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Chapter Text

10th July, 1996

It was a humid summer night, the sun just over the horizon, the roads gleaming with the reflective light of the streetlamps, when life for one unfortunate Harry Potter was about to change forever.

Aunt Petunia was away since the afternoon, carrying out her weekly grocery shopping ritual, while Dudley was no doubt terrorising the local children with his friends, as was protocol for the burly boy every summer. Which meant the only two occupants of 4 Privet Drive currently were Uncle Vernon and Harry.

His uncle was sitting on the couch in the living room, watching the telly while Harry was watering the plants in the breakfast nook because he knew that if he didn’t do it before Petunia returned she was never going to shut up about it, when there was a tapping noise at the window of the sunroom.

Harry winced as he looked over and saw an unfamiliar brown owl, knowing already that his unbearable uncle was going to lose his marbles if he noticed it. He carefully placed down the watering can and padded over to the window, opening the latch as quietly as he could but of course it made a horrible screeching sound-

“Not in the kitchen with that freakish business you won’t!” Apparently his uncle took notice of the bird, Harry thought as he closed his eyes in resignation. Great.

“It’s just a letter, it’s not going to kill us.” He muttered bitterly, not even looking over his shoulder as he untied the note from the owl’s leg, after which the bird took off swiftly. 'I wish it did', Harry thought viciously, after the year he had, maybe it would be for the best.

“Do not backtalk me, boy-“

Harry ignored the vitriol spilling from Vernon’s mouth in favour of turning over the letter in his hands, immediately recognising the looping cursive of the brief note, even if it was surprising to hear from the headmaster after being ignored for the entirety of the past year. He supposed it was different now..

Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, I’m merely hoping to let you know that I will be visiting you in two days time, as I have a small favour to ask of you.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Ps.: I suggest packing your bags.

Well. He was hoping this letter found Harry well? How could he be well after what happened? After Sirius-

No.

Jamming the note in his pocket, he turned around, wanting to retire to his room to escape the wrath of his uncle, only to come face to face with the man, the dining table the only barricade between them. He was still shouting.

Oh, well.

 “-not be talking with your other freaks while you’re living in my house! I will not have you-“

“It’s from Dumbledore, he’s coming here two days from now.” Harry cut in apathetically, not in the mood for his uncle’s tangents. “You won’t have to worry about my freakishness after that.” Even though he didn’t know how he currently felt about the headmaster, he was glad the man was going to take him away from here.

“That aberrant old man is not stepping a foot inside my house, I had it with you trying to ruin everything for us!” Spat Vernon as his face turned a truly fascinating shade of fuchsia. Clearly, he was still reeling from the humiliation of almost being sacked from his job yesterday.

That did not mean Harry had to bear the brunt of the man’s fury though. He made to get around the table and leave the room, but Vernon’s hands came down on his shoulders with startling force, turning him to face his raging scowl.

“Do not ignore me, you insolent freak! Who do you think you are?!”

Truthfully, Harry planned to remain stoic against the unbearable man, far too emotionally depleted to care, but as usual, his uncle was getting on his already fraying nerves.

“What do you want me to do? I didn’t ask for him to come here!” Frankly, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the old man now...

“You and your lot are making us look like a bunch of hobos! I will not have you tarnish the family’s reputation!” Vernon’s eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his hands on Harry’s shoulders keeping him in a tight grip.“Ever since you showed up on our doorstep you’ve been nothing but trouble!”

He really didn’t want to listen to this right now. Why couldn’t he just shut up?

“Ruining our image, while we graciously allowed you into our home, only for you to be a useless freak!-”

Useless? He’s been doing every ridiculous chore in this house since he was four! Oh, how he wished this walrus would choke…

The man was pacing in front of him now, shaking with rage and pointing chubby fingers at him.

“-I always told Pet, we should have just gotten rid of you years ago-“

“That one’s getting a bit old, Vernon, at least come up with something new if you’re trying to piss me off!” Harry spat back at him, now seething. 'How dare this failure of a man talk to me like that?'

“-And now you’ve brought your evil wizard upon us, if he ever comes knocking I’ll gladly hand you over! He would be doing a favour to us all if he killed you-“

“Like he wouldn’t just murder you too, you delusional arsehole!” Harry didn’t want to deal with this right now, why couldn’t he just shut up? If only he could use his wand..

“Maybe he would make an exception, it’s you that he wants, God knows why! You worthless waste of space, putting us all in danger!-”

The lights were flickering above Vernon’s head, a gust of wind sweeping through the kitchen. Harry couldn’t think straight, his uncle’s shouting making his ears ring, a rage festering within him. Is there a way to tie his vocal cords? Anything to make him shut up at this point..

“Your parents too, a bunch of lunatics-“

“Shut up! You don’t get to talk about them!”

“I get to talk about anyone I want in my house, boy! Pet’s been too soft with you-“

“I don’t care, just SHUT UP!” Harry didn’t even know why, but the moment Vernon brought up his parents, he just couldn’t take it anymore. The devastation of the last few weeks welled up in him, overflowing.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, boy! You’ll be starving for the rest of the summer, I assure you-“

“SHUT UP!” He couldn’t anymore, the whole world was swimming in red, the pictures on the walls rattling, the world tilting on its axis with his rage-

“Pet might not say it, but we all wish you died that day with your wretched, depraved parents-“

Harry made an inarticulate snarl at the back of his throat as his right hand came down with a decisive strike, just wanting the despicable old man to stop talking-

And he did.

Quiet reigned in the kitchen for a single second, the world stopping in its tracks, before Vernon fell on his back, landing on the carpeted floor next to the dining table.

Harry stared, not comprehending the rapidly unfolding events in front of him as his uncle started making a horrible gurgling noise, the carpet turning crimson under his rotund frame.

This couldn’t possibly be happening.

With heaving breaths of the too cold air, the green eyed boy edged closer to his uncle’s flailing body, not believing, because he couldn’t have done that-

A deep, red cut stretched across Vernon’s throat, leaking copious amounts of blood, the man himself paler than Harry’s ever seen him-

“No! No. No-“ He was kneeling beside Vernon before he knew it, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was so much-

“Vernon, stay with me, I’ll fix it-“ But his uncle wasn’t paying attention, staring up at the ceiling, his chest barely rising, suffocating, drowning and Harry didn’t know what to do- 

His hands were coated in blood, and so was everything around him, he’s never seen this much before, and the man before him was dead. Dead. Dead like Sirius, like Cedric, like his parents and everyone else- he couldn’t breathe- He did this.

'I killed him.'

The truth settled heavy in his stomach, like the weight of final judgement. There was no coming back from this. What was he supposed to do? 

Aunt Petunia would be back soon.

The thought was like ice water down his back, electrifying. What was he supposed to do?

He got up on shaking legs, looking around desperately but to no avail. He wished to be cleansed of his sin, he couldn’t bear to look down and see the red, the rich, deep hue mocking him with its macabre beauty.

'I just want it gone-'

Gone.

Why did his magic have to pick today to listen to him? He didn’t even know he could manage a wandless Diffindo…

'I have to get out of here.'

Harry didn’t know what he would do, if someone found out about this- They couldn’t know.

'Think, Harry, think! What would Hermione do?'

She would never do this.

Regardless.

Running a shaking hand through his hair, Harry attempted to find a way out of this situation. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t afford for the Order to find out about this, his friends would never look at him the same way. He needed them. They were all he had.

Would the Ministry know? It was wandless, they couldn’t track it, but someone was bound to come sniffing. He was not going to Azkaban. He refused.

Oh Merlin, what was he supposed to do with the body? He couldn’t use magic to get rid of it, he didn’t have enough control over his wandless abilities, but there was no way he could clean this up the muggle way-

He could just stage a kidnapping?

He was already going to run away, that’s for sure, so what if he made it look like he’d been taken? The Order would assume some Death Eaters had killed Vernon, even if entering the property should be impossible. After all, what was more believable? He or them?

Oh god, he was no better than a Death Eater…

His friends would be devastated of course, maybe they would even worry for him, but he couldn’t risk them finding out about this, about how he was no better than the people they’re supposed to be fighting.

He needed to get out of here, and quick.

Careful not to step in any more of the blood drenching the carpet below him, he made for the stairs, entering his room in a haste to pack the essentials. A few changes of clothing, the meagre Galleons he had leftover from his previous year -not enough- the Marauder's Map, his wand and lastly, his Invisibility Cloak, which would be key to getting out of this place.

Heart thundering, whole body shaking, he tried to think his way through the situation while standing stock-still in his room, the moonlight shining through his window.

First, he let Hedwig out of her cage, telling her to fly around for a few days before going to The Burrow, careful to leave her cage and window opened, as if she had gotten free herself.

He could not stop to think and feel because he knew if he did, he would fall apart.

'Focus, Harry.'

The Order was supposed to be patrolling around his house this year as well, and no doubt he’s gained a few watchful Death Eaters for company too. That meant the only way he could sneak away from 4 Privet Drive was if he used his Cloak and avoided the front door.

Unfortunately, that meant he would need to reenter the kitchen to leave through the sunroom, no matter how much he wished to never set his sight on the nauseating display of his uncle’s body ever again.

How did this happen?

After making sure his room looked adequately suspicious, his possessions still all around the space, Harry crept down the stairs once more, donning the Cloak in case one of his relatives chose that moment to enter the house.

As dubious luck would have it though, he was still harrowingly alone, with only his uncle’s cold, dead body for company.

Before crossing the threshold of the kitchen Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself as much as he could for what’s about to greet him, though it did nothing to assuage his guilt and his nerves.

