Lace
A veil had fallen over his eyes, the familiar weight drawing a soft breath from his lips. The sensation was the same as all the times before. Identical in that his enemy occluded his vision; that the world ceased to exist outside of the four walls he was currently sitting within.
Why this was so?
Harry could not hazard a guess. He had tried one too many times to decipher just what it was that ran through the old man’s head, and still, Harry had yet to discern the answer. So here he was, sitting idly in the dining room, waiting for heaven knows what to happen with a bloody blindfold pressed against his eyes and no real explanation as to why.
Just a simple, “stay still,” and, “put on the bloody blindfold,” by his generous babysitter.
It didn’t matter that this was the status quo. That this was a common occurrence ever since he’d been forced into the Dark Lord’s marvelous care. It would be stupid for Harry to think that Voldemort was not planning something, that the man had no purpose for blindfolding him. Voldemort never acted without intention; Harry had seen enough memories of the Dark Lord’s younger years to know just how Voldemort functioned.
But again, the issue always went back to why. Why did the Dark Lord blindfold him every night before dinner? Why did the Dark Lord force him to eat with him at all? Harry’s stomach turned, nerves frayed. It was anxiety-inducing to not know. Completely unsettling that he had to follow along with a madman’s whims.
“Harry…how are you this evening?”
The sudden sound of the sibilant voice was enough to stand the hairs on Harry’s arms on end. It didn’t matter that Harry heard it often. It didn’t matter that every single night he would be subjected to that very same question, while blindfolded and forced to sit at the dinner table.
None of it mattered.
There was a script to be followed, one that Harry knew none of the lines for.
Bastard.
“…The same as always. Can’t say the shade of the paint changes much when you’re imprisoned in the same four bloody walls.”
Harry’s remark was scathing, full of all the vitriol he could muster within his body.
It was the only control he really had over his situation since the man had kidnapped him. He had believed the Polyjuice trick would work too, that he’d be able to slip past the Dark Lord’s non-existent nose and make it out unscathed. But that had certainly not been the case.
The whole affair had gone the exact opposite of swell, in his honest opinion. It was disturbing just how quickly Voldemort had spotted him. His malignant eyes catching his own almost instantaneously. It didn’t matter that there were at least ten different copies of himself flying through the darkened sky. None at all when the Dark Lord had managed to sniff him out like an offensive odor.
It was absurd, really. Though when was Harry’s life not a case of Murphy’s Law? When did brilliant plans not go awry in the most unexpected of ways?
Hedwig.
Harry cringed as if he’d been hit, recalling with vivid clarity how the Dark Lord had struck his most loyal companion down when she’d tried to save him. He wished he could have saved her, that he could have done something to have saved her from the killing curse he had flung at her in rage.
Harry released a soft, shuddering breath at the memory.
But there had been no time to grieve for her. No time at all in the seconds Voldemort had seized him by the throat and apparated them away. He couldn’t afford to cry and to think about her when he was in danger, when at any moment’s notice the bastard could exploit that weakness.
…So yes, Harry was more than a little bitter. Especially when he had not had even a single moment of respite to grieve for his friend. It was only fair that he take any and all opportunity to defy this man. There was satisfaction in knowing that he’d pissed off the Dark Lord, that even in a position of complete powerlessness he could still get underneath the man’s skin.
It was well worth living through the Cruciatus curse.
Harry sensed rather than saw the man’s irritation flare, the dinner table the only barrier between them as Voldemort’s fury erupted, his magic like writhing snakes lapping at his skin.
“Rude as always. I don’t suppose your upbringing allowed for such a privilege.”
Harry winced as if struck.
Wow.
Before Harry could think to say something scathing in return, Voldemort continued on as if he hadn’t been the cause of Harry’s shitty upbringing in the first place.
“Now then, I believe that your dinner is served. You should eat it while the charms are still in effect.”
Harry frowned. He’d sooner eat glass than listen to a single thing the man said. Not after a comment like that.
“Get stuffed.” Harry said instead, lips twisting into a vicious smirk when Voldemort released a sharp exhale in irritation.
Oh, he was annoyed? Good.
“You are trying my patience, Harry.” Voldemort warned, but Harry willfully ignored the threat.
“And your point is? I am your prisoner, not your minion. I don’t have to be civil to you. You killed Hedwig. You kidnapped me and nearly killed me once already. You’re bloody mad if you think‒”
“Crucio.”
Harry never finished his rant.
Harry felt his lungs completely deplete of air from the force of the spell. It was fire and ice, the warring sensations running up his skin and tugging at each of his nerve endings. Harry could not say a word, the syllables lost to the agony that suddenly pierced through each of his limbs, like knives cutting flesh, the blade stabbing deep into the bed of his fingernails.
