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Chapter Text

“You are unhappy.”

“Obviously.”

Basilisk’s bond to Harry has been becoming clearer and clearer in the days since Voldemort gave her to him. Harry thinks of it as a stream flowing back and forth between them, whose colors and motion he can “feel.” It’s gold and green right now, with small riffles of puzzlement.

“But why are you unhappy?”

“Because I can’t tell my friends the truth.”

Currently, Harry is lying on his bed in Gryffindor Tower. His curtains are spelled shut, especially since it would look odd if someone opened them and saw him playing with empty air. Basilisk is under a Disillusionment Charm that no one except Harry can see through, and Voldemort cast it, but Harry still thinks it’s best to be cautious.

“But you cannot tell them the truth because your blood-master forbade you to do so.”

Harry grimaces. He hates the name Basilisk has for Voldemort, which is something like “the eldest and therefore owner of the bloodline.” She refuses to change it. “Yes.”

“Then it is not your fault, and you have nothing to be unhappy about.”

Harry sighs and wonders if it’s worth debating philosophy with his snake. He decides it’s probably not, on the whole. “Are you all right? Are you hungry?”

Basilisk curls around his wrist and darts her tongue out at him. Her eyes have become larger since she hatched, turning a deep green flecked with blue that is lovely enough to make Harry’s breath catch in his throat. “I am not hungry, but in a few days I will need a rat.”

“Not a mouse?”

“I am growing. Mice are too small.”

Harry frowns a little. He wonders if Basilisk will grow more rapidly than he thought. It hasn’t been much of a problem carrying her around while she’s small, but if she becomes Nagini’s size or even half the size in a few months…

“You are worried again.”

“I’m worried that you’ll get too big for me to carry.”

“Then I will slither on the floor,” Basilisk says, and the bond flows more slowly and becomes dark green, which is her way of being patient and obvious with him.

“But someone might step on you there. How can you be safe if I don’t carry you?”

Basilisk leans forwards and nudges him on the cheek with the side of her triangular head. Pure affection flows down the bond, and it becomes a fast, clear river. “I must grow and become bigger. I must accompany you. We will figure it out.”

Harry sighs and closes his eyes. He feels like his concerns are tearing him apart.

There are so many things to worry about. What will happen if Ron and Hermione find out he’s Voldemort’s son. What will happen if other people find out, like Rita Skeeter. What Dumbledore will do. How Theo and Draco will act now that they’re back at Hogwarts. What happens if someone sees his “courtiers’” Marks. How Voldemort will check up on him. How to keep everyone he cares about safe. How he’s supposed to defeat Voldemort when Voldemort is so much more powerful and has a bunch of chains on Harry besides.

Whether he will still be human at the end of this.

Harry at least knows that he can’t do anything about helping Basilisk right now, so he curls up to make a warm space for her in front of his knees and goes to sleep.

*

“Are you ever going to tell us where you stayed this summer, mate?”

“I told you, Ron, it’s under Fidelius. Like your place.”

Harry sips the last of his pumpkin juice and stands with his bag on his shoulder. Basilisk is in it, Disillusioned and asleep. He ignores the stab of grief under his breastbone at the reminder of Grimmauld Place and Sirius, ignores the way he can feel Theo and Draco looking at him from the Slytherin table, ignores everything.

He knows he won’t be able to do that forever. But everything is so overwhelming that for now he has to do this.

“But you could give us a name,” Hermione says. She’s smiling at him, playful and serious at the same time. Harry knows it really bothers her that he had to “witness” the Dursleys dying and live somewhere else over the summer.

It would bother her even more if she knew that Harry just regrets the Dursleys as casualties of Voldemort and doesn’t grieve them as much as he does Sirius.

But there are lots and lots of lies that Harry has to tell right now. He half-shrugs. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“But why not, Harry?”

“Oh, the person who took me in is pretty secretive.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know, he just said that I wasn’t to talk about everything, you know?”

“Why, though? That sounds like a bad sign to me.”

Harry stops walking to Defense and turns around. Ron and Hermione cluster behind him, staring at him hopefully.

Maybe it’s a mistake to confront them this way, but Harry cannot do this all year.

“I don’t know why he insisted on so many secrets,” Harry says quietly. “But he saved my life, and I’m not going to keep telling you I don’t know over and over again when there’s no answer. I don’t know, okay? You can accept that, or you can’t. But there’s not going to be a different answer.”

“But, Harry—”

“Does Dumbledore know?” Ron cuts in. He’s frowning a little, as if he knows something is wrong but not what. Harry wants to laugh hysterically. You have no idea. “I mean, if he knew…”

“Yeah, he actually thought it would be a good idea for me to keep some of the secrets in the first place.”

The way Harry feels right now, it would be almost a relief for Ron and Hermione to go to Dumbledore, and for the Headmaster to tell them the truth. He would probably regret it later, but it would remove one burden.

“We’re just worried for you,” Hermione says softly, putting a hand on his arm.

And Harry feels bad again, but he also knows that nothing is going to change in the immediate future unless someone else makes it change. And he’s not going to tell Hermione just because she’s curious.

“Come on,” he says, and turns around so he can walk down the corridor more briskly. “We’re going to be late to Defense.”

*

Snape is the Defense professor, because of course he is.

Harry can feel Snape’s eyes burning into him. He keeps his head bowed as though he’s trying to avoid looking at the horrible pictures of curses on the wall, and sits down at his desk, head still bowed as he sorts through his things.

Harry doesn’t know what Snape will do. After the incident when Harry conjured snakes to nearly kill Snape, the man just taught him Potions during the summer as Voldemort ordered in an almost robotic voice. He corrected mistakes and explained the proportions of ingredients needed in the same way.

So Snape might yell that he’s Voldemort’s son to the class, or spin around and kill him, or just maintain the pretense that he did during the summer. It could be anything, really.

“Potter.”

Harry doesn’t think he imagines the sneer in Snape’s voice. Ah. So it’s going to be a continuation of the treatment from the first five years of school, then, with an extra twist because Snape knows that he doesn’t have a right to the name Potter.

James is still my dad.

Harry shuts down all thought as firmly as he can behind his sort-of-apathy-Occlumency, although it’s never worked as well as it did after the first few weeks of summer at the Dursleys’. He looks up. “Yes, sir?” he asks.

“Come up to the front of class. We’re going to do a demonstration duel.”

Harry sighs as he stands. He has to leave his bag behind, of course, and just nod to Ron’s whisper of, “Bad luck, mate.”

Harry knows it’s not bad luck. He knows Snape is going to get his own back one of the few ways he can.

And Harry will lose the duel, because he’s not as good as Snape, and he can’t use the Dark Arts spells that Mrs. Malfoy was teaching him over the summer.

What does it matter? Next to everything else, a lost duel is only a lost duel.

Harry gets up in front of Snape. Snape draws his wand, his face fixed in a sneer that does seem to have an extra edge to it. Yeah, definitely getting his own back.

Harry swallows. He hopes he’ll be able to maintain his composure. Because even if it’s only a duel, it might be the thing that makes him crack.

“When you are ready to begin, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nods shortly, and Snape makes him bow. Old memories echo through Harry, and he nearly stumbles into the first hex Snape throws, a silent burning one.

But then he snaps back into the mindset he needs—or almost the mindset he needs.

He is fighting for his life.

There is an enemy in front of him, and one who is casting silent magic, so Harry can’t anticipate the spells. He dodges, he shields, he rolls. He doesn’t try to attack for long minutes because he literally can’t. He’s too busy just making sure that nothing pieces his skin or burns his fingers off or freezes his lungs.

But at last he finds his balance, his rhythm, and he looks at Snape and thinks, I can play this game.

“Serpensortia!”

Harry feels his bond with Basilisk quicken and brighten as the viper lands in the middle of the floor. Harry doesn’t know what kind it is, and it doesn’t matter. He steps back and hisses to it, “Attack the man who is casting at me.”

Snape is fast and fluid, and he certainly doesn’t hesitate to Vanish the viper. But Harry is calling others now, faster and faster, and it will only look to the other students like he’s using the Serpensortia spell. In reality, he’s conjuring the snakes from the air the way he did when he turned Snape’s wine into them over the summer, a Slytherin bloodline gift besides the Parseltongue.

Snape’s eyes turn to meet his, and Harry floats a thought on the surface of his mind where he hopes a master Legilimens can pick up on it.

You want revenge for this summer? So do I.

Snape blinks, and in the meantime, Harry conjures a viper that wraps around his neck.

Snape ducks and snaps his head from side to side, and that snake goes flying. But more and more are crawling across the floor towards him now, and if Snape pauses to Vanish or kill them all, they both know Harry is going to conjure another serpent on his neck.

And Snape can’t just use Finite Incantatem, since they’re not the product of an ordinary spell, no matter what they look like.

Snape is backing away, his eyes full of hatred. Harry doesn’t really care. The man doesn’t even have a reason to hate him for being James Potter’s son anymore, but here he is, hating him anyway.

It makes Harry furious, abruptly, his temper roaring to life in him like a wildfire.

“What are you doing?” comes Basilisk’s hiss from his bag.

“Morsmordre.” Harry hisses the spell in Parseltongue. He saw Voldemort do this once over the summer, and he knows it won’t make the Dark Mark appear, not when it’s uttered in the snake tongue.

Instead, it stabs unendurable pain straight through Snape’s Mark. He staggers, crying out more with the surprise than the agony, Harry’s sure. Snape would have endured worse with the Cruciatus.

But now it makes him vulnerable to the snakes that Harry has set crawling all about his feet. And another one appears coiled around Snape’s neck as Harry wills it, pressing its fangs against Snape’s jugular.

The world seems to snap into place around Harry, and he finds himself standing still, shaking. Snape remains still as well.

Harry swallows and glances at his classmates, then wishes he hadn’t. Their faces are full of horror.

Even—even Ron and Hermione’s.

And it is the moment of Harry’s breaking after all, although not the way he imagined.

He makes the right (useless) movement with his wand and says “Finite Incantatem” aloud, while concentrating hard on making the snakes disappear. Some of them seem to fight him for a moment, flickering in and out of existence, but in the end, they go.

Harry races over to his bag, snatches it off the floor, and pelts out of the classroom, his head lowered and tears motionless on his cheeks, as still at the moment as his bond with Basilisk. He finds a dark alcove near a staircase to the second floor and huddles there with his hands over his face, hating himself more than he’s ever hated Snape.

“You impressed your enemy. It was not a waste.”

Harry holds his arm out to Basilisk without looking at her, and she climbs it and twins herself gently around his neck. Harry leans over so that his cheek touches her scales, and shakes.

“It was not a waste,” Basilisk insists again, filling their bond with bright red and orange, her comfort colors. The bond flowers into a torrent of water. “The plant-smelling one will be slow to attack you now.”

“But my friends are upset with me.”

“They are upset with you all the time. Or you worry they will be upset with you. It seems to me that they are useless.”

Harry huffs a laugh and rubs his cheek against her scales. Basilisk makes the bond shine with delight. Ordinary snakes don’t like to be touched this much, but either their bond or the fact that Basilisk is the same species as Nagini or both makes a difference.

Harry holds her in his hands and says, “I still want to be around them. But it’s getting harder and harder.”

Basilisk flickers her tongue out and snaps her neck to the side like a weapon being aimed. “Your shadow comes.”

Harry starts to stuff her back into his bag, thinking she means Ron, but it’s Theo who comes around the corner and gives a deep nod to him that’s so near a bow it makes no difference. “My lord. I felt your distress.”

Shit. Harry closes his eyes. That’s not something he meant to do. He has to clamp down on his emotions, do his best not to feel them, the way he did after Sirius’s death.

“My apologies, Theo.”

“There is no need to apologize, my lord.” Theo sounds so firm that Harry blinks and looks at him. Theo is edging towards him, eyes huge and dark and posture stiff. “I wish only to know how to be of use to you.”

“I did a stupid thing and showed off in Defense,” Harry says tiredly. There might still be portraits watching, and while Dumbledore wouldn’t be that surprised to hear Theo addressing him as a Lord, Harry doesn’t want to reveal the exact specifics of his snake-summoning gift. “Snape was making me angry, and then I set snakes on him and commanded them in Parseltongue, and when I got back into my right mind and looked at my friends, they were horrified.”

Theo makes a small sound of contempt so pure that Harry bristles in instinctive defense of Ron and Hermione. “Your friends are useless.”

Harry laughs despite himself, and Theo raises his eyebrows. Harry shakes his head. “That’s just—what someone else said.” He gestures to the air around his neck, and Theo nods without surprise.

“Well, it’s true.”

“They’ve been friends with me for so many years. And you know I’m worried about how they’ll react to—this.”

“You should keep the secret because of what would happen if they discovered it, but my lord, the other things? The normal minutiae of your daily life? Don’t let their horror drive you away from releasing your temper or having fun or relaxing. They’re not worth it.”

“Theo—”

“They’ve been sheltered, protected, coddled. They can put up with a little change in the way you relate to them.”

“They weren’t coddled! They stood with me so many times when it came to things like the Ministry last year, and if it weren’t for Hermione I never would have known that there was a basilisk in the Chamber—”

“But were they with you in the final confrontations? Ever? They might have helped you get there, but you faced the Dark Lord alone. They didn’t have to kill a professor or a giant snake. They didn’t have to bring a dead body back. They suffered, but they didn’t endure.”

Theo’s eyes are deep and dark and wild. He looks as if he might attack someone if Harry doesn’t believe him. Harry puts his hands up, swallowing. He normally doesn’t pay as much attention to his vassal bonds with Theo and Draco as he does to the one with Basilisk, but right now, Theo’s is madly buzzing.