The low light of the kitchen made the chandelier above the dining table glint beautifully, reflecting a kaleidoscope of soft colours against the far wall, the pinks morbidly complimenting the blood red of the massacre in the centre of the room.

The telly still going in the corner of the living room made the buzzing in Harry’s ear lessen, the normalcy of it contrasting with every other horror currently contained within the space.

He made his way through to the sunroom on shaky legs, knees almost giving in from the adrenaline. Backpack on his shoulder, wand in pocket and the Cloak already over him, he crept out into the backyard, into the warm summer evening air.

There was a small garden gate off the side of the house, which Harry easily jumped over, mindful not to disturb it, lest somebody sees a door moving on its own accord.

And he was free.

Now what?

Knight Bus?

Did he have any other options? It’s not like he had his Firebolt, that would have been too suspicious to take.

And anyway, where was he supposed to go? After all, he couldn’t just stay at the Leaky, if he did, he was sure he would get kidnapped for real.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t take up residence in a less well-known establishment in Diagon or Knockturn though.

Making up his mind, Harry made his way down to Magnolia Road, not wanting to tip off even the Knight Bus about where he came from. He stopped beside a streetlight at the side of the road before carefully removing his Invisibility Cloak. Unfortunately he couldn’t get on the bus if Stan was unable to see him. 

Heart thundering in his chest, he pulled the hood of his jumper over his head in a last attempt at anonymity, desperately hoping that the conductor wouldn’t be too interested in the identity of a haggard looking teenager.

When no-one appeared out of thin air to make an attempt on his life, Harry released a breath of air, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly before he packed away the Cloak and stuck his wand out to summon the vehicle.

It came into view rather quickly and Harry counted his blessings when Stan didn’t even glance twice at him while giving him a ticket. As the purple contraption took off, Harry found himself alone with his thoughts for the first time that evening.

He was still in this disbelief over what happened, but he was horrified to find that the guilt he felt over the events had more to do with being the executioner than the simple death of his uncle. He has always hated him, the man treated him worse than dirt, and Harry was hard pressed to think of his demise as a loss to the world. Maybe he proved the Dursleys right with murdering Vernon about magicals, about how they were right to fear him and his kind, but then again, Harry just didn’t care anymore. Not after Sirius, not after the year he’s had.

Harry continued to be absorbed in his thoughts as he got off the bus and made his way through the Leaky Cauldron with his head hung low. He blamed himself, of course, for what happened at the Ministry, if he stopped to think for even a moment, maybe he would’ve realised it was a trap. His friends wouldn’t have had to suffer and his godfather wouldn’t have had to sacrifice himself to protect him if only he had been more vigilant.

He pulled the Cloak over himself before stepping into the quiet of Diagon Alley, looking around for an inn or the like. His thoughts went a mile a minute around and around, coming to the conclusion again and again that he was just not good enough. He needed to be smarter if he wanted to keep his meagre loved ones alive, and if keeping himself away from them was the way to do that, Harry was more than ready to oblige. 

He came to a halt just at the entrance of Knockturn Alley, and looked up at the shabby building before him. The dilapidated dark brick walls and grimy windows didn’t exactly give an inviting impression, but that’s what Harry needed. Peering up, he read the sign above the entrance, which said Msaw Ætare. Not a place he has ever heard of, but who was he to ask questions? 

He made his way up the steep stairs and entered through the creaky front door, moving into the gloomy reception area. Harry got the distinct impression that this place catered to a more nocturnal clientele, not just from the macabre decoration but from the fact that the receptionist was definitely a vampire.

It was perfect, really. These people would not care for who he was, if they ever realised it and aside from the mild risk of being dinner, it was the safest he could be in the immediate area.

With that in mind Harry requested a room from the moody clerk and climbed up the spiral staircase to the utmost floor and as silently as he could, claimed his room for himself. It was a small space, rectangular in shape, with dark plum walls, a fireplace and a bed. No windows though, not that that was surprising, vampires were sensitive to that kind of stuff. He counted himself lucky that at least, his room came with an en suite, the door to which could be found on the right side of the fireplace.

This was inarguably the worst part, because, as it was nearing 8 pm at this point, he could only go to Gringotts to get more money tomorrow, and so until then, he could do nothing. Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared morosely into the crackling fire. 

One simple misstep and his whole life was up in flames. He never really appreciated it before, how magic had a funny way of turning everything upside down in the matter of seconds. He could under no circumstances return to the Dursleys ever again, sure, he knew that. The police were probably already there too. But what about everywhere else?

It was July, what was he supposed to do for the rest of the summer? And that’s assuming he would be going back to Hogwarts in September, but that was quickly turning into a moot point as well. 

Harry put his head in his hands, tugging at his fringe, berating himself for being such a hotheaded fool. If he had even a semblance of composure, this wouldn’t have happened!  

He could go to Grimmauld Place, but he was only going to entertain the idea if he truly turned desperate, as he would rather be literally anywhere else, this soon after Sirius’ death. Not to mention how that’s the first place the Order would be looking for him. Even if he denied involvement in Vernon’s murder, his Occlumency shields were nonexistent and if Dumbledore figured it out, then they would be right back where they were a year ago, or worse, with the headmaster convinced he was being influenced by Lord Voldemort. 

Oh, if only that was the truth. But no, this was all Harry, and the most disgusting, repulsive part of it was that he didn’t even feel that bad, not as much as he knew he should have. Sure, he was ashamed, even contrite, but not regretful, the man got what was coming to him. If only his actions didn’t have any consequences.

As it were, they did, and he had to deal with them now. Standing up, Harry decided a nice, hot shower could probably make him feel clean of his choices and made his way to the bathroom. Tomorrow, he would figure everything out, he promised to himself.

Meanwhile, at 4 Privet Drive, a flurry of activity was taking place, the house overflowing with muggle authorities and nosy neighbours meandering at the edge of the property. Albus was standing Disillusioned off to the side with Minerva, Remus and Tonks, the latter two tasked with keeping an eye on Harry that day. Clearly, something went dreadfully wrong here. 

Upon arriving after Remus’ distressed Patronus claiming police were at the house, Petunia denied them entry with tears streaming down her face. It was only from the murmurs of the crowd that they figured out what had happened, before looking through a window to see the corpse of Vernon Dursley, his head hanging on by a thread. It was truly a disturbing sight, only exacerbated by the fact that Harry Potter was, for all intents and purposes, missing.

While Albus was aware that it should be impossible for Death Eaters to infiltrate the property, there was simply no other explanation for the night’s events. The priority now, however, was not the answer to the how and the when, but the finding of young Harry, wherever he may be. Everything else would have to wait. He had already discussed with Minerva where they will start their search first. The witch was much more optimistic of their odds, but Albus feared for the worst. If Harry truly was taken tonight, he would already be well beyond their reach. 

That, of course, did not mean he would give up on the boy. He was needed, now more than ever. For the war to go on, Harry must take his rightful place in it. It would also, admittedly, be needlessly cruel to abandon such a bright young man, one who had so much potential within him, potential that could save the world.

Maybe potential wasn’t the right word.

Yes, Albus feared for the worst, in more ways than one.

Chapter Text

11th July, 1996

After a night of tossing and turning, Harry woke to a vague feeling of nausea, bitter to realise last night’s events weren’t just a surreal nightmare. In the low light of his dark room, he was acutely aware of his damnation.

He had a hard time getting out of the rickety, ancient bed, but knew that it was better to occupy himself than to spend even one more second alone in his head. Introspection could wait until he was once again sure of his reality. And anyway, as far as he was concerned, he had a full schedule, with Gringotts at the top of the list.

He got ready in the equally dim and grimy bathroom, pulled the Cloak over himself and made for the stairs. Thankfully, most patrons of Msaw Ætare were asleep by this hour, even though Harry wasn’t sure of the exact time. He could only hope that it was late enough for the bank to be open, otherwise he would be risking himself for nothing.

Even though it was an anxiety inducing process, Harry somehow, miraculously made it through both Knockturn and Diagon Alley, dodging people left and right under his Cloak, which was quickly proving to be only a temporary solution. He needed another way to remain undiscovered, invisibility was not working in his favour. And for that, he had to withdraw money.

When he stepped through the threshold of the opulent bank, he was hit with the scent of parchment and rather oddly, caramel. If the magnificent chandelier in the centre of the hall was not intimidating enough, the deathly silence sure was. Harry was suddenly grateful that he had taken off his Cloak at the entrance, because revealing himself now would have bound to draw attention, with so many goblins in the room. 

Stiffly walking up to one of the tellers, he cleared his throat, not daring to look up from within the relative safety of his ever-present hoodie. 

No answer came.

‘Of course they wouldn’t answer me.’ Harry thought resentfully, goblins were notoriously difficult on a good day, without a moody teenager plainly playing in their face. If he wanted to get any business done, he would have to surrender.

“Um, hello, I was wondering if I could withdraw some money from my account?” He asked, while he determinedly attempted to make eye contact with the goblin before him.

“Name?” The being ground out, looking for all the world like he was talking to the biggest moron on the planet.

He probably was. “Harry Potter.” He muttered, as quietly as he could-

The goblin appeared far more interested now, sitting up straight in his seat and taking a deep breath. “Mister Potter, we were wondering when you’d be visiting, considering recent events. My name is Griphook, and there are some things you should be made aware of, for a price of course.” He said the last part with a lecherous grin on his face, but Harry’s mind was firmly logged on the first segment of Griphook’s proposition.

Recent events? Which one?-

“How much money did you wish to withdraw?” Asked the goblin, clearly seeing his hesitation. “If you provide a key or wand we can get it done while I inform you of your inheritance.”