He ached in places he’d never hurt before. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, and Harry was never more grateful of the fact that he was blindfolded then. Anything was better than showing this man weakness. Anything was better than showing just how affected he was by the strength of Voldemort’s spell.
“You will treat me with the respect. You will mind that tongue or I will mind it for you, you foolish boy.”
Harry closed his teeth around his bottom lip to stifle the scream that threatened to come up his throat. It was like a current trying to force its way through a small crack, like a dam ready to burst at any moment’s notice if left unchecked. But Harry bit until he bled, silencing the cries because he absolutely refused to give him the satisfaction.
He would not give in. He would not heel.
But then the pain grew worse. So much worse.
Harry felt his spine bend without any true control, felt the precise second he arched and threw his head back from the visceral sensation. His fingers dig into the carpeted ground for purchase, unable to recall when he had fallen onto the unforgiving floor, but uncaring of that small detail when he felt like he were being burned alive. All he could see was black, the blindfold exacerbating rather than dulling the agony, his senses attuned to every mouthful of air he sucked into his lungs. All Harry could feel was acid flowing through his veins, and he wanted nothing more than for the abuse to end.
But still, he did not scream. Even when he wanted nothing more than to ease the pressure crushing his lungs.
And then the pressure compounded on itself, the scream like bile churning in his stomach when his fingers felt though they were now being snapped one by one, like his elbows and knees were being fractured in time with each breath Harry took. It was too much, even for him to resist. He could scarcely breathe, his lungs crying out under the assault.
Please make it stop! Harry thought, before the pressure gave. Before he could no longer cling to his resistance.
Harry screamed like he never had before. No longer able to hold in the cries; the feeling of his spine being twisted and pulled was as if the magic alone would snap his spine right in half.
“Delicious.” Harry heard Voldemort speak from somewhere above him, the parseltongue like water flowing through a river. Rapid and unyielding, it broke through the whirlwind of Harry’s emotions, the agony giving way momentarily.
But the relief was short lived.
Harry cried out when he felt something latch onto the back of his head and yank painfully on his hair. A hand, perhaps? A claw? Harry did not know what it was, but all he knew was that it hurt. And that it bent his head so far back that he was sure his neck might snap in two.
“Will you obey?” Voldemort said, and Harry felt another rush of agony and hate dance within his veins. He felt acid creep up his throat, the rush enough to let him shape the words that formed along the crevices of his brain.
“N-never,” Harry gasped, barely managing to string the words together since Voldemort had yet to lift the spell drowning him in absolute misery. But Harry couldn’t just leave Voldemort’s mocking words unanswered. No, Harry had to show him just how little he valued the man’s opinion. Voldemort could just shove his statement right up his‒
“Do you enjoy being punished, Harry?”
And then the agony ceased, the magic sucking what little strength Harry had left like a black hole.
Harry collapsed onto the ground, a weak cry falling from his lips when the hand‒yes, it was Voldemort’s hand‒kept a firm grip on his hair. His neck protested at the strange angle it was bent at, his arms like heavy weights, powerless to push against the ground to relieve the pressure on his neck.
Harry was certain Voldemort had ripped several strands of hair from his head in that endeavor.
Seconds passed before Harry could compose himself. His body still shaking with the force of Voldemort’s spell, but it was loads better than being pulled under that dangerous current.
“W-what kind of bloody question is that? I definitely don’t like‒”
“I do not believe you,” Voldemort interrupted, his voice coming from somewhere directly in front of him. The Dark Lord sounded amused, like he was ready to break into laughter at any moment. It was unsettling the way Harry could tell, how the ripples in his voice could alert Harry instantly of a change in his mood.
“They bring you here under my orders. You are asked to sit and have dinner with me precisely at 7:00 o’clock sharp each evening. And yet, each time any attempt at polite conversation is rejected.”
That sounded about right. Harry would never entertain even the thought of politeness with this man. Sure, it was foolish to poke the beast as often as he did, but he couldn’t help it. Even when he tried to ignore him, his mouth could never remain perfectly shut. It was like it had a mind of its own, never listening to reason, or heeding any warnings.
Remaining silent was the smarter choice, the safer strategy in defying the Dark Lord, but just as easily as it was for Harry to get underneath Voldemort’s skin, Voldemort was just as skilled at getting underneath Harry’s. It was, to his dismay, a two-way street.
“What? Did you expect me to ask you to pass me the salt and pepper over dinner? To make small talk with the man that murdered my parents?” Harry mocked, wincing when Voldemort tightened his grip on his head in retaliation.