“Theo,” he whispers. “Theo, it’s all right.”

“They are causing you distress.”

“Yeah, but some of that is my fault. They know I haven’t told them everything, and they—”

“None of it is your fault. I will curse them until they know better.”

“Theo.”

At least Harry manages to put enough flat command in his voice this time to make Theo pay attention. He starts, blinks, and reaches out as if to touch something hovering in the air between them. Harry thinks it might be his own visualization of the vassal bond connecting him to Harry. “My apology, my lord,” he murmurs.

Harry nods briskly. “Apology accepted. But you need to make sure you don’t just tear around the school cursing Ron and Hermione. Or anyone else,” he adds, as he sees Theo open his mouth. “That’ll reveal us in a hurry.”

“They might only think I was cursing them for being Muggleborns and blood traitors. Or Gryffindors.”

“Might isn’t enough. I don’t want to risk your safety.”

Theo bows his head, but his eyes are shining. Harry remembers Theo telling him that most people in the magical world follow magical power, and that Theo never intended to try standing on his own.

Harry checks a sigh. He wishes Theo would. He thinks Theo would be happier asserting his own will and following his own goals, ultimately, not limited by how different Harry is from him as a person.

But it’s not something Harry can control, so he says only, “Thank you. Now, you should go back to—whatever class it was that you were in?”

“Arithmancy,” Theo says, and gives him a dazzling smile. “Draco is covering for me. He said I was sick to my stomach and had to run to a loo.”

Harry nods uncertainly. “And you don’t mind looking weak because of that lie?” he has to ask. It’s not one he would have thought Theo would use.

“I know it is for a higher purpose.”

Theo sounds so—serene. Honestly, it unnerves Harry, and adds to his burden, being in control of someone else’s life like this. Theo trusts him to make the decisions, but what if he makes the wrong one?

A sudden tide of cool certainty pours over him. Harry gasps and stares at Theo, his heart thumping wildly, and then slowing, and then picking up again. “What was that?”

“I can give you some of my own calm when your fear is devouring you alive, my lord. I hope you will not object?”

Harry swallows and closes his eyes. No, perhaps it would be better not to. After all, he was on the edge of collapse. And it doesn’t seem like the cold affected anything other than his emotions and heartbeat. Basilisk is hissing contentedly, in fact.

“This one is not useless.”

Harry opens his eyes and manages to smile at Theo, who looks just as contented. “Thank you, Theo. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You have already repaid any debt I might ever owe you, my lord.”

Harry sighs silently at that, but he’s not going to argue. Theo has to get back to Arithmancy, and Harry has to go face the consequences of his actions.

“Thank you,” he repeats, and Theo bows once more and turns around to run back to Arithmancy. Harry stands where he is for a moment, holding Basilisk, and listening closely to her suggestions about how they could go outside and sit near the lake, in the sun.

Then he sighs, tucks her back into his bag, and walks towards the Headmaster’s office.

*

“Thank you for guessing that I would want to see you, Harry.”

Harry gives Dumbledore a weak smile. The gargoyle was standing aside when he came to the bottom of the moving staircase, and he practically ran up the steps. He’s already wondering if it was a mistake, coming here.

But it’s also a mistake to just allow Theo and Basilisk and his irritation with his friends’ constant questions to influence him, he thinks. He has to have a balance of both sides.

To remind him if he’s still human.

Dumbledore has been making tea, and he sets the steaming cup down in front of Harry now, with the sugar in it that Harry requested. Harry picks up the cup and holds it between his hands, closing his eyes. For right now, he just wants the warmth.

“What happened in your Defense class today, Harry? Was it possession by Voldemort?”

It’s a little strange, after this summer, to hear Voldemort referred to by name instead of as “the Dark Lord,” but that’s Harry’s problem. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “No, sir. It was me.”

“Why did you attack Professor Snape, Harry?”

Professor Dumbledore seems a little less sympathetic now. Harry sighs, swallows a small sip of tea, and says, “He still hates me. Even though he knows that I was never James Potter’s son, and he’s the one who delivered the prophecy to Voldemort, and even though he was in love with mum and he got her killed—he still acts like he has a right to hate me!”

“Professor Snape is a complex man, Harry, with complex motivations.”

“His hatred seems pretty simple.”

Dumbledore considers him for a moment. He isn’t drinking tea himself, but Harry doesn’t really care. He doesn’t think the tea he has is drugged with Veritaserum or anything like that.

“What would you like me to do about it?” Dumbledore asks.

“Tell him to stop tormenting me in class.”

“I cannot order him to curb his feelings.”

Harry laughs, a broken sound that makes Basilisk stir in his bag. At least it makes Dumbledore’s eyes widen, too. “I didn’t ask you to do that! I just told you that he should stop tormenting me in class.”

“Or what will happen?”

“Probably more snakes. I’m at my bloody breaking point,” Harry said, and slams the teacup down on Dumbledore’s desk, tears starting to his eyes. He didn’t mean to do that, but maybe it’ll make his point. “I’m trying to keep my secret and fend off Ron and Hermione and make sure Voldemort doesn’t have any reason to hurt anyone here and study for NEWT classes and—it’s too much. If Snape keeps up the pressure, he’ll get the consequences, too.”

Dumbledore’s face is hard to read. But he nods slowly. “I should have considered this. Very well, Harry. I will tell Severus that displays like the one he made in class today cannot happen again.”

“Thank you.”

“And I will also tell your friends that you were indeed at an Order safehouse for the summer, and that they should not question you on the identity of your—protector.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeats.

“What was it like?”

Harry looks at Dumbledore and hopes his exhaustion is plain on his face even if Dumbledore can’t see anything else. “Terrible.”

Dumbledore looks down at his hands for a moment, and nods. Then he says, “I do intend to help you learn how to fight Voldemort this year, Harry.”

How can I duel someone who’s in my mind and my blood and my soul?

But Harry just asks, “Oh?”

“Yes. I have been investigating Voldemort’s history, and I have learned some surprising things…”

*

“We need to talk.”

Harry utters a heartfelt groan as Hermione sweeps up to him the minute he enters the Gryffindor common room. But he says, “Fine,” and follows her over to a couch in front of the fireplace, where Ron’s also waiting, his arms folded.

“What the hell was that?” Hermione leans near to hiss, while Ron raises a Privacy Charm around them. “You attacked Professor Snape!”

Harry looks at her. He decides, then, that his priority should be soothing the upset in his own chest.

“He attacked me.”

“No more than he usually does!”

Harry laughs without humor. “He never hexed me during Potions.”

“You could have done something else.”

“But I used snakes. It’s done. I went and talked to Professor Dumbledore about it, and he’s going to talk to Snape.”

“Professor Snape.”

Harry ignores her and turns to Ron. “What? Want to rip into me for defending myself, too?”

Ron blinks and looks closely at him. “What’s up, mate?” he asks slowly. “You’ve seemed upset and on edge since even before Snape’s class. What is it?”

Well, at least this is the perfect excuse.

“The Dursleys died over the summer,” Harry reminds them in a low voice. “I wasn’t fond of them, but they’re still people related to me, who died because of me. And Sirius died before that. And then I had to be apart from you lot the rest of summer and you won’t stop asking me endless questions about the person and the safehouse I was taken to even though I said I couldn’t tell you. Can you just—back off? Stop expecting me to act like the most perfect and balanced person ever, when you wouldn’t be, either?”

By the time he finishes, both Ron and Hermione have wide eyes and are radiating guilt. Harry crushes his own. Good. That means they’ll step back, then.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron whispers, a little hoarsely. “Sorry.”

“I wanted to know,” Hermione whispers. “But that wasn’t enough reason to ask you over and over again.”

Harry just nods and stands. “Thanks. I just—I want to stay friends with both of you, but it won’t be the way it was before.”

“No.” Hermione watches him with sad eyes. “I can see that.”

“I’m going off to bed,” Harry says, and he walks away.

In the bedroom, he takes Basilisk out of his bag and curls up on the bed with her around his neck, closing his eyes. His heart is pounding sickly and his mind is clear with sorrow.

“I am here. I will always be here.”

Harry strokes Basilisk’s scales, and doesn’t reply.

Chapter Text

The black letter that appeared on his pillow yesterday wasn’t much of a surprise, but Harry still shudders as he composes his mind for a “visit” with Voldemort.

A few weeks have passed, and at least he’s settled into the term. Snape still snaps at him in Defense and insults his intelligence, but he hasn’t committed any more full-out attacks. Ron and Hermione treat him gently. Dumbledore has given Harry a few Pensieve memories from Voldemort’s past, like how his mother and father apparently met, and how the Gaunts lived.

Harry shuddered, watching that. Merope Gaunt was the worst, he supposes, if she used a love potion, but none of his relatives on that side of the family is much of a prize.

“Does that include me, my heir? I’m hurt.”

Harry jumps and opens his eyes. He was just relaxing in bed with his mind open, not guarded by any of his apathy-Occlumency, but now he seems to be standing in a wide room with a huge fireplace and high shelves of books, like a more formal and nicer version of Voldemort’s study in Malfoy Manor. He can feel the rug beneath his feet and the fire beating against his face.

“It is pleasant, is it not?”

“Yes, Father,” Harry says, turning around. He ducks his head as Voldemort rises from a chair that had its back turned to Harry. “I hope you are well.”

“Better if you dropped the formality.”

Harry pauses, because that is the most informal thing Voldemort has ever said to him. He hesitantly raises his eyes to his father’s face.

Voldemort is looking at him with a slight smile. It’s an expression he wore sometimes during the summer, and he never tortured Harry after or while he wore it, which is—something. He has his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes are bright.

Calm. Not angry.

Huh.

“All right,” Harry says slowly. “Do you want me to—talk more like I would if you were one of my friends?” He can’t imagine it. Voldemort taught him so many things during the summer that were focused on making Harry a proper little Dark Lord, it seems odd he would turn his back on them now.

“Speak to me like a son does to his father.”

“I—don’t know how to do that.”

Voldemort studies Harry with crinkles forming in the skin around his eyes. Harry just stares back. He can’t imagine that Voldemort would want wrinkles. He intends to live forever, not aging.

Then again, that means he shouldn’t want an heir, either, but he seems intent on treating Harry like one.

“Perhaps it will come in time,” Voldemort says, and waves a hand as though to dismiss anything related to the topic. “Come, sit down and tell me what your first month of term was like.”

Harry walks over and sits down on the large white couch that Voldemort points him towards as if in a dream. This couch definitely isn’t in Voldemort’s study, and neither is anything like it. Voldemort sits down across from Harry and gazes at him attentively, leaning forwards as if he’s about to reach out and pat Harry’s shoulder or something.

“Er.”

“You only need to tell me the most important and interesting things. Do not think that you need to hold your tongue for my sake, Harry.”

If you knew, Harry thinks, and gives a nervous laugh in spite of himself. Voldemort just seems more keenly interested. Harry keeps an eye on his wand hand as he talks about the problem with Snape in Defense, how his bonds with Basilisk and Theo and Draco are growing, and how he got his friends to stop questioning him about his summer.

Then he pauses and swallows, as he wonders what he should say about Dumbledore’s lessons in Voldemort’s past. Talk about something that will destroy his “father’s” good mood.

“Harry?”

Harry jumps at the switch into Parseltongue, which probably means things are about to get more dangerous. He casts a glance at Voldemort, though, and finds him focused on Harry, his nose slits slightly flared.

“Yes?”

“You are concealing something from me.” At least Voldemort has switched back to English, so it might mean that he’s calming down from whatever dangerous height of rage he was about to climb. “You are to tell it to me.”

Harry takes a breath and braces himself. At least he’s pretty sure Dumbledore suspected this might happen. It’s different than if Dumbledore didn’t know Harry was Voldemort’s son.

I sure hope Dumbledore has a plan for this.

“Dumbledore’s started showing me memories that relate to your past. He’s said they’ll tell me a way to defeat you.”

Voldemort is silent for a long moment, staring at Harry so intently that Harry’s certain he heard, but not reacting, in a way that makes Harry wonder if he didn’t. Then the fireplace mantel explodes.

Harry cowers and drops, arms over his head. He might try to cast a spell to defend himself, but he doesn’t know if he even can in the dream, or what Voldemort’s reaction would be to him drawing a wand.

“He what?”

Yeah, now he’s gone back to being furious. Great.

Harry forces himself slowly up to his feet. Voldemort hasn’t made anything else explode, but he’s staring at Harry with his eyes such a bright and glowing red that Harry freezes after he stands up.

“That’s what he said,” Harry mutters, and clears his throat. “So far, it’s been—memories of your—parents.”

He braces himself again, but it seems Voldemort has moved into such a deep rage that making things explode isn’t a priority anymore. He continues to stare, and so Harry clears his throat again and stumbles through an explanation of how he saw memories of Merope and Tom Riddle Sr.

He doesn’t call him Senior, though. He doesn’t think Voldemort would appreciate that.

Voldemort leans back in his chair and stares at the mantel. It replaces itself, chunks sticking together and glowing above the fire. Then Voldemort turns back and looks at Harry, and maybe it’s more frightening that he’s managed to control the anger.

“You will continue attending the lessons,” he says. “And you will tell me what passes in them.”

“Yes, Father.”

Voldemort cocks his head, and Harry holds his breath. But then Voldemort breathes out himself and waves an irritated hand. “Sit down, Harry.”

Harry does, hoping that this is the end of it, or that it’s passed off and left Voldemort undisturbed. That hope dies as Voldemort leans closer to him, swaying slightly back and forth like a great snake. Harry doesn’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it.