Inheritance? What? Why was this Griphook talking like all of this was terribly obvious? Why was he always so out of the loop?

He nodded his assent as he was handing his wand over, muttering a tentative “A hundred Galleons please” while he was at it.

That should be enough to tie him over for the foreseeable future. 

“Alright Mister Potter, now please follow me.”

He was taken through thin, dark wood panelled hallways before being escorted into a small office with tall, black wainscoting with golden accents on the walls. Griphook took the seat behind the desk, gesturing for Harry to take one in front of him as well. 

“The matter that needs discussing has to do with the death of your godfather, Sirius Black.” Said Griphook matter of factly. Well, no pleasantries then, thought Harry, with what he was sure was a rather constipated look on his face.

“What about him?” He ground out at last.

“He named you his heir, therefore upon his death your claim to the Black lordship supersedes that of the currently alive remnants of the family.”

“My claim? Lordship? I’m not some nobleman!”

“You are, Mister Potter. You are set to inherit two such titles at the event of your majority.” Griphook informed him with a condescending expression, like he should have known all of this already.

He took a deep breath, it wouldn’t do to act cluelessly now, it’s not like the goblin would deign himself to explain everything to him anyway. He could research the details later, he had the time.

“So what exactly comes with that?”

“If you mean your legal responsibilities, you will have to take your seat in Wizengamot once you’re of age. If you mean what comes with the Black lordship, that’s a longer list.”

“I thought it was just the house?” He could reckon at this point that Grimmauld Place was evidently left to him, but what else could there be?

“Multiple properties belong to the Noble House of Black, therefore I am unsure which one you are referring to. The will states that Sirius Black left you all of his worldly possessions, which include,” Here, Griphook withdrew a parchment from a large dossier and began to read out “Three properties in England, one in France, Brittany. The details of these can be found here.” He patted the dossier before him. “Any and all items and entities located at these properties also now belong to you.”

“What does that even mean? Like ghosts?”

Griphook gave him a thoroughly displeased look. “While yes it could be interpreted as that, it is highly unlikely that any of these buildings house ghosts. This clause usually refers to house elves.” 

Oh, Kreacher.

“The will also of course includes the Black family vaults, although only the main line’s separate one belongs to you alone, the other one you share with the rest of the family.”

‘Oh, great. I’m sharing vaults with dear Bellatrix now. And Malfoy too.’

Harry was appalled, truly.

Griphook handed him a file with the bank statements. When he peered down at them, he could hardly believe his own eyes. 3 860 530 Galleons?

Maybe he wasn’t so appalled after all.

Not that Harry ever cared that much for finances, but still. This wasn’t petty pocket change. Oh well, in any case, he wouldn’t have access to the vault for another year, so he didn’t have to ponder the matter anytime soon.

But Griphook said he had two lordships? He could hazard a guess that his own was the other, but why hadn’t anybody told him? Shouldn’t he have known about his responsibilities?

“Do I have to take my seat in Wizengamot next year then?” He asked belatedly, knowing full well he didn’t have enough knowledge about this world to make educated decisions.

“Not necessarily, you could discuss with your current proxy to only relinquish the seat to you later.” The goblin stated with a wave of his hand.

“And who would that be?” Harry snapped, a bit irritated now at how oblivious he might seem to Griphook. It wasn’t his fault no-one had ever bothered to tell him anything. The only reason he was sitting here in the first place was because he was always kept in the bloody dark! 

“Albus Dumbledore holds the Potter seat currently, to my knowledge…” the goblin trailed off, looking at him sceptically.

Of course he was, Harry huffed to himself. Who else would keep something this vital from him other than the thrice damned Headmaster of Hogwarts?

He was probably overreacting, what with the frustrations of the past few weeks, after all, he knew that Dumbledore had good intentions. He would just have to ask him, if he ever saw him again, that is.

Saying goodbye to Griphook, he left the office, collecting his pouch of Galleons on the way out. He would have to wear the Invisibility Cloak for now, at least until he got to the apothecary.

He decided that as using magic was out of the question, he would take a chance with appearance-altering potions. They were a temporary fix until he could figure something out, but they would have to do for now.

Stepping out into the warm sunlight of Diagon Alley, he let himself enjoy the relative morning peace before beginning on his trek towards Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, a place he’d rarely been to before, as he didn’t want to be seen near his usual haunts. It was further down the alley, with bottle green walls, the shop nestled between another, shabbier apothecary and a financial company of some kind called GalleLoans.

Not all apothecaries sold potions, some only ingredients, but he knew this one was vast enough to have anything he could be looking for. The interior of the shop was spacious, with vaulted ceilings and low lighting. The right side was dedicated solely to ingredients, while the far wall held a carefully curated collection of potions. Near the centre was the counter, behind which stood an elderly man, who didn’t so much as glance up at his entrance.

Walking up to the shelves stocked to the brim with phials of all shapes and sizes, Harry perused his options with a careful eye before coming to the conclusion that Hair-Dyeing Potions were most suitable and optimal for his needs.

After all, he wasn’t going to spend hundreds of Galleons on a few doses of something stronger when different coloured hair was already bound to make him unrecognisable to most untrained eyes. If someone came looking for him, their gazes were just going to slide off someone who was, say, blonde.

The thought made him shiver regardless, but anything for survival these days. 

He paid for a package of seven, each lasting five hours, before exiting the shop in search of a dark alleyway. He found one across the street, full of grime and particularly cramped, but it was perfect for taking a dosage of his purchase. It tasted cold and bitter, and he could see from the corner of his eye that his fringe took on a rather light quality.

‘Who knew that one day I would be paying to look like Malfoy?’ Harry sardonically shook his head.

He was still going to keep the hood of his jumper on, but at least this way he could appreciate more around him than just his own shoes. His fringe shielded his scar from view, so now he only had to worry about the people that would recognise him even while blonde.

As he knew most of his time was going to be spent cooped up in his room at the inn, trying to formulate a plan of action, Harry thought about how he could ease his boredom while in his self-induced captivity. Although he was never a big reader, he now had intimate knowledge of just how much information he probably lacked. It would also likely help him in the coming weeks if he knew how to defend himself even a little bit better. Maybe he couldn’t use a wand now, but if it came down to life and death it was hardly going to be a question.

Books it is.

Going to Flourish and Blotts right now wasn’t a stellar idea, the shop was far too popular and close to the entrance of Diagon Alley, but he remembered seeing a peculiar bookshop rather close to one of the many passageways leading to Knockturn. It wasn’t nearly as approachable as the ones he previously frequented, and it was also bound to have a wider variety of books to select from.

Making up his mind, Harry started on his way to the shop, though it was entirely on the other side of the Alley. He passed countless lacklustre and washed-out displays while completely absorbed in his thoughts about books he should be investing in, before he registered a particularly enchanting eyesore from the corner of his eye.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes stood tall before him, in all its bright glory. Harry’s eyes began to water just looking at it, though for once it was from the various flashes of light rather than his accursed sentimentality. The realisation that he couldn’t enter came slow and bitter, like a creeping fog hiding the sun from view. The thought of never seeing his friends again was surreal, it was incomprehensible to think that one wrong step could alter his life in such a way. He was standing on a precipice, he knew it, the person he used to be would never have been able to live with what Harry had done, yet he was still here, actively looking for ways to survive. All that didn’t change the quiet, mounting panic he was feeling from being unable to think his way out of this, though.

He couldn’t move in either direction, stuck between the condemnation he was sure to face from his loved ones and the guaranteed death waiting for him if Voldemort caught up to him.

He felt stuck, as long as he remained here, he could pretend it wasn’t real, time frozen in an act of mercy. He didn’t want to think about what would become of him a week from now, much less a month after. The daunting task of redefining himself was also shoved to the back of his mind, as long as no-one knew what he did, he could pretend he was the same, like it didn’t change him, like it didn’t break something fundamental within him. Life wasn't as simple as he imagined it before, Harry was aware of that now, he only wished this lesson came in the form of a gentle wave, instead of an unforgiving current taking him under.

Harry yearned to remain in his frozen frame of a life for just a little bit longer, in a true mockery of a magical painting, moving, but never changing. And so he made to walk past the shop he helped create and continued on his way to the bookstore.

It took him another fifteen minutes, but he found what he was looking for. Oldknowe Books was a tall, dark brick building with the word ‘UNQUIET’ plastered across the second story wall. Its unsettling air was exacerbated by its circular windows, where the muntins dividing the glass panes took on the form of spiderwebs. ‘I definitely won’t get caught here, at least by the Order’, thought Harry wryly as he ascended the stairs, only absentmindedly paying heed to the words scribbled above the doorway, ‘Ghost, Spectres, Shades and Apparations’.

Funny, they were all the same thing.

Upon entering Harry was charmed immediately. Sure, the place was.. unique, but dreamy all the same. It was cramped inside, with ornate shelves carved from dark wood, which were groaning under the weight of the many books stacked on them. The smell of incense permeated the air, with not a single soul in sight. There was a rickety staircase at the back of the room, and upon climbing it, Harry was brought to the first floor, which was in a similar condition, only even more mysterious. He noticed a pair of prussian blue silk curtains shielding what he could only assume was the stockroom or the living quarters. He dearly hoped someone was going to step through them eventually, he was not in the mood for any stealing, to say the least.

Harry began selecting some books in a dusty basket, starting with Defence. There were many tomes here he’d never heard of before, so he took his time and ended up with two thick, old volumes. He repeated the process with Charms and Transfiguration, picking one book for the former, two for the latter. While he usually had a hard time staying attentive when it came to textbooks, these looked more intriguing, and he was determined to learn from them.

