle against it.
“You are mine, now.” Harry was looking down at the floor, practically sobbing, and—what the ever-loving fuck? Had Voldemort just kissed his head? It was sick and twisted and so good his heart broke, and he sobbed harder. “I will keep my promises. Never again, Harry. You will never want again.”
It was many minutes before Harry spoke, hiccupping through the vestiges of his tears—weeping because Voldemort had been right. “What do you want?”
“From you? Nothing. We are not bargaining, Harry. You have nothing to give me that I do not already possess or could not simply take. You will remain in my custody; I will provide for your every need. That is all.
“Of course, your cooperation would make things much more convenient for all concerned. It is my hope that you will accept my guardianship, that you will come to treat myself and my allies with respect—even if you disagree with us it is no call for rudeness, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t understand. How…how does this end the war?”
Voldemort clicked his tongue and sat back. “There is no war, Harry. I planned to start one two nights ago, true. But now it would be such a waste! Why put forward such effort when all that is necessary for my victory is your happiness?”
Harry shook his head. “But that makes no sense! How does…any of this prevent a war?”
“You continue to blind yourself to the power you wield. I insist you open your eyes! Let us imagine for a moment that I throw you in a dungeon, torture you, feed you bread and water and scraps, as you no doubt expected. Do you know what would happen? Can you imagine it?”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They would never stop coming for you.” His voice was breathy and intense, penetrating through Harry’s confusion and he could see it all! “Your throngs of loyal supporters would throw themselves upon any fortress I built, against any army I gathered, and however pathetic their attempts would be each and every time, however many of them I slaughtered they would. Never. Stop. I would win, in the end, but by then it would be a dead world, and any value in my victory would be long gone. I would kill everyone. Until our streets ran red with blood and I am left with nothing but ashes and your miserable, rotting corpse for my pains.
“Or imagine if I had killed your friend and fought you in that graveyard instead of stunning you and raping your mind? Let us imagine your insane luck held and you escaped: impossible but this is, after all, you. Then what? You return to Dumbledore’s fold traumatized, convinced anew that the lines are not merely drawn in sand but engraved in marble, and from that moment onward you will never give up. Surrender is unimaginable, compromise reprehensible, common ground anathema. You inspire the noble forces of the Light from the front, their sacrificial lamb, their good luck charm, their noble hero. But our world is not ready for a war; the masses insist my resurrection is a lie. And you are then caught between three immovable forces: mine, intent on your destruction; your headmaster, wielding you like the good little weapon he has formed you to be with no regard for your wellbeing; and everyone else who wishes it all to simply go away. In that scenario you are hunted by one side, used by another, and disdained by the third. But in the end, nothing changes. They all die. For you. As you suffer more and more privation and are increasingly ostracized, asked to give more and more to this fight that you had no choice in, all the while you watch everyone you know and love throw themselves between you and my wand, and I take them all. Every death would solidify our enmity; the assurance that neither you nor I would stop until the entire world lies dead at our feet.”
He could see it. It was, in fact, exactly what he had feared the moment he first beheld the Dark Mark at the World Cup. In his bones, this was the future he had felt lay before his feet.
“Or,” the Dark Lord said more gently, “there is the third way: the way you yourself showed me, albeit unintentionally. I will keep you, not locked in a dungeon but in comfort, where I know you are safe; an entire estate at your disposal, rather than a dank cell. No different than any other child your age. Not starving but more well fed than even Hogwarts can make you. Not beaten and tortured and alone, but healthy, tended, and accompanied by any who can be trusted with your welfare. As you are not in danger, as you flourish under my care, your darling supporters have no reason to fight to save you and I am not forced to eliminate them. The entire cycle unravels instantly.
“Do you see, Harry? In this version of the story, not only are you hale and happy, your friends are as well. There is no reason for any of them to come to harm.”
Harry studied his hands. This was…really odd. “But…but that’s…that’s not what you actually want. I mean, it can’t be that simple. You don’t actually get anything out of that. What about everything you did before? You think people will just forget about that! What about my parents?! You murdered them! I—everything I ever went through is because of you!”
Did insanity come in threes? It must, because Harry was crying again, in front of Voldemort, and the man was comforting him!
“Oh, Harry. I was not the one who condemned you to your relatives’ tender mercies. That is one fault that I had no part in. I think you are intuitive enough to figure out where the blame for that lies. It was, after all, for the greater good.”