“Is it wise to antagonize me so? To make your stay far more unpleasant than it could be? You are fed, you are clothed, and you are allowed a room of your own. I could take all these amenities away and show you just how‒”
“Do it. Hardly matters to me what you do. The Order will find me and they will break me out. We will win.”
Voldemort’s hand stilled in his hair, his grip relaxing before disentangling from his hair entirely. Harry’s head dropped onto the ground, his cheek getting the brunt of the fall. He was certain he’d have a bruise by the end of it, if the throbbing was anything to go by.
A heavy silence fell between them.
Harry swallowed, anticipation curling in his stomach when the man had yet to speak. It was always a bad sign when the Dark Lord was quiet. It could mean one of two things. He was either plotting, or incredibly angry. And Harry was certain it would be the latter of the two.
Voldemort was angry. Harry could feel it in his bones, the way the connection between them flared to life with the rolling storm of his emotions.
It was the calm before the storm, the silence before the rage. And Harry waited for the man to explode, to curse him and drag him back to his room without dinner. As he often did.
But Voldemort did not react as Harry expected.
Voldemort laughed.
He started bloody laughing. It sounded like the Dark Lord was choking on air, like he could not help but release the strangled sounds from the strength of his delight.
Harry was floored, unnerved and unsure at what to do despite his senses screaming for him to rise from where he’d fallen on the ground. But his limbs refused to cooperate, they were like jelly after being held under the Cruciatus curse for as long as he’d been.
Could it have been a minute? Could have been an hour? Harry did not know, but before he could ask Voldemort to explain just what he found so damn amusing, Voldemort spoke.
“Harry, Harry, Harry…how charming. How naive you are.”
Harry gasped when he felt something warm dance along his nerve endings before he was forcefully lifted by an invisible force. He was floating in midair, the pit of his stomach protesting at the weightless feeling that had fallen over him while blindfolded.
Harry wished he could at least see. That he could at least know what Voldemort’s expression looked like in that second. Because Harry had been sure the man was going to curse him, not laugh at him. None of this made any bloody sense.
“The Order will not come, I can assure you of this. Your mudblood pet and your bloodtraitor friend will not be performing any sort of heroics to free you from my grasp.”
Harry’s arms prickled with unease, a full body shudder running up his spine when the man practically purred the words out like a promise. As if he was certain, as if he knew for a fact that they would not come.
What has he done? Harry thought instantly, the implication of Voldemort’s words forcing image after unpleasant image in Harry’s head.
He saw Ron’s blue, twinkling eyes shattering like glass. He saw Hermione’s dimpled smile, lips stretching too wide. He heard their laughter, and he felt their hands pressed up against his shoulders, digging their hands into his flesh. He could see them clearly behind the opaque blindfold on his face, their flesh rotting away…
And it was with great horror that Harry realized just what Voldemort had meant.
No.
“W-what did you do to them!? Where are they? What did you do?” Harry panicked, his voice desperate and angry all at once as he struggled to free himself from the force keeping him perfectly still. It didn’t matter that his stomach was protesting heavily or that he sounded like he was pleading rather than demanding the man to tell him.
Harry needed to know. He needed it more than his stomach needed food, more than his lungs needed air.
“I have done nothing to your friends. Not yet, at least.”
Harry slumped into the invisible hold, his relief so palpable that he didn’t bother to mask it.
“But they are here, and I cannot promise that they will remain unharmed. They took quite the risk infiltrating this estate…and I certainly cannot leave such an offense against me without punishment.”
“Don’t!” Harry shouted instantly, his voice echoing within the small room like there were a thousand versions of himself screaming out the word. Harry renewed his struggles, unable to keep himself still when Voldemort could potentially harm his friends. When the man didn’t sound like he gave a cared at all about whether he killed them or tortured them, or both.
Harry wouldn’t let him. He refused to let any harm come to them, not after they risked so much to save him. If Harry was tortured and hurt, he could live with this fact. He could bite his tongue and survive the suffering. But for Voldemort to torture his friends…no, it was unacceptable. Harry couldn’t stomach it, wouldn’t stand for it.
So he said the first thing he could think of. All reason be damned.
“I’ll behave. I’ll…stop being a complete arse. Just don’t hurt them, please.” The words were like battery acid on his tongue, but he meant every single word he said. He seized on the one thing Voldemort had seemed to want from him and threw it at the man in the hopes that it would work. He’d kiss the man’s feet if that meant he’d keep his friends out of trouble. If it would be enough to get them out of harm’s way.
“A compelling offer. But what makes you so sure that that is what I desire from you, Harry Potter?”
