Chapter 5
Harry's head was spinning.
Sound seemed disjointed and far away, the world swaying. His vision was blurred, and he wasn't aware of when he hit the floor - narrowly avoiding the puddle of vomit. The ground felt mercifully cool against his cheek.
He was vaguely aware of shouts of panic erupting around the room. Of a hand pressing against his shoulder, another sliding around down his waist.
The nausea continued to bubble in his throat.
In a remote part of his brain, he remembered he'd splashed upchuck on Tom's polished shoes, and wanted to giggle in a hysterical sort of way. The arms tightened around him, wrenching him away from the wonderful cold solidness beneath him.
The Dark Lord had probably already vanished it anyway.
It took him the moment after that to realize he must have, because the arms braced around his torso were painfully familiar. His head lolled back, leaden.
Tom looked so different now. He'd thought it before, and he'd think it again. It struck him every time he had to look at the man. He was recognizable as the handsome boy he used to be, but he looked even more like marble than ever. Pale as death, and those eyes - and god he'd loved those eyes - were now that bloody crimson. He was thinner, taller, skeletal and sharp around the edges. But Harry supposed he should be glad that Riddle was even humanoid. He smelled the same though. Like winter air and lightning, if such thing was possible within a man or a monster.
Harry's each breath sounded too loud in his mouth.
"What have you done?" he rasped. He raised bleary eyes, to see the room in a similar state of disarray to himself. Sick, clammy, ashen faces and humiliation and panic.
Fingers carded through his hair. Each soft press of the hand seemed to vibrate down the strands, settling in his nerves and sinking electric down his spine.
Bastard.
"Oh, nothing," Tom said. "The Truce Treaty wouldn't allow that, would it?"
"And yet you're the only one not affected," Harry spat, chest heaving.
"Lucky coincidence." The dark wizard sounded far too innocent for him to believe it. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get the world to tip back to normal. He wanted to shove Tom-Voldemort away from him, because this was mortifying enough already. The awful thing was that he had a feeling that if the git wasn't holding him up, that he'd be on the floor again.
He couldn't remember the last time he felt this ill and disorientated, and he'd been front-lining a war for years.
God, he felt like he was dying. Maybe he was. He was shaking violently, and felt devastatingly fragile. He despised it. With everything that had happened he'd learnt to loathe weakness, especially when in the company of Tom. That decided it.
He shoved at Riddle's hands, to get the man off.
...It seemed utterly ineffectual as the man hauled him up to his feet instead, arm still clinched in a way that Harry wasn't sure was meant to be steadying, or possessive.
He couldn't think straight. Could barely concentrate on anything but how much he felt like he was going to throw up again.
He could feel each thud of his heart in his chest. Too loud in his ears, almost deafening.
What the hell was happening to him?
He didn't want to die.
Maybe he was overreacting. He'd survived worse than what was quite possibly just a bad bout of food poisoning.
But it was sudden, it was alarming – and though he didn't like to think it, terrifying.
He had no idea what to do. What was causing it. Who was causing it. Anything! That type of ignorance led to murder and the loss of everyone he loved.
But if he was pointing fingers, he was going to make a bet on Lord Bloody Voldemort. Which really didn't make him more comfortable with the fact that he was all but cradled in the other's grip.
"Ugh, you would poison your enemies," he scowled. "Scared to fight me? I always was the better fighter." Black spots danced in his vision. Voldemort's face swum above him, eyes bright with an odd shine. Feverish. Mad bastard.
"You're even more deluded than normal."
"You have an army and you still haven't caught me."
"Maybe you just weren't my number one priority anymore."
Harry gave another laugh at that, though he had a horrible feeling that it sounded a little choked. God, his head was pounding. Voldemort didn't make it any better.
"I was never your number one priority, Tom. That spot is reserved for what you love."
It was almost a blessing to feel his vision tunnel, and black out.
It was always strange seeing Harry truly incapacitated - even after all these years.
Normally, injury only made his former lover more vicious. It made him fight back harder, lash out more strongly and with greater stubbornness. Spewing vitriol and any verbal defence he could think of.