“Why do you think he is doing this? And does he know where you spent the summer?”

Harry draws a slow breath and then speaks. “I think he’s hoping to show me how horrible you are, and how—horrible it would be for me to give in and be your son. Or listen to you, or be on your side. But the purpose he’s saying the lessons serve is that he’s getting me ready to defeat you.”

He swallows and waits. But Voldemort only gestures with a flicker of his fingers, so Harry continues.

“And I think he does know where I was. He asked me the first week, after I lashed out at Snape, what the summer had been like. But I don’t know why he—I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want me to expose the secret or something.”

“What did you say your summer had been like, my son?”

Harry meets his eyes. “Terrible.”

Voldemort leans back in his chair and chuckles. Harry frowns. It’s not the reaction he expected, and that makes him wonder if Voldemort is so angry he’s just going to lash out without warning.

But Voldemort meets his eyes and smiles at him in a way that’s all the creepier for how tender it is. “I know that you despise me, my son. I know that the hand I am offering, you would still slap away.”

Harry’s mouth dries with terror. Not for him, though, but for Theo and Draco and Basilisk and his friends.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant. And I am telling you that I have the time to win you over. I am telling you that I understand where you are coming from, and your pride and your delicate balancing act make me proud, in turn. I could not ask for a better son—at the moment.”

Harry stares at him. Voldemort watches him, and seems content to wait for questions. Finally, Harry blurts one out. “So you want me to be a better son in the future?”

“When you find your way to being the kind of son I will most admire, then I will be all the prouder and more joyful for the amount of time it took to win you over. It will make you perfect. It will make you worth it.”

Harry never expected to hear Voldemort talk about joy. He stares.

Voldemort stands and crosses the distance between them. He rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders and stares into his eyes. Harry stares back, not even thinking of trying to raise Occlumency shields this time.

Not that he probably could raise Occlumency shields in a Legilimency dream, or whatever this is.

Voldemort squeezed his shoulders gently. “You need not fear me so much. Even if you rebel against me, I will listen to your reasons as I would not to the reasons of others. You are unique, do you understand that? And precious so.”

Harry feels a little clearer, then. Steadier. He’s precious to Voldemort because he’s unique. He wouldn’t be if he wasn’t. It’s not the same as Voldemort having changed to become more human.

Then Voldemort turns his new hypothesis on its ear.

“And I would feel this way about you if you were only my son and not also my Horcrux. It is fascinating to see how my soul-piece has influenced you and not influenced you. It is fascinating to watch you negotiate your path.”

“But are you so sure that I’ll join your side fully in the end?”

The instant he blurts that, Harry wants to slap himself, hard. Of course that’s what he should say to a madman who’s only recently stopped behaving like a madman. Of course.

But Voldemort again reacts unexpectedly, smiling at him and stepping back to incline his head as if to a dueling opponent.

“You will,” he says. “Because the other side will never offer you a place, in the end, not when your friends know.”

Harry closes his eyes in a slow blink, trying to absorb and estimate the truth of that.

What would happen if Ron and Hermione found out? Especially with the way that they asked questions about his summer but backed off when he really asked them to? Especially with the way that they might feel differently, since Dumbledore told him to keep it secret as well?

Especially when nothing would ever be the same?

Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t have any idea.

Voldemort laughs softly and vanishes. The dream room vanishes at the same time, and Harry finds himself sitting up in his bed, panting, with Basilisk stirring around his neck and flooding their bond with soft flicker-flames of red and orange.

“He wishes only to protect you.”

Harry doesn’t believe that for a moment. Maybe Voldemort does, but he wants to do it by isolating Harry from everyone else except the friends and familiar he’s chosen for Harry.

He rolls over on the side with a shudder and wraps himself around Basilisk for the rest of the night.

*

“Tea, Mr. Potter?”

For some reason, Professor McGonagall asked Harry to come to her office, but now that they’re there, she’s just asking him about tea and the like rather than getting to the point. Harry takes a deep breath and tries to force away memories of last year, when she told him to keep his head down around Umbridge. At the moment, there’s nothing she knows that could make her act like that.

“Sure, Professor. Thanks.”

Professor McGonagall makes the tea and offers it. Harry sips it and then cradles it in his hands a lot like he did when Professor Dumbledore first offered it to him weeks ago.

“I called you here,” Professor McGonagall says, looking at him over her glasses, “because both Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have reported to me that you are about to crack from the stress of your NEWT classes, as well as—everything that happened to you over the summer.”

Her voice goes soft. Harry nods stiffly. He doesn’t know if Professor McGonagall actually fights with the Order, but she knows enough to realize something of what Sirius was to him.

No one actually knows. No one else feels about him the way I do.

A soft hiss from his bag says, “I do.”

Harry has to ignore Basilisk for the moment, and luckily, Professor McGonagall doesn’t appear to have heard her. She’s leaning forwards, eyes soft and warm and worried. “Mr. Potter, is there anything I can do to help?”

“I—I don’t think so, Professor. I’m just trying to take it one day at a time and get through everything.”

“It does not appear from my side of the desk that you are doing so.”

Harry stifles the temptation to bow his head into his hands and scream. Yet another person whose concern and questions he has to handle. Sometimes he wishes they would all go away.

“I’m not saying I’m fine, Professor,” he says, and tries to make his voice as soft and embarrassed as he can. “Just that I’m not on the brink of collapse the way Ron and Hermione probably think I am.”

“Hm.”

Harry doesn’t know what to do with the way she’s staring at him, so he ducks his head and sips his tea.

Professor McGonagall seems to be waiting for him to speak, but in the end, she sighs and says, “I would feel better if you would speak to someone, Mr. Potter. Do you think that your—no, wait, who has taken your aunt’s place as your guardian?”

“I don’t know.” Now Harry’s throat is dry in a way no tea will cure. “I never got any official notice from the Ministry about that.”

“It must be done,” says his Head of House with a decisive nod, and writes a few notes on a piece of parchment. “I’ll speak with Professor Dumbledore about it as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry says, because he can’t share his internal screaming with her.

As soon as he gets out of her office, he starts to walk quickly up to the Room of Requirement. He can be alone there, he thinks, and he can relax his mind and call Voldemort. This might be exactly the kind of thing to enrage him, given that he tortured Hagrid just for Hagrid’s small part in taking his “son and heir” from him.

“Harry! Wait!”

Harry turns around with his hand on his wand, then blinks. It’s Draco, whose voice he didn’t recognize because Harry doubts that Draco’s ever called him by his first name before. He comes to a halt next to Harry and nods to him. “Is there something I can help you with, my lord?” he asks, as he lowers his voice. “The bond was stinging.”

“I—don’t know,” Harry says, because on the one hand Draco can send a letter to Voldemort unobserved in the way that Harry can’t, and opening his mind isn’t guaranteed to work when Voldemort isn’t waiting for him. But on the other, the owl might take too long to get there.

Then something comes to mind that Draco can help with. Draco brightens even before Harry smiles. He probably feels it in their bond, which for Harry is like a branch tossed by high wind.

“Can you go and speak to Professor McGonagall about—anything, Transfiguration, the NEWT, anything? I need to make sure she won’t send a letter or go talk to the Headmaster about a particular subject before I can inform someone else.”

Draco pales a little, probably because he knows exactly who “someone else” is, but he nods eagerly. “Yes, my lord. Gladly.”

Draco takes off down the corridor in the direction of McGonagall’s office, and Harry carries on to the Room of Requirement. This time, he can hardly think in words about what he needs, but the door still appears, and Harry goes in and collapses on a couch in front of the fire.

He takes a deep breath, slowly, and does his best to open his mind the way he did the other night when Voldemort was waiting. Nothing happens immediately, so he licks his lips and calls out, Father?

A void seems to open in front of him, as if he really has fallen asleep and taken a step away from Hogwarts into another of the dream rooms Voldemort has conjured. Harry steps forwards a second time.

And finds himself opening his eyes as Voldemort, the way the connection operated last year before Harry knew anything. He freezes.

For a moment, he can feel a tidal wave of fury sweeping towards him, but it stops as soon as it touches the outer limits of—what Harry has to think as himself. Then it comes to wrap protectively around him instead. Son?

Yes, Father. I’m sorry to disturb you, but—

Anything for my heir and Horcrux.

Harry swallows back illness, and instead, just shows Voldemort the memory of himself in McGonagall’s office. Voldemort peels through it quickly, but more carefully than Snape did when he was “teaching” Harry Occlumency.

Severus shall pay for that.

I don’t want him to die, Harry says, too weary and frightened to be anything but honest. I don’t want him to be tortured. I just want him to live and never do it again.

Voldemort circles around the memory again, and then says, It shall be so. And Minerva shall soon receive some extremely confusing proof that a distant cousin exists who is too sickly to have you live with her for long periods of time, but is intent on gaining custody of you.

Will Dumbledore believe it, though? He knows—Harry stops. It’s hard for him to say it even in his private thoughts.

The proof will be convincing, Voldemort repeats, patient as an iron snake. And unless he means to betray the secret, he will have no true objections to raise. Minerva herself will ensure that you are escorted to your “cousin’s” house when the holidays arrive.

A glamoured Malfoy Manor?

No, as a matter of fact, I have another house.

Harry wonders if it’s the Riddle house that he saw in his dreams during fourth year, but it’s not something he really wants to ask. He exhales. All right. Thank you.

No, my son. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.

And Voldemort surrounds him with warmth. It’s not love, Harry thinks, or affection really. It’s more like fondness, with possessiveness and protectiveness and pride mingled together so strongly that Harry gasps. If it were physical, he would be surrounded with golden syrup, or maybe one of those squashy chairs that hardly let you stand up.

He—he is—

He is yanking himself backwards, leaving the impression of a bow in his mind so Voldemort doesn’t get upset, and he is tucking himself into a ball, shaking.

Basilisk climbs out of his bag and wraps around him. Her bond feels more than ever like a river of comforting flame trying to burn his distress.

Harry just sits, and shakes, and tells himself that he knew he would face temptation.

He just never thought he would face temptation so tempting.

Chapter Text

“Ah, yes, Harry.” Dumbledore’s face is solemn as he puts the Pensieve in between them. “I know you may feel that we have taken a rather roundabout journey to reach the true object of interest in these memories. But I have had my reasons. You needed to understand the interactions of Tom Riddle’s parents and how Merope Gaunt died to understand him.”

It’s so odd, now, to think of Voldemort as Tom Riddle. To Harry, Voldemort is the man who’s (creepily) engaged in getting Harry to like him, and Riddle is the diary shade who tried to kill him.

Except Voldemort also tried to kill him. It’s confusing.

Harry shakes his head and leans forwards. “Why do you think I’ll learn the truth from memories better than from spending the whole summer with him, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore’s hands pause on the sides of the Pensieve.

It’s the first time that the truth’s been out and acknowledged between them, but Harry knows that Dumbledore did realize, because he looks at Harry with sorrow, but no surprise.

“Oh, my boy,” he whispers. “Do you really think that Voldemort showed you the truth of himself during this summer? Of course not. He was trying to present his best face and make you choose his side. Even if you are his son, you are also his prophesied vanquisher. He wins if he corrupts you. He probably showered you with gifts and affection, did he not?”

“Also, he tried to kill me.”

Dumbledore pauses again. Harry dives in with a question that plunges out of him like a spell. “Sir, why did you leave me there?”

Dumbledore sits back and runs a weary hand down his face. Fawkes croons worriedly from his nearby perch. Harry thinks that he should feel more empathy, but honestly, most of his empathy is being spent on himself at the moment. He just feels empty, as tired as Dumbledore looks.

“I was not entirely certain where you were,” Dumbledore murmurs, his gaze on the distant wall. He’s done that a lot after the “lessons” he’s given Harry. “And I feared that a frontal assault on the wards of Malfoy Manor or a similarly guarded house would kill many of the Order members.”

He looks up, and his eyes are as piercing as ever, for all that they still twinkle, too. “That, and I believed he would not kill you. Not when I believe he is as fascinated with you as he is with some of his other—shiny objects.”

Harry traces a finger over the desk. “Like he was with my mother?”

“Alas, Harry, I do not know what Lily was thinking. I did not even know she had become an Unspeakable. She was often out on missions that I thought were undercover Auror missions. And I believe that she—slept with your father because she wanted to keep her cover, and perhaps to find a way to defeat him, and perhaps to gain access to the inner circle of the Death Eaters.”

“But why get pregnant?”

“It may have been an accident. Not even witches always avoid those.”

“But why keep me?”

“She loved you, Harry, as fiercely as I have ever seen a woman love a child.” Dumbledore leans forwards and speaks with a cadence in his voice Harry has never heard before. “Perhaps she did not know her own mind until you were born, but by then she had made her decision.”

Harry closes his eyes in pain. There are still things he doesn’t understand, but his mother’s love guarding him from Voldemort, and maybe from James and the Order—

Yeah. He can see that.

“Come,” Dumbledore says, after a long, tense moment. “This is the memory of the first time that I met Tom Riddle.”

Harry hesitates, then opens his eyes. He does want to see that. And if he has to report on it to Voldemort later, maybe that’s something Dumbledore already knows. It’s always hard to tell what the Headmaster knows and what he doesn’t.

He lowers his head into the Pensieve.

Harry watches it all with a numbing horror, the condition of the orphanage and the way Tom desperately tries to impress Dumbledore and the way Dumbledore lights the wardrobe on fire and the way Tom looks as if he worships magic. Maybe he would have worshipped anything that got him out of the orphanage or proved he was special, but maybe not.

Harry also looks at Tom Riddle and sees himself. Not just the boy in the cupboard, but the dark-haired boy in the mirror.