Harry swallowed at the hint of curiosity in the man’s voice. He would admit that he hadn’t thought that far in advance. The words had shot out of him without much thought, the only thing running through the back of his head the safety of his friends and the conversation they’d been having earlier that evening.
Voldemort had chastised him about his lack of politeness, had cursed him over a simple thing as mouthing off at him. Sure, Harry had seen the man kill others for less. But still, the man’s fixation with his behavior had been the first thing he’d thought of before running his mouth.
He didn’t necessarily have a reason, but he wouldn’t tell that to Voldemort. Not when this could possibly save his friends from harm.
“You bring me to the dining hall to eat with you. You blindfold me and you ask about my feelings, and my thoughts. You don’t keep me confined in a cell and you don’t starve me when you otherwise could. You haven’t killed me yet when you’ve spent most of my life trying to put me six feet under. There is something you want from me, and whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. J-just don’t harm my friends.”
Harry’s throat felt tight, the weight of his words as oppressive as Voldemort’s magic keeping a firm grasp of his body. But he had said them. He had voiced the concerns he had had from the moment he’d been captured rather than killed. He didn’t know why Voldemort had not killed him, didn’t know why Voldemort had not kept him hidden away in the dingiest cell the Malfoy’s had. Harry simply didn’t know.
He had asked the man before for an explanation, but had received none each time. Perhaps, this time, he might humor him. Maybe he might even explain what the blindfold was for. What the purpose of this whole charade was.
Harry felt clothes rustle in the dark, like the sound of a bird’s wings flapping in the air. Something cool pressed against his cheeks, and he shivered. The soft touch spread along his face, and Harry swallowed nervously when a warm finger then touched his forehead, tracing the ridges of his scar in a reverent fashion.
Harry jolted when a sharp nail dug into the skin, and he immediately tried to pull away. But there was nowhere for him to go. Voldemort’s magic held him rooted in place, unable to do nothing more than clench his fists and wiggles his toes.
Harry didn’t know what was happening.
“Sign a magical contract submitting to my terms, and I will spare your friends.”
Harry froze, disbelief clouding his senses.
No, I couldn’t possibly–
“You will swear that you will never raise your wand against me unless I have permitted you otherwise. You will swear that you will never return to your allies and that you remain in my care indefinitely.”
Harry’s breaths came quickly, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
“And you will do so tonight, or I will consider their lives forfeit.”
Harry felt his stomach turn at even the thought of serving this man. He’d rather die, he’d rather suffer through the Killing Curse and be done with it.
But he couldn’t leave his friends to die. He couldn’t.
“Spare all of my friends. Spare everyone that I care about, give them a chance to renounce themselves, even. And I’ll sign whatever it is you want me to.” Harry said desperately, and winced when Voldemort laughed silkily at his poor attempt to change some of the terms.
“And what would you give me in exchange for the lives of the other traitors? I had intended to spare the Pureblood children, so much magical blood has already been lost. But what reason do I have to spare the mudbloods fighting in this war? What are their filthy lives worth?”
Harry swallowed, unable to form an answer to his question.
What could Harry possible give him? What did he have that Voldemort could possible want? Harry was thrown.
So Harry, for the second time that day, said the first thing he could think of.
“My loyalty. I’ll give you my loyalty in exchange for their lives.” Harry said, throat tight.
Voldemort’s fingers on his scar stilled, as if considering Harry’s words.
Harry’s heart began to race when the hand finally dropped, fingers catching on his blindfold.
And then, Voldemort’s fingers tugged at the fabric, the lace falling away from his eyes to reveal bright, white light. Harry hissed in pain closing his eyes immediately to shield his eyes from the too bright light.
"Your loyalty…” Voldemort whispered, tone curious.
It was several seconds before Harry was finally able to open his eyes. He blinked away the dark spots dancing along his vision, ignoring the silence that had fallen between them once more, before he settled his gaze on Voldemort’s pale, gaunt face. His skin looked waxy underneath the white light above their heads. Harry might even say, translucent, with how readily he could discern the faint blue veins twisting underneath the flesh in spite of his poor vision.Harry was revolted by the sight, but he said nothing nor turned away.
There was nowhere for him to go, and the strange emotion glimmering within the man’s crimson eyes made it difficult to even blink.
They glittered like rubies, hints of garnet and pinks pooled within the iris. Harry, if he squinted, could almost see himself reflected in there. They were too bloody close.
“You would give me your loyalty in exchange for their lives?” Voldemort said, head tilting to one side as if he were seeing Harry for the first time.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath, fingers shaking nervously. Voldemort was too close, and there was a gleam in his eyes that did not sit well for Harry at all. He was looking at him like he were some specimen to be inspected, like he had found something particularly interesting and now could not be bothered to look away.