Harry’s face scrunched. “You killed my parents.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Will it help you to know?”
And that gave Harry pause. He blinked at his nemesis. “There’s actually a reason?”
“Oh yes. I came for you.” When Harry simply stared at him, he looked aside and began tracing a long finger around the edge of his teacup. “You see, Harry, some months before your birth a prophecy was made, that you would be the only one capable of destroying me. I could hardly allow that to happen. Your father had long declared himself my enemy; there was no hope for him, for all he was a powerful and talented wizard. I would have come for him eventually. Your mother could have been a gem among our people, and I would have been pleased to spare her. But she would not leave you, and her sacrifice kept me from fulfilling my purpose.”
“I know,” Harry said, hollowly. “And…and now you want to, what adopt me or something? That’s…that’s sick. How could you imagine I’d be okay with that?”
“Because the alternative is far worse. This way everyone gets exactly what they want. You want to be cared for and you want your friends alive and well. I can even see your godfather exonerated. It will be easy,” he said with fiendish delight. It only served to highlight that Dumbledore, from what Harry could see, had never actually tried to get Sirius a trial. “Everything you want. And this is not an offer, Harry. It will happen. You do not have a choice. There is nothing for you to agree to. You can try to fight me, if you wish; I hear rebellion is a never-ending trend among young men of your age. But I would rather you didn’t. The more you cooperate the smoother everything will be, the happier you will be, and the sooner I can give you more freedoms.”
“But…but how can it work? You don’t get anything! No one will forgive you! I don’t forgive you! You expect me to believe you’re doing this to be kind or something?”
“I do not require your forgiveness. I do not ask for it. I never will. What good is your forgiveness to me? None whatsoever. Whether you choose to forgive my past actions or not is entirely your affair. Personally, it seems a rather large waste of energy on your part to keep harping on about something neither of us can change. Had I the power to go back so far in time and spare your parents, I could not fault you for trying. But that is one thing even I cannot do.”
Harry hated the logic in that. Of course, Voldemort didn’t care about forgiveness! He didn’t regret his actions on principle, unless there were repercussions that inconvenienced him in the present.
“So, what’s your goal then? World domination, again? Take over the country? Run for Minister or something? You can’t think they’ll let you! Even if you stop killing and torturing people, no one will let you run a country!”
Voldemort gave him a truly indulgent look. “But Harry, no one else knows who I am. Do they?”
The statement hit Harry like a two-by-four in the face. What?
“My resurrection was witnessed and facilitated by two of my own most loyal followers, both of whom are believed to be dead themselves. I will, of course, be selectively informing some of my other followers. The only other witness to my return, is you. And I have you.”
Once again Voldemort leaned forward into Harry’s space, as Harry’s eyes gradually widened in dawning horror.
“You see? Your little Hufflepuff friend can attest only that the Cup took you both somewhere unexpected, and you are currently unaccounted for. He has no other testimony to give. He has no injuries. No proof even that you were taken against your will. Dumbledore, of course, is trying to raise a panic, but he will not succeed. Why should he? The Diggory boy is unharmed. The public has achieved their spectacle. And,” Voldemort touched the ends of Harry’s hair. “Your doppleganger has been seen in Diagon Alley, undermining Dumbledore’s confidence.”
“Polyjuice?”
“Indeed.”
“You have someone polyjuiced as me running around Diagon Alley?”
“Only enough to cast doubt on your kidnapping and deter a manhunt. Nothing untoward has occurred or will occur. Even your little friends that you care so much about have received anonymous, untraceable communications swearing to your wellbeing. Truthful communication, I might add. ”
Harry took a deep breath, forcing it out as slowly as possible. That was…good? Maybe? He didn’t like the idea of Ron and Hermione panicking about him when he was, technically, okay, so it was good that they knew. But he also didn’t like Death Eaters writing them on his behalf. “They still won’t let you win.”