Of course, Harry has his mother’s eyes, and that and the general shape of his face, which has to be inherited from someone else but looks a lot like James Potter’s, is probably what made people say he looks so like his Potter parents. His eyesight could also have come from someone else—maybe the Gaunts—or damage from the frying pan Petunia swung at his head. And Tom Riddle’s hair is messier than Harry saw it in the diary shade. Maybe he learned to tame it as he got older.

Of course, right now Voldemort doesn’t have any hair.

It pulls Harry back from the memory again, almost throws him out even before Dumbledore exits the Pensieve. He sits there, shivering and wondering how angry his father will be because of his seeing this.

“Harry? Are you quite all right?”

“I don’t understand how this memory is meant to help me defeat him, sir.”

“I am afraid that I cannot explain all the connections, for understandable reasons.”

Dumbledore is looking at Harry’s scar, so, despite his delicate words, Harry knows exactly what he means, and can feel the bitterness welling up in him. But he just nods. “You believe I can defeat him?”

“I do.” Dumbledore looks back at his eyes again, directly, not the way that he avoided them last year. “Perhaps now more than ever.”

“What?”

“You are keeping the secret so well, Harry. Acting to protect the people you love, keeping them safe. This will teach you more of love and endurance than anything you have gone through so far has done.”

Harry stares at him, and then closes his eyes. He can feel something inside him break, but there are so many broken things, it just joins all the other pieces.

He sighs a little. “Can I go now, sir?”

*

“Bugger off, Nott.”

Harry knew from Theo’s bond that he was getting closer, but he just thought it was because they share NEWT Potions. Instead, it’s because Theo is standing behind Harry, leaning forwards with his hands on Harry’s chair.

“Bugger off yourself, Weasley,” Theo says mildly. “I can talk to Potter if I want.”

He turns to Harry and ducks his head. It will look to other people like he’s just doing that to get closer to whisper. Harry knows it’s a bow, and he sighs internally. Theo’s bond only thrums with amusement like soft music.

“And in fact,” Theo whispers, “I do need to talk to you. Professor Slughorn has assigned me to be your Potions partner for this class.”

Harry gives an external sigh this time. He knows that Slughorn is startled and dismayed Harry isn’t doing better in Potions. He seems to think that the Boy-Who-Lived should be a top prodigy in all his subjects, even though he must know Harry only got an EE on the OWL.

“You don’t have to do that, Harry,” Hermione says instantly. “You can work with me—”

“No,” Theo says, his face going wooden as he looks at Hermione. “Professor’s orders.”

“Even Slughorn wouldn’t make Harry work with Slytherins!”

“Yes, Mr. Weasley, I do, when people need to improve their Potions marks,” Slughorn says, appearing behind Ron and shaking his finger at him slightly. “In fact, I think you should work with Mr. Zabini today.”

Zabini looks as pleased about this as Ron does. Hermione huffs and moves over to sit next to Ernie Macmillan. Harry shakes his head, picks up his cauldron and bag, and starts towards the Slytherin side of the classroom.

Theo brushes past him and takes the cauldron. “We’ll never get there at the rate you walk, Potter,” he says.

Harry wants to grind his hand into his scar. Honestly. Theo is being clever about not revealing Harry is his lord, but he doesn’t have to do any of it. Why doesn’t he just want to stand on his own and make his own decisions?

They sit down on the Slytherin side of the classroom, a division maintained even though there are a lot fewer students in the NEWT class. Theo leans towards Harry. “It is my pleasure to do simple tasks for you,” he whispers. “Never doubt it.”

“Yeah, I don’t.”

Theo gives him a patronizing smile that sort of makes Harry want to punch him, and then glances up as another cauldron slams down beside them. “Pansy. I didn’t know you would be joining us.”

“Father did insist I improve.”

Parkinson’s eyes are lingering on Harry as she sits down, and Harry is suddenly sure she’s not talking about Potions. Theo convinced Slughorn to let Harry come over here for a—what, recruitment pitch? He doesn’t bother to mask his groan.

“Are you allergic to some of the ingredients?” Parkinson asks, eyes sharp.

“No,” Harry says, and doesn’t bother to mask the sharpness as he turns and scowls at her, either. “I’m allergic to being treated like a lord.”

“But that’s what you are.”

Unlike Theo’s enthusiasm and Draco’s mixture of fear and desperate desire to prove himself useful, Parkinson just sounds like she’s speaking of reality. But that doesn’t mean she is, Harry thinks as he squints up at Slughorn’s instructions. It means this is the reality that was forced on him.

He has to keep Theo and Draco safe and Voldemort happy. He doesn’t have to become a lord, not really.

“Why did you do it?”

“Define it, Parkinson.” Harry measures a little of the oil they apparently need for this potion. He looks at it doubtfully, then shrugs. He’s measured it out according to the little crystal vial that it needs.

“Become a lord. Adapt to living with the Dark Lord instead of dying on your feet.”

Harry wants to be angry, but there’s a cleverer look on Parkinson’s face than he’s seen before as she measures her own oil, so he just breathes out. “I had people I wanted to keep safe. And I did think he would kill me, but then he didn’t. Most of the time, I’m just waiting for him to kill me, honestly.”

Draco freezes with his eyes wide, and Parkinson drops her knife, making Slughorn scold her jokingly. Harry just shakes his head. “Of course that’s what I thought would happen.”

“You are wrong, my lord.”

Theo’s voice is low and angry, and their bond is buzzing again, as if it’s a unicorn someone is poking with a stick. Harry turns and looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“The Dark Lord does not mean to kill you.” Theo is apparently taking his anger out on the roots that he’s slicing with fast, precise motions. “I promise you. He would never do that. He values you.”

“For right now.”

“What?”

“He values me for right now. That’s not the same thing as always keeping me safe, or valuing me, or however you want to put it.” Harry measures the oil into his cauldron, stirs it, and then turns to slice his own roots.

The Slytherins are silent. Harry ignores them as best he can. He misses sitting with Ron and Hermione. Sure, there are lots of secrets and pressures when he’s with them, but they also aren’t arguing with him about how his father is a father.

Parkinson finally asks softly, “How can you stand to stay here instead of running away?”

“Where could I go that he couldn’t find me? He has lots of ways to track me, now that he knows I share his blood.” That’s simpler than explaining that Voldemort could probably find him anywhere with the Horcrux link. “And I have people to protect.”

“You think he would kill your friends if you ran?”

“Yes.” That’s the simplest way to put it. Let Parkinson think he means Ron and Hermione if she wants to, although maybe Theo and Draco have told her about their Marks if they’re trying to recruit her to be a—courtier.

Harry’s skin crawls at the notion, and he turns carefully away from the cauldron. He doesn’t really want to vomit in the potion.

“You’re still brave,” Parkinson whispers. “Still a Gryffindor.”

“Yes.” Harry feels a surge of relief. If she thinks that, then she probably won’t try to become his—whatever.

“And you’re here in Hogwarts instead of with him being trained, which means that he trusts you to keep the secret.”

“Yes.” Harry wonders now, as he slices up the roots, trying to use Theo’s roots as a guide, what Parkinson is trying to work out with her rambles.

“And Draco and Theo both respect you.”

“Sure,” Harry says, although he thinks that’s too positive for the emotion that comes down Draco’s bond on a regular basis. He’s so terrified that he thinks he has to fawn on Harry. Theo is more complicated, too, sort of. He respects Harry, but it has a darker edge to it.

Parkinson nods and tosses her hair out of her eyes as she starts plucking flowers from the spray of lilac she has in her hand. “I’ve made my decision.”

“What is it?” Harry has to put down the knife to turn to her when she remains silent, because this is starting to sound as if—

“I’d like to become yours.” Parkinson smiles at him, an expression that looks like she doesn’t have a chance to practice it often. “Everyone’s going to need a protector in this war, and my father was already talking about having me take the Mark. I can take it, but I’d much rather that it be someone who cares about his courtiers like you do.”

Harry wants to scream. He thinks he does a very good job of just sounding thin and impatient as he replies, “But you don’t have to. You have options that I don’t have. You could run, or hide, or just—”

“That’s not an option for anyone who grew up in the kind of family I did,” Parkinson interrupts him. Her eyes are large and dark and bitter. “I am what I am. And by becoming yours, I’ll get to go on being it, while I think the Dark Lord would crush me.”

“He would,” Theo says. “Pansy isn’t respectful enough for him.”

“I respect those who deserve it.”

“I’m definitely not one of them,” Harry says, as quickly as he can.

Parkinson looks at Theo, then shakes her head and says, “You were right. Fine. One Galleon.”

Theo smiles, although his face is taut in the way that it’s been from the beginning of this conversation. “I told you what he was.”

“Still a Gryffindor, yes.” Parkinson digs a Galleon out of a robe pocket and slaps it into Theo’s hand, then turns and faces Harry. “Listen, Potter. We have fewer choices, most of us, than you think, and less power than you do. You said you wanted to protect people. Well, I’m giving you the chance.”

“And what happens when I crack from the stress?”

Shit. Harry didn’t mean to say that. He looks down at his roots and goes back to slicing them, furiously, until Draco makes a small sound of despair.

“Will you at least let me cut them, please? You’re making such a hash of it.”

Harry turns the knife to give it to him, but cuts his finger on the way. He curses and sticks it in his mouth. Draco, who’s been reaching for the knife, freezes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t blame you for this,” Harry says.

“It’s not that.” Theo sounds as though someone is choking him now. “My lord, the sight of your blood being spilled…” He closes his eyes and shudders a little. “Draco and I are feeling compelled to defend you.”

“Well, you can’t attack my knife. And no one explained this fun little side-effect to me, either!”

Harry barely manages to keep his voice down. He wants to shout and wave his arms. He wants to wake them up and point out they could make their own decisions even if they can’t actually fight Voldemort.

Theo draws his wand with a shaking hand and heals the cut. Harry takes his finger out of his mouth and looks at it warily, but it really does seem as if the cut has closed all the way through. He nods to Theo. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome, my lord.” Theo tucks his wand away and smiles at Slughorn, who’s stopped near their table. When he nods, Slughorn chuckles and wags a finger of his own.

“If you knew how many times I saw someone cut their finger and get their blood mingled in the potion! You’re not going to do that, now, are you, Harry?”

“No, sir.” Harry smiles at Slughorn, knowing the expression is artificial. But he actually likes the man’s tendency to call him by his first name, sometimes. It means he doesn’t have to listen to the name “Potter” that doesn’t belong to him echo in his ears as much.

Slughorn chuckles again and winks and moves on to hover over Ron’s cauldron. Theo, in the meantime, leans towards Harry and lowers his voice as though there are eavesdropping spells on their table.

Which there aren’t, Harry thinks uneasily.

Probably.

“Of course we would react when we see your blood spilled, the way that we react when we feel your distress through the bonds—”

“There, Parkinson,” Harry says, turning to her. She blinks at him. “That’s another reason you don’t want to call me lord. You’ll feel my stress, and I’m stressed all the time now.”

Draco cuts Harry’s roots without looking up. Parkinson looks at Theo, who merely smiles. Parkinson tosses her hair again and says, “I could certainly put up with a bit of distress for the sake of safety.”

“No one near me is safe! All he has to do is change his mind, and then where will you be?”

“You don’t understand how the Dark Lord feels about you.” Of everybody, it’s Draco who murmurs that, although his eyes are apparently still locked on the roots in front of him.

“Yes, I do. He wants to test me and mold me into his image.” Probably, Harry thinks, at least in part so that the prophecy can’t come to pass. Why would someone who’s exactly like Voldemort want to kill him?

“He wants you to choose him.”

“Huh?”

Theo and Parkinson aren’t saying anything. Draco leans forwards with his hands folded on the table in front of him and a grave, pinched expression on his face. “The Dark Lord wants—your allegiance. Freely given, freely chosen. For you to follow him because you agree with his ideals and you choose them, not just because he’s your father. Trust me, I would know. My father wants the same thing.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants, but I’m not going to agree!”

“Why not?” Theo asks. He’s leaning close again, and his bond has gone still and intently listening, along with his posture.

Harry glances back and forth, but it doesn’t seem as though anyone is listening to them. Ron and Hermione are the ones who’ve paid the most attention since Harry moved over here with the Slytherins, and they’re arguing over the color of the bubbles rising from Ron’s potion at the moment, Hermione having moved in after all. Zabini is working on his own potion with a look of strained patience.

Harry lowers his voice. “He still tortures people. He still tried to kill me during the summer—”

“That was a test, my lord, as I told you.”

“He still did it! And even if he’d pulled me back at the last minute, I still could have been scarred and pretty badly hurt!” Harry runs his hand over his forehead, feeling the scar that is there. “And he killed my mum and my dad—I mean, the man I thought was my dad. He’s killed a lot of other people. He’s a monster.”

“Not in the last three months.”

It’s sort of amazing that it’s Draco who says that, when he’s the one who’s probably the most terrified of Voldemort, and Harry by extension. Harry looks at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, and then stops himself, a little appalled. His tone of voice is an invitation for Draco to cower.

But Draco doesn’t cower. He looks at Harry evenly and says, “There haven’t been any attacks in the last three months.”

“Yes, there bloody well have!”

Slughorn turns around, and Ron and Hermione look over in concern. Harry gives them a tight smile and lowers his voice. “There was a very prominent attack on a Muggle family, Draco, you might remember, the Prophet reported on it for days.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. Then he says, “But that’s only because they were—your family, part of the reason you were kept from him.” The subtle dart of his eyes in Parkinson’s direction says that he won’t speak about the way the Dursleys treated Harry in front of her, which Harry supposes he has to be content with. “He hasn’t attacked anyone from the Ministry, members of the Wizengamot, Aurors, Muggleborns, other Muggles. He’s halted his Dementor recruitment efforts. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stupidity doesn’t become you, my lord,” Theo drawls. “You know as well as I do. He wants you to find him acceptable. To choose his side, as Draco says.”