It was just as he decided he would go searching for the owner that he felt called to a certain shelf. He perused it with a sceptical attitude, coming to the conclusion that most books there were related to the Dark Arts, not necessarily spellbooks, as it were, just theories and explanations. The one tome that caught his eye more than the others beside it had a vibrant red velvet cover, with the title embossed in golden thread reading ‘Blood Magick and Uses’. Harry raised his eyebrows, why on earth would he feel interested in such a thing, he did not know, but what was the harm? A little curiosity never killed no one, right?

He looked around apprehensively before swiftly chucking the thick tome in his basket, taking ‘Curses and Counter-Curses’ with it as he went, which, ironically enough, was definitely a spell book. 

Harry tried to justify it to himself that the only reason he felt compelled to read any of this was because of his desire for safety. But deep down he was painfully aware that he just wanted to understand. Understand why so many fall for the temptation, why they let it rule their lives. People go insane because of and for Dark Magic. Some say it’s only due to how addictive the branch is, but Harry didn’t think it was that simple. He knew of at least one person who was far too intelligent to just let magic take from him for nothing in return. What was so special about the Dark Arts? Harry wanted answers these days more than food even.

Speaking of.

He had to get something to eat before returning to Msaw Ætare and quickly, before the day’s traffic truly arrived at Diagon. The fact that he had absolutely no appetite held no bearing here, he wouldn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day, he needed to get something.

He expeditiously began searching for some way to pay for his purchase before happening upon a receptacle made of bones on the ground floor with a sign above it saying ‘Leave gold or guts’. Lovely. It would seem there was no need for a clerk when the establishment itself was cursed beyond comprehension.

After leaving an adequate offering Harry left the bookstore in pursuit of sustenance, locating a humble bakery which he then quickly liberated of its best goods. His backpack was so full by this point, it was fit to burst.

Harry knew it was time to return to the inn by this stage however, as the streets were rapidly filling with the day’s crowd. Even after Voldemort’s official return, with most of the vendors closing, there were enough people around for him to feel on edge in public. Sure, the north side closer to the entrance of Diagon was nearly dead, but the rest of the alley was still hanging on and people needed to buy necessities, safe or not. He still didn’t dare get any closer to the Leaky though. Best not to tempt fate.

He scurried back to Msaw Ætare in the shadows of the desolate alleyway and once he was back at the inn, without a glance at the empty front desk, ascended the spiral staircase. The moment Harry entered his room he launched himself at his bed, hugging his pillow close and lamenting his existence. He had nothing to do but read now and so he pulled the blood magic book out of his bag and began to peruse it with a cynical eye.

12th July, 1996

Severus Snape was having a truly wretched week. He thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse after the Unbreakable Vow he was forced to swear to Narcissa, but he foolishly forgot about Potter and his proclivity for ruining Severus’ life. Leave it to the boy to get himself kidnapped and place the potion master in an immensely difficult position.

On the one hand, the Dark Lord has not made any mention of this development, leaving Severus to assume either the man didn’t trust him, which would be a grave and regrettable situation indeed, or, he simply wasn’t aware.

But that would beg the question, where is the boy? If the Dark Lord didn’t take him, where on earth was he? After what Dumbledore told him about what transpired at 4 Privet Drive two days ago, everyone in the Order who was let in on such confidential news assumed Potter had been kidnapped. It was not an outlandish supposition to make, the gruesome circumstances sure pointed to it. 

So then why wasn’t he let in on such developments on the Dark’s side?

Did the Dark Lord intend to keep it under wraps, imprisoning the boy somewhere only he could access? The thought was too nauseating to entertain, even if he did hate Potter’s guts.

But if that was the situation at hand, did that mean this was a test of Severus’ loyalty as well? Surely, if the Order knew of the boy’s absence, it would be expected of him to relay that information to his Lord, and failing to accomplish that could paint him in an unsavoury light, to say the least.

Oh who was he kidding? He was a dead man walking. 

His best, and more honestly, only option now was to bide his time and hope for some form of progress, or even for the Order to find the imbecile – although Severus believed that to be wishful thinking – before the Dark Lord inevitably summoned him once more.

All his wondering left the tea in his hands lukewarm, compelling the poor Professor to further curse Harry Potter’s calamitous existence.

14th July, 1996

It was three days later that Harry braved the world again for anything other than basic nourishment. He had to admit to himself that being cooped up in a windowless room for multiple days was doing no favours for his sanity and besides, he had begun to hear strange, lurking noises under his door two days ago. No doubt a vampire plotting on his blood.

And so he had come to the difficult conclusion that chancing Grimmauld Place was probably becoming most opportune. He’d already checked out of the inn, everything he currently owned in his bag and now he was only making a last visit to Oldknowe Books for some more material before leaving for Islington. 

He had decided prior to stepping foot out of Msaw Ætare that approaching the bookstore from through Knockturn Alley would be more practical, not only because of the sparser crowd but also because it was slightly closer from here. 

In the late afternoon light, he trod along the precarious cobblestones silently, passing dubious looking shop windows as he went. For a while he was on guard, waiting for someone to jump at him, but when that didn’t happen, he let his thoughts wander. 

In the past three days Harry had a lot to think about, though he was loath to admit he didn’t accomplish as much in that department as he would have liked. He more or less came to terms with what he had done, though he still avoided thinking about it in concretes if he could. There was a lot of grey area between denial and acceptance, he came to learn. Just because he stopped denying Vernon’s death to himself, didn’t mean he was comfortable with the role he had to play in it.

This new world Harry now had to live in, where everything was a maybe, where these grey areas were too many to count, was detestable. He longed for the absolutes that used to rule him. Good or bad, light or dark. Was he bad now, was he dark? Or were his initial definitions flawed? He was living a nightmare day and night, he couldn’t escape Sirius, Vernon or himself. Mostly he felt little these days, with sharp bursts of pain and confusion in between that convinced him he no longer needed Dementors to make him feel forsaken. He belonged in neither world anymore, the light would shun him while he shunned the dark, although they would turn him away too, he didn’t mean it enough. 

He would the next time.

The buildings around him came into focus. They were familiar. Harry was disoriented for a second, they shouldn’t have been. He recognised the place of course, but this wasn’t where he was meant to go. He was near Borgin and Burkes, the store just a few corners away. 

He suddenly felt incredibly exposed. He shouldn’t be here, somehow he knew that.

He made to turn back, but what direction?

He didn’t know his way from here and getting even more lost when dusk was on its way was very foolish, indeed.

The only way to get back on track was to get even closer to the thrice damned antique shop and turn right just after it.

Alright then, what’s the worst that could happen?

There were people here, he could hear them as he neared the store, though their murmurs were still shrouded in ambiguity from a distance. 

He creeped, silent as the grave, along the cramped alleyway, careful to remain in the shadows, blonde hair would achieve nothing if the people there knew him at all. He had no way of reaching for the Cloak here, a hooded figure stopping in the middle of the road to rummage through their backpack was not only incredibly suspect but dangerous as well. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself now.

Harry reached the opening to the small courtyard where the shop’s front door was, he knew, and spied a small smattering of cloaked figures.

Oh, great.

He swiftly moved past, down, the corner just a few meters away- 

Why did he feel like someone was watching him?

One step, two, three, that corner was the promise land, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Maybe he was overreacting, hallucinating? The paranoia of the last few days catching up to him? The probability of someone actually noticing him was astronomical, and anyways, these people didn’t know him.

His heart was beating out of chest in spite of his thoughts, ever the pessimist. Like it never believed he could get away to begin with.

Footsteps.

Well, jokes on his stupid heart because he was. One meter, his knees not buckling out of pure will, and turn-

A hag trying to accost him and footsteps behind him-

Turn left. He didn’t know where he was-

Turn-

No.

Harry started running, what else was he supposed to do? Sure, it’s not inconspicuous but at this point was that still on the table?

Turn-

The footsteps were closer now, two to be precise, one with heels-

That meant nothing-

Turn again-

He was running, not looking back, this alley was a long dead end but that meant nothing too, he would fly before he let-

That hair raising cackle-

His foot leaving echoes on the cobblestone and claustrophobic walls as he ran full force, almost at the end, he could climb, he would have to-

Bang!

Harry was on the floor, unable to move-

“Draco, dear, if you were wrong, I’ll be devastated indeed..”

Panic was setting in now, the situation truly sinking in, he was going to die.

Why didn’t he call the Order, or anyone while he still could? Why didn’t he use his wand, they would’ve understood…

“I’m not wrong!”

The stone wall in front of him was slowly exchanged for the leering face of Bellatrix fucking Lestrange as he was turned on his back.

“Well hello there, Harry-kins, we meet again.” She laughed, the insane glint in her eyes ever-present. “Blonde does you no favours, I have to say.”

He gave her the mightiest glare he could manage in his current state, unable to spit in her disgusting face.

“Oh don’t look so cross now, you deserve this after what you’ve done!” Her spittle was flying at Harry’s face, the latter fuming with envy at the simple action. He longed to do the same to her. 

Draco Malfoy was standing off to the side, looking considerably uncomfortable. The fucking ferret. When their eyes met, he glared at Harry, sniffing. “This is for my father, Potter!”

Like he needed an explanation.

“Come on Draco, let’s get him to headquarters, our Lord will be most pleased.” Bellatrix said as she cancelled the Hair-Dyeing Potion’s effects over him. “He’ll reward us greatly, if we hand him over.”

He was grabbed unceremoniously by the madwoman, and promptly disapparated.

He was going to die.