“You mean that Wizarding Britain will never let Lord Voldemort have power uncontested. Ah, but then, Lord Voldemort is dead. He died in a graveyard in an undisclosed location when you succeeded in interrupting a ritual for his resurrection and destroyed the final vestiges of his wraith. At which point, the injuries you sustained from the battle, on top of the tournament, caused you to lose consciousness. Which is where, I, Lord Rhion Gaunt, last descendant of the ancient House of Gaunt, and famed reclusive scholar and half-blood aristocrat, found you. I took you to the nearby estate of my close friend, Rodolphus Lestrange, to convalesce. While caring for you I learned enough of your life with your relatives to realize it was not a suitable place for you and took steps to have you moved to my custody. As Voldemort is vanquished, you no longer need to live in obscurity behind blood wards, and are free to truly join the wizarding world, as my ward. Inspired and invigorated by your heroic life and noble spirit, I have chosen to break my long hermetic lifestyle and enter the fray of national politics.”
He leaned forward even more. “You see now, Harry? I can have everything I want. All I need is time. And as I proved three nights ago, I cannot die. I have eternity to attain the power I crave, and I will have it. And I will do it without shedding a single drop of blood—well, other than what I took from you a few days ago. No one will know who I am. No one will oppose me. Well, not on principle.”
“I could tell them,” Harry said, half desperate.
Voldemort huffed a laugh. “Such talk will hardly encourage me to allow you unfettered communication. But it matters not; tell them. Tell the world, Harry! So long as I choose not to act in evidence of your claims, no one will believe you.”
“Dumbledore will! My friends—”
“Yes!” Voldemort hissed. “They, of course, will believe anything you say. But such wild claims as the return of the dreaded Dark Lord Voldemort, tsk tsk, such horrendous fear mongering.” Voldemort leaned forward. “The people don’t want to hear such things. The ministry does not want to hear it. They don’t want a war any more than you do. They will deny it as long as they can. And if you return suddenly spouting the truth, they will claim you are insane. But more to the point why would you tell them? What would you gain?”
“My freedom! My friends!”
“Did I say you could not see your friends?”
Harry froze, staring at him. “You…you’d let me see them?”
Voldemort cocked his head. “In theory, yes, certainly. So long as they did not cause trouble or upset you. Dumbledore no doubt has plans to lock your two barnacles away for safe keeping, and until I can get him removed from the ministry it will be difficult and possibly dangerous to try to remove them for something as trite as a visit. Your godfather and his pet werewolf may be easier, provided you tell them no fanciful tales or attempt to incite panic.”
Harry tapped his fingers on his legs. “You…you’re serious? You’ll actually let me see Sirius and Remus?”
“With assurances of their good behavior, and yours, yes. Perhaps not right away. I must be confident that you will not attempt to abscond away with them or incite them against me.”
“When?”
“A week or so, I imagine. It all comes down to you, really. Your Hufflepuff friend would really be ideal, and much easier to arrange. From what I gather you are unlikely to attempt to persuade him to start a revolution; and seeing him alive and well would perhaps persuade you of my good will. In the meantime, I can easily arrange for some of my past associates and their offspring to entertain you.”
“You mean Death Eaters and Slytherins.”
Voldemort tipped his head. “They are the most convenient.”
“Yeah, no thanks. We don’t really get along.”
“Are you so sure? Have you ever had a conversation with them? A real conversation, not an exercise in antagonism? I thought not. You will never be asked to agree with them, simply find enough common ground to co-exist.”
“I cannot believe I’m hearing the words ‘common ground’ from you.”
“Oh, Harry. Our two sides are really not so different as you think. You act as if my allies and their children are the only ones guilty of prejudice. When was the last time you saw past the green of a Slytherin’s robe? You and young Malfoy are two sides of the same coin.”
“I am nothing like him! He’s foul and arrogant and—”
“And desperate to prove himself worthy of the reputation he was handed by his father’s exploits, and yet constantly outshone by those with more raw talent and dedication, and like all children repeats without question the views of those whose good opinion he craves.”
Once again Harry sat frozen, unable to move, hardly able to think or breath. Surely, he wasn’t actually similar to Malfoy? He wasn’t…wasn’t prejudiced? Surely, he didn’t repeat what he was told without question? Except, he almost immediately realized that he did.
“And as to freedom,” Voldemort interrupted his train of thought. “You are no more a prisoner here, or at any other house we may reside in, than any other child is a prisoner in the home of their guardian.”
“But…but I can’t leave?”
“Not without my permission, no. But how many other fourteen-year-olds are allowed to simply walk out of their homes? I assure you, neither Draco Malfoy nor Ronald Weasley has such privilege. I doubt your muggleborn friend does either. The only difference is that unlike them, you are a flight risk, and I have taken appropriate measures to enforce these boundaries. For you, leaving is not only not permitted, it is physically and magically impossible. But I will be reasonable. Show me you possess the maturity to behave appropriately, to not try and start a war, and restrictions shall be lifted.”