“Yeah, but I can’t do that.” Harry gives a sharp little laugh, although the others don’t seem to find it funny. Parkinson just raises her eyebrows. “Not only do I hate what he did in the past, he would just go back to doing it if he thought he could get away with it.”

“He could get away with it,” Theo says, calm and dark. His bond feels the same way, and his eyes are like drills on the side of Harry’s face. “If he just wanted to attack, no one could stop him. The Ministry is disorganized, the Order of the Phoenix too small in number. But he’s paused, my lord. Waiting on you.”

“I still don’t have any power! The minute I disapprove, he’ll go back to it, and if I approve, he’ll go back to it! And if I just hesitate forever, then sooner or later he’ll get bored and start doing it again!”

“Will he?”

Harry glares at Theo.

“Time’s up!” Slughorn calls. “You’ll want to turn in your potions, which should be a nice bright green color by now—”

Harry starts. He never finished his potion, what with one thing or another. He turns back to his cauldron and gapes when he realizes that it’s a nice bright green color, just the way Slughorn said, and blue steam is rising from it.

Draco smiles at him. “I made it.”

“But that’s—” Harry looks at Draco’s cauldron, which is empty. “Draco, you can’t sacrifice your Potions mark for me!”

“Oh, yes, I can.” Draco pauses, and then a smirk that’s a lot more like the ones he used to wear darts across his face. “If I want, I can do anything, my lord. And this hurts a lot less than some of the sacrifices the Dark Lord might have demanded.”

He pauses as if thinking Harry might turn on him, but when Harry just stares, Draco reaches for a vial, still smiling.

“It’s been more than a year since Draco smiled like himself,” Parkinson says abruptly. “Yes, I’m yours.”

They’re all mental here. Including me.

Chapter Text

I am very pleased that you have your third courtier, my heir.

That’s what the letter in the black envelope on his pillow the next morning says. Harry stares up at the canopy and screams in a low, thick voice.

“You are upset.”

“Yes,” Harry says, not bothering to conceal it from Basilisk. He tangles her around his fingers and burns the letter with a flash of wandless fire, the same way he did when he got one during the first weeks of summer.

“But he is proud of you.”

“I wish he wasn’t.”

Basilisk pauses, and their bond turns from red-orange to brilliant black. Harry starts. It’s a color that he’s never “felt” before, and he looks down at her in concern from where she is lifting her head to stare at him.

“Do you wish that you were not?”

Harry closes his eyes. He hasn’t thought about it in detail before. He just kept thinking there was no escape from this prison that being Voldemort’s son put him in, and wishing that things were less stressful and would change one way or the other.

But he didn’t really think about suicide, and he doesn’t now. If only because Voldemort would take it out on Draco, Theo, and others. Because his friends would miss him. Because Basilisk might die without the familiar bond—he isn’t sure—and he doesn’t want her to.

Because without him, there is no hope of defeating Voldemort.

“No,” he whispers at last. “I just—I wish I didn’t feel so bad.”

“You must change some things.”

“I know, but I can’t tell the secret, and I can’t abandon you or my Marked people, and I’m probably going to have to Mark Pansy Parkinson, the girl you smelled yesterday, since otherwise Voldemort would be upset with me—”

“You will change the people you can change.”

“What do you mean, Basilisk?”

“You should do less for the people who beg you to do things for them and are not your Marked. Or your friends,” Basilisk adds, although she sounds a little doubtful about that. Harry doesn’t think she understands the concept of “friends,” only those who are blood and those who are bonded. “Do not spend hours doing work that is no use. Only put a little effort into it. Do not practice so often with your flying-thing. You are good and do not need to practice that often. Think, instead.”

“I feel like all I do is think.”

“You must think enough to come to a decision. Good or bad, it will be a decision that ends things. And then we can relax.”

Harry gently strokes Basilisk’s scales. Of course. The constant stress must be hard on her, too, and on Draco and Theo. And if he really has to Mark other people and bond with them (ugh), then they’ll feel the same thing.

He’s doing everything for the good of other people. Making himself feel better isn’t selfish, Harry thinks as carefully and confidently as he can. He can afford to drop some of the effort that doesn’t matter all that much anyway.

If he’s Voldemort’s son and he can’t change that, then he has to put some of those—duties—ahead of things like schoolwork. Voldemort would probably pull some strings to make sure Harry can retake his NEWTS if he has to, the same way that he conjured a guardian from thin air for Harry to spend the holidays with.

Harry’s hand on Basilisk’s scales slows suddenly.

Is he going to spend Christmas with Voldemort?

What will that be like?

Harry swallows and sits up. The point is that he doesn’t have to think about it for a few weeks, and in the meantime, he can at least get rid of some of the everyday stresses, the ones Basilisk talked about.

“You’re so wise,” he tells her, and her bond becomes a series of dancing flickers of purple and green, self-satisfaction and glee.

“Of course I am. I am meant to be with you.”

*

“Well, this is somewhat unexpected, Mr. Potter.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry says, keeping his voice low and his head bowed as he lays the Quidditch Captain badge on Professor McGonagall’s desk. This will be easier if she thinks he’s really torn up about it. “I just can’t keep up Quidditch practice and supervising tryouts and also doing all my homework. I’m not doing that well in Potions, and if I want to be an Auror, I really need to keep up with it.”

If is doing a lot of work in that sentence, but McGonagall eats it up. Her face softens as she picks up the badge. “Of course, Mr. Potter. Your schoolwork must come first. May I assume that you will at least continue as the team’s Seeker?”

“Oh, yes, Professor. I just don’t need to attend practices as often because—well, honestly, I can fly better than almost anyone else in the school.”

“No need for false modesty, Mr. Potter. I would say anyone else in the school, and probably in history.”

Harry looks up at her with a pleased smile that he can’t hide. The flying talent is his, just his, he thinks. He certainly didn’t get it from his father, he couldn’t have got it from James Potter, and someone probably would have told him about it by now if his mum was a gifted flyer. “Yeah, thanks, Professor.”

“Who would you recommend as Captain in your place, Mr. Potter? I had thought of perhaps giving it to Mr. Weasley, but, frankly, his performance needs to improve.”

Harry nods fervently. He feels bad that Hermione probably Confunded Cormac McLaggen to get Ron on the team, but on the other hand, he has so many other things to worry about that it just didn’t register as something all that important. “I think Katie Bell deserves it, Professor. This is her last year, and she’s absorbed a lot of Oliver’s lessons.”

“Miss Bell it shall be.” Professor McGonagall writes something down on the parchment in front of her and then gives Harry a concerned look. “I do hope that this will increase your ability to focus on what is important, Mr. Potter.”

“I do, too, Professor.”

*

“You gave up being Quidditch Captain?”

“Yeah, but I’m still Seeker, Ron.”

“I’d kill to be Quidditch Captain!”

“Well, maybe next year,” Harry says, and turns his attention back to the Charms essay that he’s writing. He was worrying yesterday about making sure it’s in depth, but right now, he jots down not much more than he would have last year. Flitwick can maybe pull him aside later and give him a concerned lecture.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Ron seems happier after being reminded that he has one more year on the team, and Hermione looks calm and smug in a way that makes Harry surer than ever she cheated to get Ron on the team. But why does that matter? They don’t even know that their best friend is the son of their worst enemy.

Basilisk hisses softly from his bag. She’s taken to reminding him when he starts to stray into thinking about the future too much. Harry shakes his head and concentrates on the essay.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like something hissing.”

Harry sends a comforting, warning thought to Basilisk, and shakes his head a little. “Well, I didn’t do it. Who would I hiss to, anyway?”

“I—suppose.”

Ron and Hermione both eye him consideringly, but Harry asks a question about the Charms essay, and they get diverted. Harry feels a little bad about manipulating them, but it doesn’t seem to harm them.

And at this point, it’s hard to think of anyone around him who isn’t being manipulated in some way.

*

“It will be your task to get close to Professor Slughorn and retrieve the real memory.”

Or I could just ask my father, Harry thinks, slightly hysterically.

He stares at the Pensieve without answering Dumbledore’s declaration for a few moments, and then he looks up. “He’s not really close to me, sir. I mean, he’s disappointed that I’m not better in Potions, and he tells me that I need to be better, but he hasn’t invited me to his Slug Club or anything.”

“You must change that, Harry.”

Harry takes a deep breath. At this point, he doesn’t think that he can know what Dumbledore realizes and what he doesn’t. But his answer to the question will be interesting on grounds other than truth. “Why can’t you, sir? I know that you’re a good Legilimens, and Slughorn trusts and respects you a lot more than he does me—”

“Horace has his reasons not to trust me,” Dumbledore interrupts him. “He didn’t truly want to come back and teach at Hogwarts. He did it only because I convinced him he would be safer from Death Eaters here. But with the limited number of attacks, he’s begun making noises about leaving at the end of the year. Would you know anything about that, Harry?”

“Not really, sir. I told you I’m not close to Professor Slughorn.”

“I meant the limited number of attacks, Harry.”

Harry forms his hands into fists on his lap. Of course Dumbledore sees. But he doesn’t get upset or ask the question again. He simply waits, looking at Harry with the kind of patient scrutiny that isn’t anything but patient.

“I think Voldemort’s trying to show that he can be—some version of a good person,” Harry says, his tongue getting tangled behind his teeth. “He wants to convince me that he can hold his temper, or he doesn’t want to torture people, or something.” He laughs, then hears the way he sounds, and stops. “But of course, if I came over to his side, then he would just go right back to torturing and raiding and murdering, so it’s not even tempting. I only have power over him if I don’t come to his side.”

“I am glad you realize that, Harry. You know he would treat you like an object if you did?”

Harry nods. That, at least, he thinks is true. Voldemort might prize him and put him on a high shelf, but he doesn’t value Harry as a human.

“You would not be human any longer if you went over to Voldemort’s side.”

Harry jolts, wondering if Dumbledore was reading his mind, but the Headmaster goes on in an earnest tone that doesn’t really let Harry tell. “You would be little more than a glorified Death Eater. A bit more precious to him than some of the others, but subject to the same punishments for exercising your free will.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do know this?”

“Yes, sir. He claims that he wants a son and heir, and he acts as if he was angry about the Dursleys for mistreating me, but he also tried to get me killed over the summer. And he forced me to work with Snape even though I didn’t want to, and he threatened other people to get me to cooperate—” Harry shakes his head, his throat thick with emotion. “He’s acting saner than he was, but it doesn’t mean he’s sane. Or has any idea about how to be a real father.”

“I am so glad to hear you say that, Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs, and gives him a proud smile. “I confess, I thought you would be tempted by the idea of family.”

“Remember what I saw in the Mirror of Erised, sir? That’s my idea of family. And even if I accept that Voldemort was the man who sired me and not James Potter, he still killed my mother.”

“Yes, that is very true.” Dumbledore pulls his glasses off to wipe them on his robe. “And he was the one ultimately responsible for your years of mistreatment at the hands of Muggles that he pretends to be so angry about.”

“Well, him and you, sir.”

There’s silence. Harry once again wants to slap himself, the way he did for blurting stupid things out of in front of Voldemort. You should remember that even if he has your best interests at heart, this won’t make him inclined to protect them.

“Harry.”

Dumbledore’s voice is deep and grieved, his eyes fastened on Harry. Harry takes a deep breath and lives in the world that he made when he uttered those words, half-shrugging. “It’s true, sir. You took me there.”

“I never thought they would abuse you thus.”

“You said last year that there would be, you thought there would be, ten dark and difficult years. Are you saying you didn’t really believe that, sir?”

“Not dark or difficult in the specific way that you suffered, no.”

“That’s just semantics,” Harry says, exhausted. Then he wants to slap himself again, because semantics is a Hermione word—or, more accurately at this point, a Theo word. All he needs is for Dumbledore to start wondering about who he’s spending time with. “But you put me there, and you knew I would suffer, and I did.”

“I am sorry for it, my boy. Do you think Voldemort will ever be sorry for what he inflicts on you?”

At least Harry knows better than to talk about the sort of half-apologies he’s sometimes got from Voldemort. Or that Voldemort probably thinks killing the Dursleys and torturing Hagrid is some sort of apology. He leans back and shakes his head a little. “Tell me something.”

“If I can.”

“If the Dursleys were still alive and their house still existed, would you have sent me back there this summer?”

Dumbledore’s silence is answer enough. Harry grabs his bag and stands.

“Please, Harry, do not let an argument with me turn you against our side of the war. You know that I still wish to protect people, which is not what Voldemort wants to do. You know there is still a clear difference between us.”

Harry pauses as he’s about to leave the office. He turns around. The Headmaster is leaning forwards as if he’s about to rise from his seat. Fawkes is watching Harry with uneasy eyes.

“Yes, there’s a difference,” Harry says quietly. “Voldemort wants to protect me, but would be happy if lots of other people died. Or he just wouldn’t care. You want to protect lots of other people, but you don’t want to protect me.”

“Harry—”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Harry walks out of the office and takes the moving staircase down with his eyes shut more than half the time.

This is the best method he can think of to warn Dumbledore that Voldemort is trying to win Harry over to his side with the temptation of family.

If Dumbledore doesn’t do anything about it, that’s his problem.

*

“We won’t be able to do the exact same kind of Marking here that we did during the summer.”

“That doesn’t matter, my lord.”