It took Harry longer than he’d like to gather himself, but when he did, he clenched his jaw and shot the man the most determined expression he could muster. He wasn’t feeling particularly courageous in that second, but it didn’t matter how he felt. He knew what he needed to say. He knew what he needed to do to ensure that everyone made it out alive.
“Yes. I would.”
The words felt like a death sentence, strange and foreign on his tongue. But Harry wouldn’t have it any other way, would have said nothing else in that moment. He would do whatever it took to protect his friends. Even if it meant selling his soul to the Dark Lord.
Voldemort’s expression froze for a moment, and then, just as Harry was about to lose his mind, a slow smile spread along the man’s lips.
It was the most terrifying thing Harry had ever seen in his life. Single-handedly more frightening than Bellatrix’s maniacal grin when he had his unfortunate run in with her at the Ministry of Magic.
Harry felt rather than saw Voldemort’s magic flare out, the power of it like the heat of the scorching afternoon sun. He shuddered, feeling the waves of magic lap at his skin before settling over his eyes. Just where the blindfold had shrouded his vision mere moments earlier.
“Have I told you Harry, exactly how lovely lace looks on you?”
Harry swallowed.
What?
“Simply how you look with your eyes hidden away, the cloth’s intricate patterns woven through the material as you flounder over your meal?”
What was happening?
“Do you not want to know why it is that you are not dead? To know why I deny you the privilege of your vision when in my presence? Why I treat you better than you deserve?”
Harry was silent. He did not want to know anymore. He had been curious certainly, but the man’s eyes. They burned with a strange emotion, with something that made Harry’s skin crawl with unease.
Voldemort did not wait for him to answer, his hand instead coming up to trail pale, clawed fingers against his cheekbone.
“You are my Horcrux…your soul irrevocably intertwined with my own,” Voldemort hissed, the parseltongue dancing along his senses. Harry froze, his disbelief and horror exploding so viciously that Harry did not know when one emotion began and the other ended. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
But how was it that Harry could sense Voldemort’s thoughts? How was it that he could see into his head as if he were living through Voldemort’s flesh? Dumbledore’s explanation had been unsatisfactory back then. Perhaps, this was what Dumbledore had not wanted to tell him. A burden that he did not think Harry was ready to bear.
Merlin, this couldn’t be true. But the weight of his words felt more oppressive than the magic restraining him. It felt more constricting, more suffocating than any shackles Voldemort could put on him.
No.
“My emotions, my thoughts, my dreams are as much a part of you as they are mine. I own you, Harry Potter. Far more completely than anyone could ever dream,” Voldemort said in English then, caressing Harry’s quivering cheek in a reverent fashion. Slow and fluid, like death kissing along warm skin.
Harry felt like he might be sick. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have a piece of‒
Harry’s mouth trembled, but he couldn’t find the words.
“And here you are, contrary and resistant. Fighting the connection that grows stronger with each passing day you reside here…”
Voldemort’s fingers slipped away from his cheek, moving past his ear to thread through his hair. Harry shuddered at the strange, ticklish sensation, mouth parting open to tell Voldemort to stop.
But the words died in his throat when Voldemort then leaned in so close that there was only a hair’s breadth of space separating their lips, the proximity nearly making him cross-eyed.
“Nothing delights me more than conquering you, than watching you fumble and rely on your Lord when I have stripped you of your vision. As poor as it already is without my own influence.”
Voldemort was mad. He was completely, totally, absolutely mad. Harry thought in that second, horror seizing him completely when the man inhaled deeply, eyes closing momentarily as if he were relishing this moment.
Merlin, please.
“And now here you are, begging me to spare the lives of these vermin in exchange for your loyalty. Are they worth the price to be paid? Are they worth your pride and your freedom?” Voldemort asked, and Harry tried not to gasp when Voldemort’s firm grip on his head tightened, their lips nearly brushing.
Harry could taste Voldemort’s breath on his tongue, like freshly spilled blood and frozen air seeping through the cracks of an icebox. And he wanted nothing more than to pull away from this, than to tell Voldemort to fuck off.
But he didn’t. This was a test. Voldemort wanted a specific answer from him, wanted to show him just what it entailed to give up his agency for the lives of his friends and perfect strangers. He knew his answer, even before Voldemort had asked him the question.
“Yes.”
Just one word was enough to change everything in that second.
Harry watched Voldemort’s restraint shatter, noted the second bright red eyes exploded with triumph and his lips curved into a pleased grin. His magic erupted around him, the current overtaking Harry completely.
“A fine choice, my Horcrux.”