Thin lips rose in a smirk. “It is rather more akin to being ‘grounded’ as the muggles say these days, than being held prisoner.”
Harry blinked. “Grounded. Guardian. Dear God, are you fucking serious? You really are trying to adopt me. You?”
“Lord Gaunt is going to become your legal guardian, yes. You can imagine how willing the Ministry is to rush along the paperwork. I should receive the final paperwork by this evening, signed and sealed by the Minister himself.”
Harry frowned. “Why, though? Why would they do that? They can’t just…just transfer kids from one adult to another, can they?”
Voldemort shrugged. “Not typically, no. But for the Boy-Who-Lived to have a safe home, where he is cherished and nourished as befits a veritable prince and bona fide hero?”
“You said no one knew!”
“Ah, forgive me. A slight exaggeration. I was forced to share your circumstances with three people in the ministry in order to have the issue of your custody cleared to my satisfaction. They are, of course, sworn to secrecy by nature of their profession; but their adherence to these oaths was ensured by ample application of threat of force and pecuniary renumeration.”
“You bribed and threatened them, you mean?”
“In common parlance, yes.”
“To get legal custody of me?”
“Yes. I already have practical custody, of course, and possession is said to be nine tenths of the law, but that last little tenth! That is what fuels endless manhunts, and why risk wasting such precious resources when you are perfectly fine?
“And as to being grounded, here is my proposal. For today and tomorrow, you have the freedom of the estate. Seren, Severus, or myself—”
“Severus?! Snape is here?”
Voldemort smirked. “Ah, yes. Young Severus is the most skilled healer in my ranks.”
Harry suddenly wanted to vomit. “He’s…he’s actually…”
“One of mine? Oh yes. Though his loyalties have been sorely tested over the years.” Voldemort’s face twisted as if he were smelling something unpleasant. “Had our encounter the other night gone differently I am not sure which side he would have chosen, between you and I. It seems his devotion to your late mother was more extensive than I originally surmised. I might have been forced to punish him rather…severely. I would have hated to lose so excellent a tool.”
“It’s disgusting how you talk about people like they’re things.”
Voldemort shrugged. “My Death Eaters took very specific vows to join my ranks, Harry. They are as much my possessions as any slave ever was to a master. They are mine to deploy, reward, punish, or dispose of. Fortunately for young Master Snape, his previous treachery turns in his favor, now that our interests align. He took vows on your mother’s soul to protect her son. Now that you are mine, and your safety is most assured with you in my care, his interests and loyalty again lie with me, more so perhaps than they ever did. And that, Harry, is a true gift for which you have my gratitude. I would have hated to dispose of someone so…talented.”
Harry shuddered, yet more conflicted than ever.
“As I was saying, one of the three of us will check on you a few times throughout the day to ensure your wellbeing. You will likely see Severus this afternoon.
“There are a few off limits areas, but they are warded against your entry. Do not worry about wandering anywhere you would get in trouble for being. Your location will be monitored however, merely so that should you experience any difficulty you can be reached quickly. Dinner will be served in the dining room at 7; I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding it.
“Ah, no flying for the rest of this week, I am afraid, but next week that may be open for discussion. There are brooms here, of course, and your firebolt is in that cupboard.” He gestured to a tall wardrobe on the far wall. “You will also find a selection of clothing, some muggle and some robes.
“If you are well enough by Friday, which I expect, I shall take you to Diagon Alley myself, to procure a proper wardrobe, and a number of other sundries of which you have been deprived for far too long. It would also be a good opportunity to meet up with your Hufflepuff.”
“God, will you stop calling him that! He’s not ‘my Hufflepuff.’ He’s just Cedric.”
Voldemort sneered. “If you insist. Behave yourself today, particularly at dinner tonight, and tomorrow you may write to invite him and his family to join us for lunch in Diagon on Friday.”
Harry stared at him in a tormented swirl of emotions. “This…this is a nightmare, or a dream, or…it’s too surreal. I just…I can’t…” It was too much! It was everything, but also the cruelest prank life had ever played on him.
“Cheer up, my Harry,” said that painfully calm, cheery voice, that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “You defeated me. Your happy ever after starts right now. You’ve won.”