Chapter Text

14th July, 1996

There was a boy lying on the marble floor of her dining hall. His scruffy appearance entirely in contrast with the walls of her gleaming manor, but Narcissa had no trouble identifying who he was. Even when clearly in pain, his chest heaving with exertion, Harry Potter’s eyes held nothing but defiance, a quiet mutiny against the people around him. 

Her dear sister stood above the boy, wand held aloft. The lady of the house was drawn to the commotion currently unfolding before her from the disturbed cackles of Bella and the muffled screams of, apparently, the Boy Who Lived echoing through the halls. Clearly, her sister was partaking in one of her favourite past times, even though Narcissa had asked her multiple times to keep such uncivilised behaviour to the dungeons.

Draco was standing off to the side, next to the fireplace, quite pale. He must have been observing the torture for at least a few minutes now. Even though her son has been most vocal about his hatred for the Chosen One — he liked to spit these words with utmost disdain — she knew her son, knew he was young and there were many things he didn’t understand.

Because Narcissa didn’t really blame Harry Potter for the.. incarceration of her husband, how could she? That boy was the same age as Draco, and couldn’t have been the mastermind behind any of the recent tragedies that befell her family. No, she reserved her hatred for the adults, for Dumbledore and the rest of his motley crew. They could rot. But as for the boy before her.. he was just a pawn, like all the rest of them, except for the fact that he was thrown into all of this quite against his will. 

But all questions of innocence aside, she was aware that no matter what she believed about the technicalities of Potter’s predicament was quite irrelevant, the boy lying before her was already dead, his fate sealed the moment he was brought through the wards. The resourceful thing to do now was to reap the benefits of his presence, and ask for her husband back, as a reward for handing over the Dark Lord’s number one enemy.

Maybe he would free the rest of the unfortunate team as well, which would be greatly beneficial for her and the family, as they would all owe quite a great deal to them, then. 

Yes, that was the sensible reaction to such a situation, she couldn’t lose her head now simply because the price was a teenage boy’s life. Draco’s age. He would be murdered either way, and this way she could have Lucius back..

Bella wouldn’t need much convincing, she loved them all, maybe not Lucius but she knew it would make Narcissa happy…

She was brought out of her reverie by her sister’s crimson spellwork increasing in intensity suddenly, with Potter writhing once more, but still not openly screaming. 

“Bella, stop! Our Lord has not commanded you to torture the boy! You don’t know his plans with him, what if you damage him?” Sometimes, the only way to reason with her sister was to mention the Dark Lord, especially if she was frenzied from using the Cruciatus.

“His plans are to kill him, he has no need of his faculties for that!” 

“But he has information that can be extracted!”

Bellatrix looked like a chastised child for a moment before huffing, “Fine then, you’re no fun, Cissy! I’ll take him to a cell, then we’ll call him.”

Narcissa sighed, observing as her sister removed Potter from the room before making her way over to her son to dote on him. A long day was ahead of them, it would seem.

Harry was distantly aware of being levitated to a dark and dingy part of, presumably, Malfoy Manor but could do nothing about it. He was shaking, the after effects of Bellatrix Lestrange’s Cruciatus still strong in his veins. It was different from Voldemort’s in a way, while his was sharp and furious, hers was manic, animated, like it was more for her own enjoyment than teaching any kind of lesson to the recipient. 

He preferred the former, when he thought about it, at least that had a reason.

He was unceremoniously dumped on the cold stone floor of a cell, the sparse torches’ light flickering across Bellatrix’s face as she loomed over him once more.

“You will miss me, soon enough.” She laughed, rolling up her left sleeve to summon her dear Lord.

There was absolutely nothing he could think of that Voldemort could do to him that would make Harry wish for her presence, he thought as she exited his cell, locking him in the shadow-filled room. 

It was barren, void of any comfort inside except for an archaic imitation of a toilet and a thin cot. Well, it’s not like he was going to spend much time here.

He slumped against the wall, reflecting on the events of the past hour. How could he have been so stupid? There were so many things he could have done differently, to prevent all of this from transpiring, so why?

He was so preoccupied with Vernon and hiding from his friends that he had underestimated the risk of the real enemy finding him, and look where that got him. He had been so fixated on hiding his misdeeds that he played right into their hands. After everything, has he learned nothing?

He was about to bash his head against the stone behind him when pain erupted in his skull, and for single a moment he thought he did just that without moving somehow, before he realised-

And there he was.

In all his pale glory with burning coals for eyes, suddenly standing before him, watching. Harry stared back, observing as a self-satisfied smirk slowly overtook the man’s monstrous features.

He felt a foreign yet familiar glee deep in his soul.

Silence reigned in the dungeons for several minutes, with the two of them only regarding each other, one with detached fury, the other with vindictive satisfaction before he was greeted with a most melodramatic exclamation.

“Harry Potter, my fated enemy, in my grasp at long last.” Voldemort whispered, caressing the hilt of his pale wand in his hands as he tilted his head.

“You say that like you caught me.” Harry rolled his eyes, if he was going to die he might as well piss off the ferocious Dark Lord, he thought derisively.

“I’ll have you know, my Death Eaters act under my command and anything they achieve is a credit to me.” The man answered serenely, apparently too damn elated to rise to the bait.

“I take it that their embarrassing failure at the Ministry is a credit to you as well?” He couldn’t resist asking even though he knew he was just digging his own grave.

Voldemort snarled, no longer so cheerful before firing the obligatory Crucio his way-

It felt like his skin was being peeled back inch by inch, knives digging into his muscles, his nerves on fire-

It was over as suddenly as it began, though it still left Harry reeling from the pain, only distantly registering the man getting closer to him.

His jaw was trapped in a vice grip before the green eyed boy even had time to sit up properly from where he had sunk to the stone floor, pain overtaking his world at the proximity as a wand was jammed against his trachea, Voldemort forcing him to meet his eyes-

No-

“Legilimens.”

He felt his mind being ripped apart, the Dark Lord’s mental claws shredding his memories into a million pieces, the pain indescribable as the last few days’ events were brought to the surface with a cruel force, severing them from their rightful place in his mind in a way he was sure they would never fit again.

..He was running from Bellatrix, the walls of Knockturn Alley closing in around him..

..Him in the bookstore, staring at a shelf in front of him..

And before he knew it, it was Vernon’s body, drenched in blood, a huge gash on his neck as Harry stared down at his crimson hands..

It looked so violent.

Voldemort withdrew from his mind upon seeing that, peering down at him with a curious, yet cruelly amused expression.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen..” He trailed off, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. “Harry Potter, a murderer, at fifteen no less…”

The ‘like me’ went unsaid, but both of them heard it.

Harry’s stomach tightened with revulsion at being compared to the Dark Lord by the man himself. He felt as he was dragged under the surface of icy self-hatred, suffocating as he sank to the bottom.

“You will not have to live long with it, after I extract the prophecy from your mind, I will derive utmost pleasure from ridding the world of you.” Voldemort went on after he failed to respond to his previous comment.

He tried to shake his head, in opposition of what exactly, he knew not, maybe everything that had happened to him up to this point, but it was pointless, the grip on his jaw only tightening as his gaze was guided back to the vermilion one so close to his own.

Green met red as it so often did when the two of them met and he was falling, tumbling down memory lane once more..

Harry could no longer fight it, could no longer even attempt to oppose the wizard as his psyche was torn to shreds, he wasn’t strong enough to push the man out and it would cost him everything-

Images flashed before him, his mind collapsing in on itself in the wake of the Dark Lord’s destructive warpath through his memories, circling the events of June 18th.

..Him and his friends fighting with the Death Eaters through the various rooms of the Department of Mysteries..

..Sirius falling through the Veil..

His head felt like it had been cleaved in two from the combined pain of Voldemort’s presence and the continued obliteration of his mental fortitude, but it wasn’t stopping, he kept going-

..Dumbledore kneeling before him as he fought off the possession..

He had to fight it-

..Harry destroying the Headmaster’s office in a fit of rage and grief..

No, he couldn’t let him-

..Dumbledore sitting across from him, a Pensieve between them, Trelawney rising from it-

Harry gave it his all, pushing against the Dark Lord with everything he’s got, but it was all for nought, he was too strong and before long Voldemort was plunging deeper into the memory, clutching it-

..The seer’s guttural voice began chanting “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies....”-

Voldemort wrenched himself out of Harry’s mind with a sudden violence, leaving him gasping and his vision blurring. Even though he couldn’t see the man clearly, he could tell he was staring down at him and he could only assume he wasn’t fuming from the fact that he was still breathing.

With his vision slowly clearing as the pain receded, Harry was confronted with the Dark Lord’s gaze boring into him, intense and contemplative.

That couldn’t possibly mean anything good.

Then, without another word, the man swept from his cell, leaving him bewildered and terrified at the unforeseen turn of events. His chest was still heaving with effort to stabilise his breathing, his cacophonous panting incongruous with the otherwise deathly silent dungeons.

‘When, exactly, was the axe going to fall?’

Voldemort’s mind was racing a mile a minute, the implications of what he had just witnessed not lost on him.

Power the Dark Lord knows not.

Neither can live..

There was something there, beyond the fact that this prophecy could be considered void…  After all, the event it foretold has already happened, on that fateful night in 1981.

Was there more to it?

There was a fact nagging at the back of his mind, a constituent to the circumstances that did not make sense, that did not readily fit the narrative.

A power he knows not?

He was sure Dumbledore would argue it was the power of love, or some equally foolish tripe. But the Dark Lord was certain it meant something more concrete than that.

To think he had one day gone and attempted to kill Potter on half a prophecy seemed like a humiliating misstep now that he had knowledge of the entirety of it. He inadvertently substantiated the damned thing without truly considering what it could mean.

He would not make the same mistake again.