Theo has been walking beside Harry, his voice and eyes quiet and clever and quick, since Harry left Gryffindor Tower under his Invisibility Cloak. At least one Gryffindor must have challenged a Slytherin for being so near the Fat Lady, but Theo ignored them, if so.

Or else he Memory Charmed them, and they came back into the Tower none the wiser. Harry wouldn’t put it past Theo.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” he asks, dragging his mind back to the conversation happening with Theo instead of the multiple arguments that he might have in his head about things.

“Because we have a room that’s been used for rituals before, and you know the spell, and Draco and I shared our experiences with Pansy. She’s as prepared as she can be to be Marked when she never has been.”

“Does she want to be?”

Theo pauses at the top of a staircase to give him a chiding look. “My lord, you know the truth about that by now.”

“There’s a difference between wanting to be Marked by me specifically and just wanting to avoid a worse fate.”

“And sometimes they are the same,” Theo says, and keeps walking down, leaving Harry to sigh and pull the Cloak’s hood over his face. He can’t afford to be spotted now, whereas it wouldn’t be a big problem for Theo.

They go down further into the dungeons than Harry knew corridors existed. They reach a door at last that makes Harry jump when he sees it. It’s not just that it’s made of iron and set deep in the stone. It’s that he can feel the Darkness radiating from it the way he did from some objects in Malfoy Manor.

“My lord.”

Parkinson takes a step out of the darkness and performs an odd gesture to him, holding up the hem of her robes. It takes a long moment for Harry to realize that she’s curtseying, because his brain stalls on the word. He just gapes at her, and Parkinson blinks at him and then at Theo.

“Has he changed his mind about accepting me?” she asks Theo.

“Of course not. One thing we know about our lord, he can never turn away a hopeless case.”

Harry turns around and scowls at Theo, jolted out of his preoccupation. Theo winks at him and then steps up to the iron door. He holds his hands towards it. A second later, Parkinson and Draco join him, repeating the gesture.

“We have come to bring Pansy Parkinson into a lord’s fold,” Theo says, his voice sounding like he’s reciting a poem.

The door seems to hesitate for a long moment, although Harry doesn’t think it’s sentient. At least, he really hopes not. But then it clicks open, and Harry shivers even harder in the flood of cold air that comes from beyond it.

“You must lead the way into the room, my lord.”

Theo’s face is solemn, and already it seems to be lit by the flickering shadows of fire, although Harry can’t see any light from beyond the door. He ends up biting his lip, nodding, and stepping into the room.

He shivers so hard that he wonders if he’ll be able to conduct the ritual. The next moment, though, fire springs into being on the torches that crowd the walls and in a fireplace that stands on the wall opposite the door. Harry finds himself holding out his hands before he even knew he was going to do it.

Then he looks around at the actual other things in the room.

There’s a carving in each wall that seems to be a circle elaborated different ways: with rings around it, with a pentagram inside it, and so on. And there’s a similar circle in the floor. Harry walks over to it, staring.

The circle is covered with runes that look a little like some of the ones Harry has seen on Hermione’s homework. The outside of the circle is bright and harsh with red lines and circles and triangles. Harry bites his lip and steps back from it. Magic seems to trail him, crackling along his skin like static electricity.

“You must empower the circle, my lord.”

Theo’s voice is low and spooky enough to make Harry jump. He turns around and looks a little accusingly back and forth between Theo, Draco, and Parkinson. “This isn’t like the ritual we did at Malfoy Manor at all.”

“The circle was already empowered there,” Theo says, although his eyes flash a little, maybe because he thinks Harry shouldn’t have mentioned Malfoy Manor in front of Parkinson. “This is different, but you can do it, my lord. And it requires willingness and acceptance more than anything else.”

“On both our parts.”

“Of course on both our parts,” Parkinson says. She shakes her cloak back and then kneels in the center of the circle. Harry never even saw her step across the outside of it. She stays with her eyes fastened on him. “I’m ready, as soon as you empower the circle.”

Harry is shivering. He wonders in a ringing part of his mind if he really hoped this wouldn’t happen. Even though he came here prepared to do it.

His voice is thin as he says, “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Let me show you, my lord.”

Theo kneels in front of Harry, between him and the outer limit of the circle. He holds up his wand and cuts the side of his arm. Harry starts forwards with a little cry, but Theo shakes his head impatiently, and Harry hesitates.

“Command my blood to flow into the circle,” Theo says, eyes fastened on Harry. “You can do it, my lord. Harry. Draw on our bond, and say that my blood must obey you. It will do so. I obey you in all things.”

Except for thinking about how I don’t want to do this…

But Harry takes a deep breath, because otherwise Theo will just go on bleeding, and that is not acceptable. He concentrates on the vassal bond that links him to Theo, and sure enough, the blood flows away from Theo’s arm and pours into the circle incised in the stone.

It catches on fire. It shimmers softly, with shades of red and gold, and Harry swallows and turns to Parkinson.

She smiles at him. She seems a little tentative, but Harry can’t blame her for that. “I am ready, my lord.”

Okay. Okay.

Harry steps forwards and lowers his wand to rest on Parkinson’s arm. When he concentrates, he thinks he can feel the same heavy sort of magic that was present in the ritual room at Malfoy Manor. He didn’t know that was part of an empowered circle, or whatever. He just thought it was—well, natural.

He hisses, “Morsmordre leonis.”

Parkinson makes a low, rough sound of pain as the Mark forms on her arm. Harry keeps his mind focused on the good things he can do for her, how he can help save her from the life that her father tried to make her take up.

Then the bond springs to life between Parkinson’s mind and his. It’s bright, ringing like a Galleon dropped on a stone floor, and—

“Harry!”

Harry jumps and spins around. Ron and Hermione are standing in the entrance to the ritual room, their eyes so wide that it looks as if they’re distorting the skin of their faces.

“What are you doing?” Hermione whispers.

Chapter Text

Harry has no idea what to say. His tongue gets tangled up behind his teeth, and his head buzzes with so much fear and self-loathing that he wishes Basilisk were here, so he could bask in her bond and get a little more clear-headed.

“Mate?” Ron takes a slow step towards him. “Is this—has someone convinced you—” Abruptly, he takes the step backwards again. “Hermione, can you cast that diagnostic you found?”

Hermione’s wand snaps up, and Theo’s does at the same time. Whatever charm she was casting towards Harry meets a silvery shield and dissipates in midair.

“I will not permit you to cast spells on my lord.”

Theo’s voice is a low snarl. He actually sounds like a guard dog who might lunge at any second. Harry steps up to put a hand on his shoulder, while at the same time snapping their bond like a whip. He hates doing it, but Theo straightens up, and some color comes back into his pale cheeks. He nods.

“Sorry, my lord. I will not attack them without your leave.”

“Which I won’t give, so you might as well not attack them!”

For a moment, Harry has to hold Theo’s eyes. Theo struggles as though he wonders whether it would be worth it to disobey Harry after all, and then he lowers his gaze and bows from his waist. “Your will be done, my lord.”

He seems pleased, now, if the bond is any indication. Harry sighs. He’s never going to understand Theo, not completely.

He turns to his face his friends. Ron looks like he wants to vomit. Hermione is standing with her wand held upright in her trembling hand, but she looks as if she wants to vomit, too, or cry, or run. Harry has never seen her look like that. Not when Umbridge was in the school, not when they went back in time to save Sirius.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. “Oh, Harry, can you let me cast this spell on you so that we can make sure you aren’t possessed?”

Theo stirs again, but Harry clamps a hand down on his shoulder and squeezes, and at least he doesn’t interrupt. Draco and Parkinson seem frozen behind them. Draco’s bond has turned the clear color of terror again.

It’s for them as much as for himself, or hope of keeping his friendship with Ron and Hermione, that makes Harry say, “I’m not possessed. I know that. But you can go ahead and cast the spell, Hermione.”

Parkinson stands. Harry keeps a mental eye on her, but she doesn’t seem inclined to interfere. She does step forwards so that Ron and Hermione have no choice but to see the Mark on her arm, however.

“What the fuck is that?” Ron whispers.

“My newest accessory. Do you like it?”

“Not now, Pansy.”

They didn’t discuss Harry calling her by her first name, and he feels a little bad when she gasps and falls silent. But this moment has to be between him and his first friends—former friends?—for now, without his courtiers trying to interfere, even if it’s “natural” for them to draw hostile attention away from him.

“Your will be done, my lord,” she says in a sweet, submissive voice that Harry doesn’t trust one little bit, but at least she stays behind him, and leaves a clear path open so he can speak to Ron and Hermione.

“What is going on?” Ron says, in a tone of thin complaint that doesn’t sound like him any more than Hermione looks like herself at the moment.

“Cast the spell, Hermione.”

She bites her lip and does it. Harry shudders a little as tiny invisible teeth seem to nip him all over, but he doesn’t move. A moment later, a golden cloud melts into the air around him and wavers back and forth.

“You aren’t possessed,” Hermione says faintly. Harry thinks she would have preferred that result, though. “How did you—why did you—why did you come up with the idea to do this?” She gestures at Pansy and Draco and Theo, at the way Harry stands with his hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Did you get the idea from V-Voldemort?”

More than one person flinches, but Harry says, “I had to do it. I had no choice. Voldemort put me up to it this summer.”

“What?”

Ron and Hermione cry it at the same time, and the torches flicker in the ritual room behind them. Harry has the impression that the room doesn’t like his friends’ voices, or maybe their presence. But he has to plunge ahead, no matter how much it feels like he’s standing in the middle of a shattering fall of glass. “That’s where I was this summer. Staying with him.”

“I don’t understand.” Ron is clutching his wand now, his eyes flickering rapidly back and forth between Harry and the Slytherins. Theo is watching him, and Harry knows how fast Theo will move if Ron tries to attack. “How could V-Voldemort get through the blood protections on the Dursleys’ house?”

“Because he shares my blood.”

For a second, Harry wonders if he should try to pretend that’s because of what happened in the graveyard. Take the coward’s way out. But Hermione’s mind has already made the jump, and the color drains from her face and she sways on her feet. Ron has to brace her.

“He’s your father.”

Harry swallows and nods. “My mum—slept with him when she was on an Unspeakable mission. He found out that I was his son when he possessed me in the Department of Mysteries.”

In the end, the words are small and quick for something so horrible. Like slashing a wound open down his arm, the way Theo did when he knelt to empower the circle. Harry thought it would be more dramatic somehow.

“Harry. Oh, Harry.”

Hermione is crying, not with gasping sobs but with a steady voice and tears rolling as steadily down her face. Ron looks disgusted and heartbroken. He still has his arms braced around Hermione so she doesn’t fall.

Harry swallows and nods. “And once he found out, he wasn’t going to let me go. He brought me to his—house, and kept me prisoner, and taught me Dark Arts, and gave me people to care for so he could use them as hostages to tame me. And he told me I wasn’t to tell you the secret.”

“You should have anyway!”

“Maybe I should have anyway.” Harry shuts his eyes. “How did you find your way down here?”

“I heard you get up and leave,” Ron whispers. “I came down, and Hermione was still studying near the fire and had seen the common room door open and shut. We thought we should follow you to make sure you didn’t get into trouble, but we had trouble keeping up. So she cast a Tracking Charm, and we found this room that way.”

Hermione says nothing. She’s started crying in earnest now, with little hiccoughing sounds. It makes Harry feel worse than if she would denounce him as a traitor of something.

“Mate.”

Reluctantly, Hary meets Ron’s eyes. He can see, he thinks, a glimpse of the man Ron will be as an adult. Stern, and strong, and loyal, and steadfast.

And, maybe, unforgiving.

“I understand, kind of, what you did this summer. You had to do what you had to do to survive.” Ron straightens his back. “But once you got away and came to Hogwarts, why did you keep obeying him? Why not tell us the truth? And why Mark someone new? If you only Marked them because you had to, then you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t keep doing it. Why are you?”

Harry takes a deep breath. He can feel his bonds with his courtiers thrumming, and he can feel even the bond with Basilisk tightening. She’s left the safety of his bedroom upstairs and is racing to find him.

Harry doesn’t have time to worry about whether she’ll get stepped on right now, though.

“Because loyalty is worth honoring,” Harry says quietly, instead of the excuses that Ron and Hermione probably expected from him. “Because they still need me. Because there’s no way that I can just drop the bonds when we’re back at school and expect them to be safe. And because other people than just the ones I originally Marked can have demanding families or need safety.”

Silence. Ron is staring at him with those stretched eyes as if he’s never seen him before. Hermione has her hand across her mouth.

Harry is just grateful that Pansy and Draco and Theo are also keeping quiet. He can imagine how easily they could inflame this situation to make it worse.

“But they could go to Dumbledore,” Hermione whispers at last. “Parkinson, you don’t need this Mark. Dumbledore could keep you safe.”

“The way he kept my lord safe?” Parkinson asks, voice as sweet and cutting as a knife dipped in sugar. “By sending him back to abusive Muggles again and again? No, I don’t think I’ll take the chance.”

“Dumbledore would want me to be a spy,” Draco says, a weariness in his voice that Harry has never heard before. “With my family connections and the connections that my father has to the Dark Lord? No, there’s no way I’d get out of it. It would be a conditional sanctuary.”

“You think this isn’t conditional?” Ron bellows. His face is bright red. He flips his hand at Harry, who flinches a little. Theo is right behind him, a hand on his wand, vibrating with the desire to curse Ron. Harry leans back into Theo. Theo snarls at him a little, but reluctantly lets go of his wand. “You have to swear an oath and be loyal to Harry and not act against him and not pursue the kinds of ambitions that I know Slytherins have—”

“You know nothing about us.” Theo’s voice has deepened. He’s going to attack, Harry knows it, unless Harry does something drastic. “Nothing about what we face, what our lord faces—”

“Don’t tell me the bloody Dark Lord faces obstacles and try to make me feel sorry for him—”

“I was referring to Harry. Our lord.”