But...sometimes, when it got really bad for him, and he was beyond the limit of exhaustion and physical endurance...this happened. His barriers dropped completely, all of his strength collapsed inwards to his core and everything else was left exposed. Seemingly defenseless. Defenseless in everything but that which mattered most.
He seemed to shrink into as small a target as possible.
He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Harry like this.
He scooped the unconscious man up, fingers sliding over his pulse, his own expressive impassive as Harry remained limp in his arms.
The word still rang in his head.
I was never your number one priority, Tom. That spot is reserved for what you love.
He felt sick. It was whatever had been in the food. He hadn't eaten much - didn't need as much nowadays, with everything. He slept less too. He was too busy to sleep, anyway. A utopia didn't run nor establish itself.
The pale sickness just didn't show on him. He was as pale anyway, so there was no further pallor left to be struck. He could feel himself starting to sweat though. His head pounding.
Something was happening here. That much was obvious. He wished he could say he'd been the one to set it up. It was better than the alternative of being duped.
He knew Harry thought he was behind this. It was even a reasonable deduction, considering at that point to Harry's fevered eyes he probably had seemed unaffected.
It infuriated him still.
I was never your number one priority, Tom. That spot is reserved for what you love.
With Harry unconscious in his arms, he scooped him up the rest of the way, as best as he could. Slung him inelegantly over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. He had no energy to spare for a more graceful position.
The world swayed rather alarmingly.
But he was not collapsing here. He would not leave himself so vulnerable to whoever had planned this.
His eyes darted narrowed across the occupants, searching for someone unaffected. Or less affected. Faking it, somehow. There was nothing obvious.
He suppose he had expected it to be difficult. Anyone who could pull off poisoning a room full of world leaders was intelligent.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Tightened his grip, because leaving a head behind would probably not be the best thing and...no.
He couldn't apparate. Not like this.
It was taking all of his effort to stay upright for two people. Of course, he could just leave Potter to die from blood poison. Then he would only have to concentrate on transporting himself.
Certainly, Harry Potter was a threat that needed to be disposed of. He'd been saying that for years now. He could do it now. He should.
The second he was out of the truce zone, he should snap the man's neck.
Harry was a traitor. He'd betrayed him, turned his back on him - and such a crime would have been unforgivable even if they hadn't spent the last four years leading opposing forces.
But the resistance was all but crushed already. Harry didn't need to die.
Merlin, his head was splitting.
Harry didn't need to live either. He was an inspiration to rebellion so long as he continued to breathe. Trouble. Too dangerous in his potential.
He staggered out of the building, and onto the streets of Wizarding Paris. Passers by had barely turned to look at them - in confusion, then quickly realization that bled to fear as they recognized him. He didn't spare a glance back before slamming a hand down on his personal portkey.
"My Lord!" He heard the alarmed greeting immediately. The scatter of activity around him. His eyes moved around the room nearly blindly, and Harry tumbled out of his grip onto the table. He barely stopped himself from stumbling.
"What happened?"
"Are you alright?"
"Is that Potter?"
"What happened?"
"What happened?"
It was all too much.
The room was spinning. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from throwing up in front of his followers, hastily summoning what he thought the antidote might be.
"Don't let him die."
Unconsciousness soared up to meet him.
Harry wasn't sure where he was when he woke up - and that was enough to instantly have him on edge.
It felt like his insides had been scrambled. His eyelids felt heavy and glued shut, as he blinked up at the ceiling. There was something cool resting on his forehead, soothing his hammering head.
His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mind. Sluggish all over. Fragile.
Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was - oh. His brow furrowed, fingers stroking along the edges of an emerald green duvet.
"Awake, I see."
His gaze swept over the blond sitting primly next to his bedside.
Abraxas Malfoy.
His shoulders stiffened. Whilst seeing Abraxas, or indeed any of his old group, was always going to leave an ache in his chest, it wasn't as bad as seeing Tom. He'd grown desensitized to some of them. To the friends left that now hunted him down like a dog.
His lips pressed thin.
If there was debate for who Lord Voldemort's Lieutenant was, Abraxas was high on the list as a candidate.