The prophecy claimed he would mark the dim-witted boy as his equal, but how did that manifest?

In a way, the prediction felt incomplete, inconsistent in a suspicious manner that piqued Voldemort’s interest. 

There were too many unknown variables, especially considering the connection between them, with its unclear origin.

He would have to unravel what exactly Potter was to him and what he was capable of before moving forward with any of his plans involving the boy.

For now, he had traitorous and rapacious followers to take care of.

15th July, 1996

Harry was left to his own devices after Voldemort’s departure for so long he lost track of the hours, no longer able to tell even the rough time of day.

Food, although scant, appeared by what he guessed was elven magic, the world outside his holding cell so deathly quiet he was led to believe it was probably silenced from the outside.

It was, he guessed, more than a whole day before he had another visitor, in the form of lovely Bellatrix, who clearly had far too much free time on her hands, and one other, whose face was initially shrouded in darkness. When he stepped into the torchlight of the room, Harry’s stomach dropped.

Snape.

He scowled at them both from his position on the floor, although for different reasons. Bellatrix retaliated with a blinding grin of her own, her eyes delighting in his sorry state, but the Professor only watched him with tired eyes. He looked even more miserable than usual, as if someone had sucked the last remnants of his will to live right out of him.

“Good evening, Harry-kins, I thought bringing a familiar face around might make you feel more at home..” She laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls with taunting condescension.

Snape raised a baleful eyebrow at the words ‘familiar face’ but otherwise stayed silent, seemingly cataloguing Harry and his conditions. 

“Didn’t your Lord order you to leave me alone until he decides to do me in?” He spat the question, even though logically he knew if that were the case, they wouldn’t come anywhere near him. Still, he could hope.

“How dare you speak of him with such derision! You filthy halfblood!” Bellatrix shouted, her benevolence evidently coming to an end. She promptly closed in on him and with a quick flick of her wand aimed a cutting curse at his shoulder-

He grunted when it struck true, his shirt rapidly staining with dark blood on his left side.

He hated her.

If only she knew what her Lord was…

Snape, who up until this point elected to stay silent and observe, spoke up. “Bellatrix, while I commend your dedication in defending our Lord from scorn by those beneath him, I must remind you that he has commanded anyone in the know to refrain from grievously injuring the boy.”

“You would say that wouldn’t you, Severus?” The deranged witch turned to her fellow Death Eater, circling him leisurely. “I don’t know what you told the Dark Lord, but I do not trust your loyalty, nor will I ever again after you failed to let us know of Potter’s absence.”

Oh, thought Harry as the two partook in an intense standoff and seemed to entirely forget about him. He must have made things quite difficult for Snape.

Oh well, he was still alive, wasn’t he?

Better off than Harry, he was.

“I have explained this in detail once already, but I’m sure expecting you to pay even a modicum of attention to anything other than torture is a rather onerous demand to make, so I will reiterate.” Snape spelled the sentence out slowly, chewing the words up, as if talking to a toddler. “I was planning on inquiring about it at today’s meeting, as I was certain he was already in our Lord’s possession and I was merely not privy to the information. After all, who else would’ve been capable of passing through the wards, taking Potter and killing his guardian in a matter of minutes?”

Oh, Merlin. Did Snape now know it was him?

Was he guessing?

“A probable story, but if it were me, I would’ve still let the Dark Lord know, as is my duty as a spy!” Bellatrix snapped, not entirely convinced.

“Yes, we are all well aware you would use any reason to request an audience with our Lord…” Snape trailed off, looking at her in a knowing, judgemental way.

Harry rolled his eyes, why were they having this petty argument in his cell?

“I, on the other hand, do not presume to waste his time with superfluous questions.” The Professor finished, drawing himself up to his full height.

“Oh, you fucker, do not-”

“Is there a reason you lot are here?” Harry interrupted her, not very interested in hearing these two argue about who was the Dark Lord’s most favourite Death Eater. 

Bellatrix aimed a cutting curse at him again for daring to speak over her, but this one he managed to avoid by a few millimetres in a move to his left.

“Yes, actually, there is.” Snape drawled before he fixed his dark eyes on Harry and swiftly aimed a wordless Immobulus at him, immediately freezing him in place.

His heart thudded in his chest with panicked fervour as the Potions Professor slowly advanced towards him and knelt at his side. What was he doing?

Why did this somehow feel infinitely more demeaning then when Voldemort cornered him yesterday? Snape was never supposed to see him like this, so utterly defeated.

Even though the man was supposed to be on the Order’s side — something Harry was never unequivocally certain of, least of all now — it still filled him with latent rage that the one who has tormented him for years on end could be in such an exalted position of power, where he could do virtually anything to him without consequences.

He didn’t trust him not to.

What was he planning on doing to him now?

The Potions Master withdrew a large phial from his robes and grabbed Harry’s right arm with his left, drawing his wand with the other and placing it over his wrist. What?

Was he taking his blood?

“As I’m sure you have deduced already, since it is quite obvious, the Dark Lord has requested a sample of your blood.” Snape explained upon noticing his alarmed eyes, even though Harry was wholly convinced he wasn’t supposed to divulge any information to him, even if it was the apparent kind. Still a spy then?

Bellatrix scoffed in the background, muttering something about no-one listening to her.

His Professor made a small incision on his lower arm, and Harry could only watch, paralysed, as his blood steadily trickled into the waiting phial below.

After reading ‘Blood Magick and Uses’ during his brief stint in Knockturn this turn of events filled him with an abundance of foreboding. He learnt, quite quickly, that a person’s blood was their Essence, tied to their magic in an inalienable way. One could tell almost everything about someone with a decent amount of their blood at their disposal and a few dark diagnostic charms.

What did Voldemort want to know? 

And, more importantly, what did he want to know that he couldn’t just find out from looking at his thoughts?

Was it something even Harry himself was unaware of?

It wouldn’t surprise him if that was the case, he thought sardonically. There were so many things in this world he had been ignorant of up until now, it wasn’t a strenuous notion to think his own life might’ve been one of them. 

If he could go back, he would be much more curious about the wonderful magic encompassing his world. He didn’t have enough time and now, most likely he would never step foot out of this cell again.

Snape didn’t bother to heal the small cut near his wrist and Harry didn’t delude himself with hopes of bleeding out through it. He knew it wasn’t deep enough. The bat-like man stoppered the phial and hid it in the folds of his dark robes, stood up from his side and briskly left Harry’s cell without another word, cloak billowing behind him.

Bellatrix blew him a kiss and sauntered after the man, leaving him alone with his grief-filled thoughts about yet another thing he grew to love just to get it taken from him.

Severus wasn’t exactly sure what to think. After the pathetic lie he had been forced to convince the Dark Lord of, he had been let off with mere torture.

He could count himself lucky.

But now, upon leaving Harry Potter’s cell in Malfoy Manor, reality was truly starting to sink in. There was no way out of this, the boy’s life forfeited in all but the present moment.

He could tell the Order of course, but even planning an attack on the headquarters would take weeks, much less the execution of such a ludicrous ambush. It would be a suicide mission and it rested on him to decide, as the rest of those Gryffindor idiots would surely just do it anyway.

He would wait, he decided, on what the Dark Lord’s reaction would be to whatever this blood sample debacle was, and based on that, would he make his next move.

He would never claim to be able to read the man’s mind, but he could tell something was bothering him concerning Potter, perhaps some unknown variable. It’s been known to happen, magic is finicky on the best of days. Severus didn’t particularly care, but if it kept the boy alive, it would be good enough for him.

What bothered him most of all still, was the case of Vernon Dursley. Everyone assumed it had been the Dark’s doing, but if Potter was only kidnapped a day ago, then that possibility was out of the equation. What happened then?

He didn’t dare entertain the idea that it had been the asinine boy himself, no, he was too noble for that. But no other theory made sense.

Faint traces of magic were found close to the wound, he had heard, so it couldn’t have been a muggle. So it was either Lupin or Nymphadora, who were in the vicinity that night, or Potter himself. Each alternative was more preposterous than the next.

But why would the boy run otherwise?

If he let the Order know of the Boy Who Lived’s fate now, they would surely come to the same, inevitable conclusion in time. He didn’t much care for Potter’s reputation, but it could be damaging for them all if Dumbledore got it inside his head that the boy has turned evil, or worse, a mere vessel for the Dark Lord. Then he would be in danger on both sides, a liability for both chess masters. 

Leave it to the imbecile to put himself in such an impossible predicament.

Severus would have to wait for now, wait for the bigger men to move their pieces across the board before making his decision. 

Chapter Text

20th July, 1996

Harry woke from yet another nightmare drenched in sweat, curled up on the thin cot that has been his only raft in the ocean of terror that has eclipsed him for the past week. He could only divine the passage of time through Bellatrix’s visits, which have become a daily constant in his wretched life.

Occasionally, she would torture, but more often than not, she would only descend to the drafty dungeons to gloat and remind him of his inability to wreak vengeance for his godfather’s murder. The anger she inspired at the beginning dwindled by now, Harry was growing accustomed to her repetitive and utterly predictable ravings, but the hate never left.

Now, as he tried to get the image of Vernon’s body being replaced by Sirius’ out of his mind, he thought long and hard about his moral compass and its flexibility, about how far he would have to stretch it to make her execution feel permissible.

If he ever got the chance…

The initial anticipation of death lost its lustre after the first few days with nothing happening. Now, while he was certain death was still waiting for him, he had no way of knowing when exactly he was going to die. Was the dreading supposed to be part of his torture?