“Harry,” Hermione says, with so much pain in her voice that Harry thinks one of them is going to collapse under it, and it might be him. “You can’t want this. You don’t have to have it. I know that you can—you can find some other place for him to go, you can renounce the Marks if you want to—it’s not a prison—”

It’s a prison of compassion, Harry might say. I could only do that if I didn’t care about what happened to them afterwards.

But now Ron and Hermione’s eyes are pinned on him, and so are his courtiers’, and he has to choose, in a way that he never expected. He just feared Ron and Hermione finding out about this, feared it so much he couldn’t picture what would happen afterwards. But now is the afterwards.

Harry braces himself and reaches out to his courtiers. Pansy and Draco’s bonds are stinging, singing, with fear. They think he’ll abandon them.

Theo’s bond is singing with faith.

“I can’t abandon the people who swore to me,” Harry says quietly. “I can’t just say that, well, they’ll probably be all right, and toss them out into the world that way. I swore to defend them. I Marked them to protect them. And I have to maintain that.”

Theo’s bond now feels smug. Draco’s is frozen. And Pansy is leaning around Draco’s shoulder to stare at Harry as if she’s never seen him before.

Come to that, Hermione is doing the same thing.

“Harry,” she says. “Oh, Harry.” As though she’s mourning the loss of a dear friend who’s died.

Harry swallows and blinks back tears. Then he says, “I was—trying to keep things secret because I was ordered to, but also because I thought it would change things.”

“He wants Hermione and people like her dead,” Ron says, his voice so tight that Harry wouldn’t have recognized it if he wasn’t looking directly at Ron. His oldest friend puts his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “How could you, Harry?”

“I made the decisions that were in front of me.”

“Then maybe it would be better if you didn’t!”

This time, Theo does step past Harry with his wand aimed at Ron. “You don’t have the right to say that Harry should die or commit suicide because it would have pleased you, blood traitor,” he says, and his eyes are wild. Harry tries to shove Theo behind him again, among other things because he’s upset about the words “blood traitor,” but Theo elbows him back without looking. “Go and leave him behind like you’ve been threatening to since fourth year. You’re as useless as a broken wand.”

“Harry?” Ron’s voice is a croak.

“Do you think I should have died?”

Ron stares at him. Harry clenches his fists. “It’s a simple question, Ron.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Then what you’re asking me to do isn’t simple, either.”

Ron keeps staring. Harry does, too. At last Ron makes a rough noise and turns away with Hermione’s arm in his hand.

She looks back one last time, then twitches her head and says, “I would have died before I let someone who wants to commit genocide use me.”

And they’re gone.

Harry notices Theo slip out after them, and thinks that he might be going to Memory Charm them or something. It’s hard for Harry to care right now. His head is pounding sickly, and he keeps trying to swallow and not being able to.

But then Theo pauses and turns back, and says softly, “My lord, do you want me to Obliviate them?”

It would be the simplest solution, in a lot of ways. This would mean that Ron and Hermione couldn’t tell other people that Harry is Voldemort’s son. Harry doesn’t want to think they would, but his best friends probably think Harry is a totally different person now and he’s betrayed everyone anyway. So they might.

On the other hand, he’ll just have to go back to keeping the secret if he does that. And he doesn’t think he can.

He swallows and meets Theo’s eyes. “Is there a spell you can use on them that would mean they couldn’t tell the truth to anyone who doesn’t already know it?”

Theo’s smile is like a dark sunrise. “Oh, yes,” he says softly. “A Vow has to be willing, but a simple enforcement of silence? Yes.” He turns around and leaves the room, and in seconds, Harry loses track of his soft footsteps, of everything except the bond that sings and sings between them.

There’s silence for long enough that Harry thinks Pansy and Draco will leave without saying anything, but then Pansy adjusts her robes and says in a brisk voice, “My first evening as a courtier of yours, my lord, and it’s already an exciting one.”

Harry groans a little. “This changes a lot.”

“For you, I know. Not for me.”

“That’s really comforting, Parkinson, thanks.”

“Pansy, now.” Pansy steps up in front of him, her mouth set in a line that doesn’t reflect the fire raging in her eyes or, suddenly, the bond. Harry takes a step back from her, honestly unnerved. “You made the best decision you could, and just because it doesn’t make everyone happy doesn’t make it a bad one. You’ve been unhappy for months. Theo and Draco told me. Why does it matter if other people have to be the unhappy ones for once?”

“They’re my friends—”

“Then they can put up with a bit of unhappiness as they reconsider the friendship. Or they can stop being your friends, and then why should what they think matter to you?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Pansy shrugs. “It can be. And honestly, do you know what I think you should do?”

“Tell me, O Great Wise One.” A shimmer near the door of the ritual room reveals that Basilisk’s arrived, and Harry stoops down and picks her up, winding her around his shoulders.

Pansy’s eyes follow the movement of the Disllusioned snake and narrow a little, but she keeps speaking. “I think you should speak to your father.”

Harry laughs despite himself.

“No,” Pansy says. “Make it plain that Granger and Weasley found out, but that Theo is binding them with a silence spell, and that your court grew by one. Lay out that you don’t know what to do next. Parents love being asked for advice. You’re admitting that you can’t stand on your own, which isn’t shameful, because right now, you can’t. Just ask.”

“And what if he threatens people?”

“Then that’s no different from what he’s been doing so far, supposedly. At least you’ll know where the threat is coming from, and you might be able to persuade him to retract it.” Pansy folds her arms. “I think he would do anything for you.”

“You don’t really know what he’s like, Pansy.”

“I know what you’ve said about him. And what Theo and Draco have said about him.”

Harry glances at Draco, who looks at him carefully, and then says, without much inflection, “My father would do anything for his heir, things he might not do for his son. He also told me that the Dark Lord talks of you often as his heir, and he seemed gleeful about it.”

And his Horcrux, Harry thinks, but he knows that he absolutely can’t reveal anything about that. “Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “I suppose that that can’t hurt. Any more than it’s hurt already.”

Draco abruptly steps forwards and rests a hand on Harry’s shoulder, pressing down. “I think it will be fine,” he says softly. “My father told me about the Dark Lord referring to you as his heir so that I would know—not to challenge you too much, not to try and hurt you. The Dark Lord would bring down his full wrath on anyone who did that, Father said.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m like that.”

Draco gives him a painful smile. “No. It’s Father who doesn’t understand you, more than anything.”

“Talk to him,” Pansy says, and then her eyes move beyond Harry’s shoulder in a way that makes Harry turn around. Theo is slipping in, his bond so thick with satisfaction that it sings and sways in an invisible wind.

“It is done, my lord. I have bound them to talk of it to no one else by any method, including letting someone else read their minds.”

“Dumbledore is a Legilimens—he might try anyway, and I don’t think they know Occlumency—”

“This particular spell will make them hide it. If they have to study Occlumency, that’s what they’ll do, but it’s much more likely to just raise a wall of magic in their minds if someone tries to read their thoughts. And anyway, you know that both of the Legilimens in the school are aware of the secret already.”

Harry nods slowly. Dumbledore would expect Harry to tell him anyway about Ron and Hermione finding out, and has no particular reason to go around trying to read their minds. Snape doesn’t, either.

“Thank you, Theo.”

Theo gives him a sweeping, melodramatic bow that ends with his hand over his heart. “You are welcome, my lord.” Then he glances at the door of the ritual room. “And you should know that the door opened because of your connection to them.”

“I don’t have a bond with Ron and Hermione!”

“No, but you consider them friends—considered them?” Theo shrugs. “That means the door didn’t seal itself against them the way it would have against most anyone else. You didn’t think to ward against them, or wouldn’t have if you needed to set up wards, and so the ones on the room didn’t engage, either.”

Harry swallows and nods. It’s at least better than thinking that Ron and Hermione have some means of breaking into the ritual room. “Thank you, Theo.”

“You are welcome, my lord.” Theo’s eyes are shining.

*

Theo insists on walking back with him to Gryffindor Tower. To Harry’s relief, no one is in the common room, and he manages to get back to his bedroom under the Cloak without anyone noticing, either. Ron’s curtains are firmly shut, and Harry’s sure that he’s going to pay for their argument in the morning.

At the moment, he doesn’t care. He lies back on the bed and flings his mind open, crying out the way he did when Professor McGonagall was trying to find a guardian for him. Father!

This time, he’s even less sure of an immediate answer, since it seems that Voldemort is more likely to do his reading and plotting and meetings with his court at night, but he receives one anyway. Voldemort clasps him in what seems like a powerful hand, and Harry opens his eyes to the dream-room of their first “meeting” this term.

Voldemort leans forwards from a chair, his eyes intent and so red that they make the fire seem pale. “You have something to ask me, my son?”

“Ron and Hermione found out I’m your son, and Theo bound them with a silencing spell they couldn’t break to tell anyone about it, and my friendship with them might be over, and Dumbledore knows about the Horcruxes—”

“Hush, my son. Hush.”

Harry thought Voldemort would fling himself about the room making things explode the way he did when Harry first told him about the memory-lessons. But instead, he reaches out towards Harry and hisses softly, soothingly, in a tone that makes Harry relax against his will.

“It is not your responsibility to make your friends happy or to keep any Horcrux safe other than the one you possess. I have already moved my Horcruxes. Your friends are silenced. It is well.”

Harry breathes, and breathes, and breathes. When he really come back to awareness of himself, he’s sitting in the chair beside the fireplace, and Voldemort is sitting in one next to him that wasn’t there before, one hand soothingly stroking over Harry’s wrists. His hissing is wordless now, but it calms Harry down anyway.

“Everything is secure.”

“Secure,” Harry says, and he speaks before he knows what he’s going to say. “But I’m so unhappy.”

Voldemort is still for a long moment, eyes locked on Harry as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. But still a thing, Harry thinks.

Then Voldemort shakes his head a little and says in a soft, wondering voice, “You need not be. You are making yourself unhappy because you are trying to serve too many ends at once.”

“Ends?”

“Yes.”

It occurs to Harry that it’s extremely strange he’s the one talking in Parseltongue while Voldemort is speaking English, but honestly, at the moment, he doesn’t care. He turns to face Voldemort, tugging his knees up in front of him and wrapping his arms around them. That displaces Voldemort’s hand on his wrist, but it’s not like it matters.

“What ends are those?”

“You are trying to be a lord, and your—friends’ friend, and Dumbledore’s loyal student, and my son, and a Hogwarts student. Has it occurred to you that you can choose between those roles? That you don’t have to try and fulfill them all?”

“If I don’t, then you’ll torture people.”

Voldemort is silent, studying him. Harry just waits. He has no idea what Voldemort is going to say next. His mind is drifting in a strange white blankness that reminds him of the walls in St. Mungo’s.

“You know that I have not attacked many people in the last three months.”

“Many.”

“None since your Muggles and Hagrid.”

Harry closes his eyes. “You still didn’t need to torture Hagrid.”

“I disagree,” Voldemort says, calm and patient in a way that makes Harry look at him cautiously. “But in the end, I have refrained from torturing and killing people because I knew you would not like it.”

“And then I’ll join your side, and you’ll go right back to it.”

Voldemort has a strange smile, even stranger than his smiles usually look, given his lack of lips. “I have refrained from torturing and killing people without your asking, my son. What happens if you ask?”

Harry stares at Voldemort, not sure that he heard correctly. Voldemort watches him back, still as a hibernating snake now, his red eyes looking like the only light in the room.

“I ask, and you ignore me?” Harry mutters at last.

Voldemort gives a long sigh that sounds as if it should come from someone without a forked tongue. “I might do so if I thought the request you made not a worthy one. But you have made no requests so far, worthy or not.”

Harry’s head is full of whiteness. He bows his head and finally whispers, “Please don’t torture Ron and Hermione for finding out the secret.”

“Very well.”

“Or kill them.”

“Very well.”

Harry waits, and waits. But nothing happens, except Voldemort watching him. Nothing strikes him down because he said that. Nothing happens to make him think of Ron and Hermione as less his friends.

He blinks.

“I did ask you to speak to me as a son speaks to his father.” Voldemort is lounging bonelessly in the chair now, his chin dropped into his hand. His eyes don’t seem to have moved from their pinned focus on Harry. “And now you have done it. You have made a request of me, and I am happy to fulfill it.”

“In return for what?”

“Your happiness.”

Harry blinks again and again. He probably looks like an owl. He doesn’t know what to do. Voldemort is just—watching him, and Harry should know what to do with that, how to answer. He did when it was Voldemort in the graveyard and Voldemort in the diary and Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries. But here he is.

“Did you hear me say that Dumbledore knows about your Horcruxes?” he ventures at last, because surely that will bring the storm of rage he’s been expecting.

“Did you hear me say that I had moved them?”

“I—suppose I did.”

Voldemort just nods. “He may know their nature. He may know what they are.” For a moment, Voldemort’s fingers flex, his nails sinking into the cloth of the chair and ripping it. “He may have known where they were. But he cannot know their new hiding places.”

“Oh.”

“When was the last time that you slept a full night?”

Harry blinks and stares at the ceiling of the dream-room for a moment. Then he says, “Don’t know,” because he doesn’t think it counts when he wakes several times from nightmares and when he shares the dream-room with his father.

“Will you allow me to soothe your mind?”

“Just don’t put anything in it.”