Harry opened his mouth to say something scathing, only for the blond to thrust a cup of water in his direction. He studied it suspiciously, and he could have sworn Malfoy's eye twitched.
"I assure you, it is not poisoned," the man said haughtily. "I merely have no desire to see you rasp at me."
Harry cast a few detection spells, even if the effort had him sagging back against his pillows again, exhausted. He took a few slow sips. It seemed safe enough.
He would ask where exactly he was, but unfortunately he could make a few educated guesses.
"Pretty nice for a prison cell. I can't imagine you're too thrilled to play jailor, though."
"You're number one most wanted for a reason. Better someone who knows what you're capable of. You have something of a track record for being slippery."
"Slippery," Harry echoed. His gaze raked over the man. The four years seemed to have hardly aged Malfoy. Then again, he supposed none of them were really that old. Barely out of a school, with murder and blood and war already on their hands and past. "That's rich, coming from you. How come Alphard isn't here then? Did you draw the short straw?"
He didn't think it would ever come to this.
He still remembered the days when he sat in the common room battling Malfoy in Gobstones, and cards, and wit - now it was another playing field entirely. With people as the pawns and pieces and it was never supposed to come to this.
Oh god, it was never supposed to come to this.
Malfoy's lips thinned.
"Alphard has a soft spot that is better not to indulge in this matter," Abraxas said coldly. Harry gave a faint laugh at that, mirthless.
"Right. Yes. And you, ever the professional backstabber, would happily see me thrown into Azkaban and executed for my beliefs."
"You're the one who turned traitor and ran, Harry."
The tone was even enough, but he knew the pureblood well enough to note how brittle it was. To see the mercurial flickers of his eyes. Harry gave a soft snort, running his hand over his face.
"I will not fight for something I don't believe in."
"Apparently you won't fight for the people you believe in either," Malfoy stated. Harry's eyes narrowed, fixing on the other man again. He shoved himself up into a more dignified position, despite the quiver of his exhausted muscles. It took everything to do so, then he sagged against the headboard.
It would have to do for this battle. And he could feel the battle in the air. He could always feel the battle in the air when it came to Abraxas Malfoy. The challenge, the disappointment; and most of all the screaming silent accusation of how Harry had left them all, abandoned them all.
He popped in another ice chip to avoid immediately responding, and Abraxas' eyes flared in triumph. And then something else entirely.
"You don't deserve him," Malfoy said, very quietly.
Harry swallowed, cold searing down his throat as he performed nonchalance.
"Where is our beloved tyrant anyway?" he asked. "Planning his victory party? The slaughter of thousands?"
"You don't care?" Abraxas raised his brows, jaw tightening. "And you say we're the cold ones."
"Care about what?" Harry snapped. For the first time, there was even a hint of expression on the purebloods face, which certainly said something for his surprise.
"...you don't know."
"What don't I know?"
"The Dark Lord is ill. Just like you. He's recovering from severe blood poisoning. He's not going to be planning much of a victory party when he's dying."
Harry's heart dropped out of his chest, eyes widening. He was immediately bolt upright in bed.
"He's dying?" He didn't recognize his own voice. It sounded hollow. "What the hell do you mean he's dying? Tom can't be dying. Where is he?" He forced the duvet away from his still slightly shivering form, feet swinging over the side of the bed.
When his feet pressed against the floor as he stood up - too quickly, really, considering he'd apparently just been poisoned himself - he immediately stumbled. Knees buckling under the weight.
Malfoy was pointing a wand at him immediately, even as he lunged to catch hold of his arm.
"Sit down," the man hissed. "Idiot."
"I'm not just going to lie in bed whilst he dies," Harry snapped. After all...he could guess who'd brought him here, and if Tom had been sick too at the time….
He should want the man dead. After everything that he'd done, and with everything he stood for…
He wanted Voldemort dead. Too much had happened between them for him to seriously wish that on Tom. Maybe he was just weak.
"Why do you even care?" Malfoy returned. "You're the one who left. Not him."
"Because, I-" he stopped himself. Squeezed his eyes shut. "You really think it's that simple?" His voice cracked. "Really?"