Harry missed his friends and wondered how they were taking the news of his abduction. While he was ashamed of his actions and didn’t want to confront the possibility of his friends knowing what he did, he still craved their company, the mundane moments they shared that he had only begun to appreciate in his cold captivity. He couldn’t help the fear that crept up his spine at the very real prospect of never seeing them again, of never getting to clear his name in their minds. 

The worst implications of his death manifested for him in two forms. One was of his friends never understanding and moving on as if he were never there, mortified at ever having given him a chance. The other, more widespread reason for his reluctance to die took the form of a dreadful, pale figure of nightmares who haunted Britain for far too long. Kill or be killed, the prophecy implied. If that were correct, he could not be so negligent to leave this world in the hands of Voldemort. He shouldn’t allow for his life to be pathetically snuffed out in a dungeon cell with no fight. He should be doing everything he could to escape, to continue his habit of tempting fate for another day. He supposed she would be most disappointed in him.

But if Harry was being honest with himself, it was unreasonably difficult to muster up any kind of will to live after having been beaten down so inherently over the course of the past month, the past year. He longed for the days where Umbridge was his biggest concern, where the faint scars on the back of his hand were the most glaring reminders of the hate the world at large had in store for him. Nowhere was safe, that’s the only lesson the woman managed to drill into his skull during her useless tenure as Defence Professor. 

The Wizarding World he was supposed to die for was not pristine, the wickedness not confined to the deranged lost causes flinging Killing Curses at him. He would still do it in a heartbeat, he knew, but would they do the same for him? Would they, the ones now praising his name in the Prophet, lay down their lives for others? Or would they run away?

Now, resting on the cot with his back against the wall, Harry was quite confident they wouldn’t. The world housed many more Pettigrews than Lily Potters. 

He wondered faintly, when exactly, was Bellatrix going to drop by today. His internal clock pointed out that she usually came and went by this hour, whatever that may be. Maybe she was busy finally, Harry shrugged.

But with what?

In the sordid week he has spent here, he has learned there were not many things that could keep the witch away from paying her favourite prisoner a visit, save for maybe another unfortunate captive. Every so often he would witness an unidentifiable person be carted off to a cell further down from his own. He could hear no sound outside of his confinement of course, but he was aware there were others suffering down here with him. Maybe Fortescue or Ollivander were close as well, but what did it matter in the end?

So the question was, what monstrosity were the Death Eaters getting up to now?

Many of Augustus Rookwood’s ancestors ended up in Azkaban, so when he got imprisoned after the First War he thought his life culminated in much the same way. After being broken out half a year ago, he never intended to wound up here again. He thought wrong.

Now, as he was forced to listen to Lucius’ laments from the opposite cell, he could only roll his eyes at his own irresponsibility. Why they couldn’t do an adequate job back at the Ministry, he would never know. Most of them there that night were escapees in their own right, did they all collectively forget the despondency this dismal place induced?

“Kill me already, anyone! Oh, somebody will suffer for this injustice, mark my words!” Lucius Malfoy lost his sanity in less than four days, the approximate time it took for his hair to lose its infamous shine. Now, the man was a neurotic shell of himself, complaining all day long to fill the void. Augustus couldn’t blame him, he just wished the man wasn’t doing all of this directly in his face.

It really was harrowing, how someone so regal could be reduced to a pitiful, grimy imitation of themselves after spending one month in Azkaban, how the people here would never see each other the same again. He had faith in his Lord, in his eventual mercy, but even then, there were consequences of being here that never left. Like a stench clinging to your very bones, forever to remain, no matter how you tried to wash it away. 

It was misery like no other, to be locked up here. But it was nothing compared to experiencing the world again, thinking you were free, that from then on you would be able to have some dignity, only to find yourself immured in one of these cells again, knowing precisely what you lost.

Augustus and his fellow Death Eaters all knew, logically, that they would be free again at some point, but it was immensely difficult to keep that thought at the front of their minds with Dementors lingering close to them all day long. 

It was at that train of thought that one of Azkaban’s building blocks found Augustus’ head, leaving an aching wound behind.

What?

There were sudden, deafening explosions going off all around him, taking out entire walls in some places, leaving gaping holes in the ashlar masonry of the fortification in others. There was a huge absence of stone right behind him as well, revealing the stormy night sea beyond the prison. 

In the starry sky above, several dark figures were flying, most with brooms, one entirely on the darkness of his own magic. 

Augustus was dumbstruck while Lucius wailed in relief as he reached for the heavens, attempting to latch onto one of their rescuers. Many others of their forsaken team were equally disconcerted, having expected a much longer tenure at Azkaban for their crime of ineptitude. 

Antonin grabbed onto Alecto Carrow as she flew by, the first to truly comprehend what they were supposed to do here. Not all of them could be accessed yet, so the Dark Lord raised his wand imperiously and threw a Blasting Curse so potent, it leveled a good chunk of the uppermost three floors. 

The air smelled of ozone and smoke by this point, the still encased prisoners rioting as they witnessed Death Eaters getting free once more, while their escape would never be ensured by the Dark Lord. That’s what they deserved for not joining him, for not admitting his greatness. Augustus was more grateful than ever, even while knowing that their penance was surely not concluded, just relocated to the glittering floors of one manor or other. It was a blessing of a substitute, to be taught a lesson by their Lord instead of this.

Stones were flying apart all around him, injuring some grievously, but not them, their team was virtually untouched, safe for a few minor cuts as the world turned to ash and smoke around them. The only disruptions to the grey scene were the figures breezing past, rescuing their own under their Lord’s command. 

Bellatrix swooped down for Lucius, who, for the first time in his life, went silent upon locking eyes with his saviour. No love lost between those two, apparently.

Augustus turned back to the sky, trying to make out the Dark Lord despite the haze around him, unsuccessfully. Walden Macnair was having a conniption next to him, desperate for someone to pick him up already. Why, he didn’t know, as it was obvious the others weren’t leaving until all of them had been collected. Or at least he hoped so.

A Death Eater came out of nowhere, grabbing Augustus’ arm and hoisting him up to the broom with palpable urgency, not even turning back to greet their shunned colleague. Such impertinence and hulking frame could belong to no other than Thorfinn Rowle. The little hellion was his cousin and couldn’t even manage a ‘Hello’ ? Typical. 

As they left the smoke and ascended to the dazzling dark sky, Azkaban came into view under them. The triangular fortress was missing one of its edges entirely, inmates crawling around in a bid to get away from the starving Dementors. It was akin to a painting depicting a fight to the death. Like Hell, come to life, as those filthy muggles would say. The burning flames were the only color in the entire world, the only feast for the eyes against the desolate backdrop of the North Sea. It was the kind of destruction one could only hope to witness once in a lifetime, although Augustus has seen something similar to this not so long ago. Only this was more monumental, devastating in a way that reminded him just why he joined the Dark Lord. The sheer power was incomprehensible, the inferno below him proving to him once more what happened to those who refused to accept the divinity so clearly standing before them. Augustus considered himself a generally insouciant person, but how could he stay composed in the face of such utter magnificence?

The deafening noise once caused by explosions had been entirely taken over by screams, in pain and in despair from those left behind. Their Lord continued to wreak havoc on the foundations of the prison even after all of them had been taken, as if relieving his frustrations on the stronghold and its insignificant inhabitants. What could possibly aggravate his normally cruel but composed Lord so, Augustus didn’t know and didn’t particularly care to, either. 

As Thorfinn flew them farther from Azkaban across the North Sea under the veil of midnight darkness, their temporary residence becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon, he had ample time to contemplate just which manor was going to be used for their torture and what techniques to expect there. It was best to prepare for these kinds of things, he knew from experience, so the mind had at least a semblance of resistance built up. It wouldn’t do to fall apart too easily after being so graciously rescued by the Dark Lord.

22nd July, 1996

It was time to test his suspicions.

The ritual he conducted on the blood sample took four days to show conclusive results, by which point he was far too busy with the Azkaban breakout plan to take action in satisfying his curiosity, or rather, his ever-stronger premonition. 

Even after, he had to deal with those useless, weak sycophants who couldn’t bear a few minutes under the Cruciatus, even while knowing they deserved it. Lucius especially couldn’t handle it, falling apart after a mere seven minutes. Why Narcissa begged for this man back, he’ll never know. That’s not to say he gave the derelict Death Eaters back just because they asked. He had need of them, with how his plans were changing. Dumbledore still needed to be taken care of, but Harry Potter was no longer an obstacle. With that out of the way, they could move in on the Ministry soon, and for that, he had to have manpower. Voldemort would have extracted great pleasure from leaving them to rot in Azkaban for the rest of eternity simply for reflecting badly on him, but he couldn’t let his pettiness get in the way of true progress. 

Said compass of progress now dictated that he make his way to the dungeons of Malfoy Manor and test for himself what the blood implied. The sample indicated a colossal amount of Dark Magic congregating in the boy’s body, so much it rivaled his own. Seeing as Harry Potter showed no outward symptom of such perverse magic altering him, it was safe to assume the effects of it were somehow neutralised. There were very few magical phenomena out there that could manage such a feat, and the Dark Lord was filled with a precipitous obsession at what it could be. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, as such things should be impossible. But what if?

Before his mind could spiral even further, he arrived in front of the cell’s locked door, opened it and stepped inside the dim, dreary space. The air smelled burnt with spellfire and misery, the sole occupant glaring daggers at him with luminescent green eyes that glowed in the darkness. 

The boy cooped up in the corner did not move, even when Voldemort moved fully into his habitat. He followed him with his eyes, but otherwise stayed silent, apparently content to let the events unfold without him.

“How has Malfoy Manor been treating you, Harry Potter?” Let it not be said he was impolite. He was feeling patient, if far too curious today. 

The Boy Who Lived did not answer him, seemingly deeming the question redundant, opting instead for observing the Dark Lord further, as if gauging his intentions. Was he expecting to die today?

The brat was a wonder, truly. So impertinent, even in the squalor he was forced into, locked in a prison cell for more than a week, yet he still found it in himself to be disrespectful without uttering a single word. His dismissal was clear, if ineffective, as Lord Voldemort came here with a purpose and he was going to see it through no matter what. Though he did prefer to play with his food, therefore it was loathsome if said food refused to engage. 

“You will be pleased to hear that the Dark is furthering their cause, as I have successfully freed many of my followers from Azkaban a few days ago. It would be unfortunate indeed if one of them managed to capture your little friends as well.” And what ingenious bait it was, as those green eyes filled with contempt and the boy immediately rose to protect those he called family. 

“And what could you possibly have to gain from kidnapping innocent children?” He barked, utterly unconcerned that he was talking to the Dark Lord. 

“Order secrets to begin with, though your misery is a strong contender.” He replied in a tranquil manner, knowing that if he provoked Potter enough, he would reveal relevant information.

“They aren’t even Order members! We don’t indoctrinate children like you do apparently!” Voldemort suspected this wasn’t always a positive in the boy’s mind, but he must have thanked the stars for it now. In truth, he already surmised this, as there wasn’t much useful intel even in Harry’s memories. 

“Whatever may be the case, the point is, with the Chosen One gone and no-one to motivate them, soon the world will fall into my hands and there’s nothing you can do about it.” The prophecy was still a question, he could see the thought in the boy’s eyes as well, but he had to find out if he was right before doing anything and if he was-

Well. That changed everything.

He was sceptical though, such a thing was unheard of.

He stepped closer to the boy, crowding him into the corner, where he couldn’t shrink back from him any further. He knew how to test this, it was quite simple, really.

He would never say it filled him with dread, that that’s why he stalled, that would be ridiculous. But the implication of being tied to another like that-

It was an unknown, uncontrollable variable.

It was horrifying, even as mere conjecture.

Why did he want it to be true?

As his hand reached out for Harry Potter’s lightning scar, he thought it was somewhat logical to want it, as it would explain many things, including their connection, the prophecy…

The scar, lightning shaped as everyone knew, but in reality, it was sowilo. The sun, wholeness, victory. 

But who was the real winner here, really?

The boy’s eyes filled with unease as his scruffy, matted black hair was swept from the way by the Dark Lord’s fingers, both of their hearts beating out of their chests, although for different reasons. 

And as his finger made contact with the scar, with intention, he knew-

A horcrux.

Fire thrummed through his veins at the realisation, the fact. Harry Potter housed his soul and the contact between them was burning, burning much the same way Voldemort’s mind was, an inferno of obsession and possessiveness, a need to protect-

He pressed his finger deeper into the mark, a burst of warm energy running up his arm, the contact a heady mix of magic and pure power. This changed everything, indeed-

It was pure agony, pure bliss. What was this? 

He tried to pull away, but the wall behind him made that impossible. The contact between them was an incomprehensible jumble of pain and pleasure and Harry didn’t know what to make of it-

What changed?

He finally managed to wrench the man’s hand away, retreating from his reach before Voldemort could follow, all the while breathing hard, his heart a staccato beat of bewilderment and terror. 

“What was that?” He gasped finally, desperate for answers, painfully aware that the man knew exactly what just happened here.

The Dark Lord just stared down at him with a peculiar expression, one Harry didn’t want to name, even acknowledge. His red eyes burned, fixed on him, as if seeing him for the first time. It made apprehension and anger crawl up his spine, being looked at with such knowing. 

When it became obvious the man wasn’t going to answer him, he reiterated more stubbornly. “Answer me!” He shouted, refusing to be left in the dark, a feeling in his chest compelling him not to leave it as it was, like he already knew it was of paramount importance.

But Voldemort still just peered down at him, as if debating the pros and cons of sharing his knowledge. 

Change of tactics, then. “You are just like Dumbledore, really. Dangling information in front of me, but never sharing.” It was low, cheap and obvious but maybe it would work, Harry hoped. 

“What makes you think you have any right to know?” The Dark Lord inquired, an amused and victorious smirk pulling at his lips. His eyes visibly darkened at the Dumbledore comment, though.

Harry looked around, “Because it obviously has something to do with me!” He shouted, spreading his arms wide in exasperation. “Is this about the blood sample?” He asked, suddenly remembering Snape’s unfortunate visit. 

“In a way..” Voldemort trailed off, looking at him in consideration. “You are my prisoner, you will never be anything else..” he seemed to mutter the last part to himself.

What? “What do you mean, are you not going to kill me?” Harry asked, just utterly confused now.

“No.” The man replied immediately, surprisingly stern in his conviction. “You will be kept alive, whether or not you like it, in fact.” 

Well that sounded ominous.

“Why?” It was surreal, it had to be a joke. There was no way the insane man before him just changed his mind, it was absolutely impossible that he just suddenly decided not to kill Harry. He must’ve just come down here to confuse him so utterly that he would go insane as well, to join the crew, so to speak. And that’s implying he wasn’t already, but these days he was inclined to classify himself as such, if only to relieve the responsibility from his shoulders. But let's say he believed Voldemort and his proclamation of not taking Harry’s life, then he would indeed possess no choice but to live, after already giving up. He wasn’t sure he had it in himself to keep fighting forever, especially if he was going to be locked up-

Oh Merlin, he was in a prison with no escape. Not even death. He couldn’t do this, not forever-

“You will find, Harry, that there are things in this world too precious to let go of.” The Dark Lord nearly whispered, cutting through the tense silence of the dungeon cell and the cacophony inside his head with a single sentence. 

“What does that even mean?” He almost stood up in frustration before he thought better of it, not really craving another Crucio or another Diffindo to his already infected shoulder. 

“Did your dear Dumbledore not tell you?” Voldemort taunted him with faux pity, the flickering candlelight reflecting in his deep, crimson eyes, highlighting the calculated interest in them. “ ‘The power the Dark Lord knows not’ isn’t going to save you now that I know Harry Potter, perhaps that’s why he didn’t deign to divulge this information to you…”

He was lying, he had to be. Dumbledore wouldn’t keep something important from him that easily!.. Though he did admit to keeping his distance last year because of his connection to Voldemort… Did he know what it was? Was that what this was about?

The Dark Lord stepped closer to him, looming above him sinisterly. With him so near, the torches were blocked out, plunging him into darkness beside those red irises scrutinising his every move. Harry was speechless, not really capable of acknowledging the man’s previous comment, but he didn’t need to. They both knew how it made him feel, the questions that were flooding his mind. 

The hush that overtook the cell was only broken by Harry’s rapid breathing, and as he stared up into the alabaster face of his enemy, he knew that whatever came out of the man’s mouth next, it would be of utmost significance. 

“Do you know what a horcrux is, Harry?” The question seemed rhetorical, as he was sure they both knew he didn’t, but he still shook his head absently. “It is a vessel for a fragment of a wizard’s soul, detached from the whole, with the goal of making the wizard immortal should their body be destroyed.” Voldemort whispered into the stillness, like he expected his elucidation to fade into the background without much consequence.

But Harry’s world was in uproar, his ears ringing. The air dropped several degrees, the few torches snuffed out, leaving behind a thin layer of smoke to fill the senses. Was the man saying what he thought-

“Am- am I a.. a horcrux?” He ground out, while in his head a mantra of no no no was going in circles, because that was repugnant, it was unfair-

“Yes, you are.” There was no way to convince himself that Voldemort was lying when he felt the truth of it in his soul- 

And oh, God, oh Merlin, wasn’t that just all the confirmation he would ever need?

His world flashed black and white, all the colours saturating out as his vision tunnelled on the ceiling above him, his nerves pulled too taut. All of the frustrations of the past few weeks with the added nerve damage by Bellatrix’s frequent torture left him unable to handle the revelation thrust upon him, making his magic bubble under his skin.

He hasn’t used it in weeks.

“You’ve actually met one of them, the diary.” Why was the man still talking? He had to be aware that Harry was on the brink of falling apart. Was he just curious how it would come about?

The diary? But he had to destroy the diary with a Basilisk fang-

Were they nigh indestructible?

The blood pumping through his veins made the world around him pulsate in kind, an uncanny grainy quality overtaking his vision as the air filled with static. Voldemort tilted his head in his direction, drawing his wand ever so leisurely, finally catching on that Harry was most definitely having a reaction-

But he was far too slow, Harry far too delicate. 

In seconds his breathing became too quick and thin to deliver any oxygen to his mind, making him dizzier. The air around him charged with energy, his magic permeated the walls, the world seemingly drawn to him for a single second before-

Harry simply… detonated.

The world around him went white, then red as explosions shred the dungeons to pieces. The walls pulverised in seconds. He was distantly aware of being stuck under heated rubble, but the agony was greater than any he had ever experienced. There was no point in contemplating where he was when his skin was melting off of him, when he could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears and the unmistakable sound of the manor’s foundations giving in. 

His body felt molten, his eyes shut tightly in an effort to stop them from leaking from their place, partially liquified. 

There were screams. There were groaning walls and roaring fire and pain. The smouldering world around him had nothing to do with the one he was in seconds ago. This was a raging conflagration, life had no place in it. 

He could register not more than his own immediate suffering, even though he was sure there was something he was forgetting.. But an identity, an aware mind was unnecessary, unwanted in such circumstances. The world was melting apart, his body felt like it was submerged in boiling oil.

Harry’s last thought was one of unadulterated horror before his vision went finally, mercifully black.