"No," came another voice. "But it never was simple between us." Riddle's tone was unbearably smug. Harry wanted to hit something; his gaze sliding over.
Voldemort came to lean on the door, eyes intent. Harry's teeth gritted.
"Let me guess, you're not really dying," he bit out.
"I was. But I have very good healers, so not for very long. I admit I'm touched to find such a vehement reaction in my defense though," the bastard purred.
All of the worry dissipated, the fear - leaving fury in its place all over again.
"I merely wouldn't wish to lose the opportunity to kill you myself."
"I'm sure that's true," Tom said. He was still damn well smiling, as he made his way over. "Thank you, Abraxas. I'll take it from here."
Malfoy nodded, standing up - utterly expressionless as always.
"As you wish, My Lord."
The pompous twat had probably been in on it too. He was such an idiot.
Harry didn't look away from Tom, even as he heard the door shut behind Abraxas. To look away felt like failure, a concession of sorts. Voldemort sank into the seat Malfoy had vacated.
"Going to kill me whilst I'm in no state to defend myself?" Harry spat. His cheeks felt hot, the back of his neck burning.
"That would rather defeat the purpose of saving your life in the first place. Do lie down before you hurt yourself, Harry. You're rather significantly smaller and more human than me. You've been unconscious and fevered for the last three days."
Three days! He needed to get back to his resistance. They were probably worried and hell knew what had happened his absence. The second he tried sitting up again, Riddle had darted forward, hand pressing against his throat.
"Oh no, no," the dark wizard continued. "Don't try and get up again on my account. As impressive as your duelling skills are, you are currently not in much of a state to break out of my home. I have very good wards."
Yes, but he'd always been uncannily good at getting around Tom's wards, hadn't he? It was the Parseltongue.
He was surprised he was in Voldemort's home rather than his prison though. Then again, this could be just as much of a prison as anywhere else, however gilded and well-wallpapered the bars were.
"Unless you intend to keep me on the brink of death for the rest of my life, you realize there's no way you can realistically hold me here?" Harry countered, chin jutting up. "Whilst you've been paper-pushing legislations behind a desk, and playing politics, I've been spending every day of the last four years fighting for my life. I swear I will tear this place apart if I have to."
"That's my boy."
Those words, more than anything, made Harry flinch. Then he wanted to growl in fury, because flinching visibly was never part of the plan.
"I'm not your anything anymore," he said, instead. "Haven't been for a long time now. Except maybe your enemy."
Voldemort merely hummed.
"Now we both know that's not quite true," the other murmured. Those eyes remained vicious, for all the soft-spokenness of his tone. "But regardless. I am here on another matter than your resistance. The only reason I bother about them at all is because of you. They're irrelevant-"
"Oh, by all means, let me get back to them then. I mean, if they're not a threat to you, if we're not a threat to you-"
"-Are you not interested in who poisoned us? Who poisoned every single member of a truce conference seemingly without detection?" Harry's mouth ran dry. Voldemort's grip tightened on his throat for a moment. "That's what I thought. So have another ice chip and hold your tongue, for now. This is bigger than us."
Harry's eyes narrowed, and he plucked the man's hand off his neck and set it to the side with steely fingers, but nonetheless stayed put.
Close up, he could see the effects of poison – now that his own mind was clearer. The exhaustion. The fact that Riddle had sat down by his bed and not moved all that much after that. Whilst Tom had never been as prone to manic energy levels as he himself, who had a bad habit of constantly moving and fidgeting, this was still even for him.
"You're suggesting an alliance," Harry said, skipping forward in the conversation. It wasn't like he needed to actually hear it. Four years and a million changes could never put him that out of touch. He knew how Tom worked. It was how, despite everything, that the resistance was still limping along.
Voldemort inclined his head.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It wouldn't be the first time we came to such a truce."
No, such a truce, to Tom, had been how all of this started. Two half-bloods in Slytherin, who came to rule it. A romantic would paint it as a fairy tale and cut off the ending at a kiss.
Sometimes, Harry wished real life would do that too.
"Then let's hope this one turns out better."
It was going to be interesting, at the very least.