“A task beyond even me,” Voldemort says dryly, and holds out his hand while Harry is still trying to determine which is stranger, that Voldemort wants to soothe his pain or that Voldemort made a joke.

Darkness comes surging up around Harry, and he falls gratefully into its embrace. He does hear one more hiss from Voldemort before he does.

“Do not worry, my son. I will take care of what you fear, what makes you unhappy. I am here.”

Chapter Text

Ron and Hermione both glare at him the next morning, in betrayal so deep and thick that Harry turns his head away.

“I could bite them.”

“No biting.”

“But they deserve it. Now they are more useless than ever.”

“At least I don’t have to keep the secret from them any longer,” Harry murmurs as he lifts Basilisk into his bag, and ignores the fact that he’s still keeping his familiar secret from them.

“But I could bite them.”

“No.”

Ron and Hermione walk out of the portrait hole in front of him, distant enough that no one can mistake they had an argument. Harry sighs after them, and finds himself walking into the Great Hall beside Neville.

“What happened?” Neville asks, eyes darting between Harry and his friends. Former friends, maybe. At this point, Harry has no real name for what they are to him, or what he wishes they would be.

“We had an argument.”

“Oh, really?”

Harry smiles a little. Neville is much more confident and brave and sarcastic than he was in first year, and even though Harry doesn’t intend to tell Neville the truth behind what happened, it’s nice to spend some time with him.

“Yeah.” Harry sits down in front of his plate at the Gryffindor table and slips a few pieces of scrambled egg up to Basilisk, still Disillusioned on his shoulder. He’s less worried about Neville seeing them disappear than he would be with Hermione. “But this time, I don’t know if it’ll be repaired.”

Neville is quiet enough that Harry glances at him as he sips his tea. Neville is frowning, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione aren’t hiding their glares in Harry’s direction, although they don’t whisper loudly enough to be overheard. They literally can’t, according to Theo.

“I don’t think that I’ve seen the thing the three of you can’t come back from. You came back from the arguments you had in third year and fourth.”

“Those were third year and fourth.”

“So this has something to do with our being older now?”

“You could say that.” Harry finishes the tea and starts on his eggs, ignoring Basilisk’s soft hissing for more. She at least can’t hiss any more loudly, or she’ll attract attention.

“Care to drop a bloke a hint?”

Harry sighs and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I kept something from them because someone else practically ordered me to. They found out last night. They’re betrayed by the secret and betrayed by the fact that I kept it from them.”

Neville’s eyebrows rise, and he shoots a quick glance in Dumbledore’s direction. Yeah, that would make sense, Harry thinks. Maybe he can use the Headmaster as an excuse. “Would they really expect you to betray the secrets…this person ordered you to hold onto?”

“One of the secrets is a pretty awful one.”

“Where you were this summer?”

Harry gapes at Neville. Neville snorts at him and shakes his head as he pours himself another cup of tea. “I heard Hermione complaining weeks ago that they still didn’t know. And if they found out and thought it was awful, then I could see them reacting like this.”

“Yeah,” Harry says at last. “It has something to do with that.”

Neville nods and sips his tea. “Then I’m not going to ask you to confess the secret to me, when you won’t do it for Ron or Hermione, either.” He taps his finger on the table next to Harry. “But consider whether you have to give up the friendship with them forever.”

“At this point, it’s much more about whether they want to stay friends with me.”

Neville’s eyes say that he doesn’t entirely believe that, but he just nods and politely pretends, finally gathering up the last of his breakfast in a napkin as he hurries out the door. Harry leans back and looks up at the professors for lack of a better place to look. The Gryffindor and the Slytherin tables are both painful for right now.

He meets Dumbledore’s eye. Dumbledore nods to him somberly.

I’ll get another summons for a lesson tonight, Harry thinks gloomily, and swallows his tea before he stands.

“I want to go with you to the lesson.”

“No,” Harry hisses, concealing the sound under a clatter of Ravenclaw third-years leaving the Great Hall.

“But I want to bite him.”

At least arguing with Basilisk about whether she can bite Dumbledore or not occupies him so that he doesn’t feel too bad walking by himself to Potions. And when Theo and Draco and Pansy slide into the chairs around him, he stops feeling so alone.

Maybe he shouldn’t, just like he shouldn’t trust Voldemort’s word that he won’t torture or kill Ron and Hermione. But it’s the way things are.

*

“You seem to have had a falling-out with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, Harry.”

“Yeah.”

Basilisk really wanted to come, and Harry almost wishes that he’d brought her, because he could use the sense of her bond that’s only so clear when she’s with him. But there’s too much chance that Dumbledore would see her.

Dumbledore waits. The fire flickers and dances on the hearth. Harry stares stolidly at the desk. He’s not as tired as he used to be, but part of him has cooled and hardened like stone—or lava from a volcano. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, is going to have it anyway, and the thought no longer panics him.

“What happened?” Dumbledore finally asks, in such a heavy, resigned tone that Harry wants to wince. But he doesn’t do it.

He leans back in his chair and looks at Dumbledore. “Ron and Hermione found out.”

“And they are not pleased?”

Dumbledore is phrasing it so delicately that Harry almost laughs. “No. They said that maybe I had to go along to survive during the summer, but now that I’m back in school, I should stop having anything to do with Slytherins. And maybe it would have been better for me to die. I don’t know. They weren’t very clear about that.”

Dumbledore intently leans forwards over the desk. “And what do you think?”

“I told them that I couldn’t abandon people whose lives Voldemort had threatened during the summer just because we were back at school. I said—”

“You could, Harry. If you decided that other things were worth more.”

Harry narrows his eyes and studies the Headmaster. Is this some kind of test? Is he waiting for Harry to cross a line or talk about how a line can’t be crossed, and then waiting to see if he agrees with Harry about them?

“No,” Harry says, when he’s given up on being able to tell from Dumbledore’s unblinking stare. “I couldn’t abandon them.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.” Dumbledore’s voice is soft, his eyes focused like Harry hasn’t seen since they started doing the memory-lessons. “I know that Mr. Weasley told you that once.”

“In chess, yeah. This isn’t chess.”

“No. It is a much larger, more dangerous, and more important game.”

Harry doesn’t answer.

“If it turned out that I could offer the Slytherins you are so concerned about shelter and safety,” Dumbledore goes on, his hands clenching the desk, “would you be able to stop protecting them in the way you clearly are?”

“They wouldn’t take it.”

“Why is that?”

Harry studies Dumbledore, but finally decides that even if he has an idea about why that’s the case, he’s not about to show it. Harry says, “Because they don’t trust that you won’t make demands of them, like having them become spies.”

Dumbledore is silent. Fawkes makes a low croon from his perch that gets them both to look at him, but by then, Fawkes is just preening his feathers with single-minded concentration.

Dumbledore faces Harry again. “I would not have made such demands of children.”

It’s his summer, and the training he’s received at the hands of all sorts of Slytherins, that lets Harry say, “And what about the ones that won’t be children? Most of the Slytherins will turn seventeen this year, and the ones who won’t will come of age during the summer. Would you still consider them children for the purposes of this conversation?”

Dumbledore exhales shakily and lifts his hand to his eye. Maybe he’s knuckling away a tear. Maybe he isn’t. “It does sadden me, Harry, that you trust Voldemort over me, and the Slytherins who cluster around the Dark Lord’s heir over your friends.”

“At this point, I don’t know how much it is about trust. It’s about who can help me protect the most people.”

“I would protect more than Voldemort would.”

“Would making them into spies protect them?”

“It would ensure that they could help defend others.”

Harry shrugs. “Some of them would choose that.” His mind is full of Theo flushed with delight at having put that spell on Ron and Hermione. Then again, he’s not sure Theo would choose defending other people instead of just defending Harry. “Some of them wouldn’t, and they shouldn’t be forced to.”

“I am not talking about forcing them. But this war will leave no one alone. Everyone should participate to their fullest capacity.”

“And why would being spies be their fullest capacity?”

Dumbledore is silent and still. He seems to be staring beyond Harry and at him at the same time. Harry glances down at his hands. He’s telling the truth as far as it goes, but he doesn’t think his Occlumency—such as it is—is good enough to defend against the Headmaster’s Legilimency.

“There is little else that they could do,” Dumbledore whispers at last. “I do not think they would step onto a battlefield, or participate in getting the younger students to safety in the event of an attack on Hogwarts—”

“How do you know? Have you asked them?”

“If they are unwilling to spy, why would they be willing to do that?”

Harry leans forwards. “Because spying is more dangerous? They might be willing to defend their own lives, but not take those lives into their own hands for the sake of scraps of information.”

“You are deeply committed to defending these students whom you did not know that well before this summer, Harry. In particular, I remember your not getting along well with Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Voldemort played on my sympathies by pointing out how easily they could be in danger, sir. In particular, he might have Marked them as Death Eaters. Yeah, I wanted to protect them. Which means not asking them to spy.”

“And why have you chosen this allegiance over your longer allegiance to your friends?”

“Because they’re not in as much danger.”

“I am—somewhat surprised to hear you say that, given everything,” Dumbledore says slowly, still as if he’s a unicorn picking his way over a field of broken glass. “After all, Miss Granger faces blood prejudice and attacks from Death Eaters simply because of who she is.”

“And Parkinson and Malfoy and Nott face being used by Voldemort and their parents. At least Hermione has supportive parents. I wouldn’t wish the kinds of parents they have on anyone.”

“Although you have one yourself?”

Harry laughs, quietly, bitterly. It’s not even an effort, remembering what happened with Voldemort last night. “I have one who’s fascinated because of my newness. If he knew I was his son from the time I was a baby, he would probably be doing the exact same thing to me, or worse. As it is, he’s promised not to kill or torture Ron or Hermione for knowing this secret, because I asked.”

“And what did you have to promise in return?”

“That I would be happy.”

Dumbledore pauses. Harry doesn’t think this is entirely odd to him, but he does seem to think that Harry would have had to promise something more elaborate. Harry just stares at Dumbledore. His Occlumency is pitiful. Dumbledore ought to know that he’s telling the truth.

“And if your happiness costs the world a great deal?” the Headmaster whispers at last.

Harry’s impatience and exasperation overflows and pours out of his mouth. “Why is it my happiness that would cost the world everything? Why not Snape’s? Why not Ron or Hermione’s? I’m making the best choices that I can in an impossible situation! You want me to somehow make things better and get along with everyone while also not wavering or faltering. Ron and Hermione can whimper all they want about how they would never go along with Voldemort, but they aren’t his children, either, or the Boy-Who-Lived! Snape can whimper about how much he hates my d—James Potter, but I’m not even his son, so why should I care about Snape? You can whimper at me about how everything I want costs too much, but you aren’t making a move yourself to actually help the Slytherins. You didn’t rescue me this summer. You sent me to the Dursleys.”

“Harry—”

“I just want an answer to my question, Headmaster. Why is my happiness the only one that’s costly?”

“It is not,” the Headmaster says at last, in a whisper so deep and low that Harry thinks he feels it vibrating in his bones. “But it is the only one that the world may not be able to afford.”

Harry breathes for a moment. Then he realizes he’s doing the same thing Voldemort asked him to do in the dream last night, and almost laughs. He stands up. “All right, sir. Thank you for clarifying that.”

“I would ask you to stay, Harry, so that we can discuss what we are to do about your friends.”

“There’s no problem with that, sir. They won’t be able to tell anyone that I’m Voldemort’s son, so the secret is preserved.”

“Harry—”

“I didn’t want to make these choices, but I made them.”

“Please send Professor Snape to me.”

Harry steps through the door of the Headmaster’s office, glancing over his shoulder. Dumbledore looks broken, a hand over his eyes. Fawkes is watching Harry still, and gives a sorrowful little chirrup.

Harry nods back, more to the phoenix than the Headmaster, and shuts the door behind him.

*

“Should we be worried that Snape is meeting more often with the Headmaster?”

Harry shrugs and steps back, focusing his eyes on the dueling target in front of him. One of the good consequences of Ron and Hermione finding out about Harry’s heritage is that he can slip away to spend time with the Slytherins more often now. Ron and Hermione were the only ones beside his courtiers that he talked with on a regular basis or who kept track of him. Even if some of them notice the breach, like Neville, they’re not following Harry around or asking for explanations.

“I don’t know. Dumbledore hasn’t called me back for a meeting since—you know the one.”

“The immensely satisfying one.”

“I don’t know if my having an argument with the Headmaster is all that impressive, Theo. Or that good.”

Theo gives Harry a complicated smile with something dark underneath it, but honestly, since when do Theo’s smiles not have something dark underneath them? “You showed us the memory. You know what I think of it.”

Yes, Harry does. Theo is pleased that someone defended him “for once,” as he puts it, even though Harry didn’t mention a lot about Theo’s individual circumstances. Theo has taken to floating Harry’s books along in the corridors when no one’s there to see them and also to hexing other Slytherins who apparently sneer about Harry’s Potions performance in their common room.

Harry has come to accept that he probably can’t stop it, and also that he has other things to worry about. That seems to please Theo even more.

“Again, my lord. You were a little slow with the last one.”

“I was talking to Theo, Pansy,” Harry complains, but he raises his wand and shuffles into place across from the target they’ve been using. The Room of Requirement produces good ones, human-like enough to practice with and different enough from humans that it’s not disturbing to hit them.

“And in a duel, will that excuse be good enough?”

Harry starts to answer, but then he feels the change in the air behind him, and he drops and rolls on the soft, cushiony mat that the Room of Requirement has covered the floor with.

Pansy and Draco have both cast spells at him. They meet in midair and clash, sending out a ripple of blue and golden light that Pansy and Draco both duck. It reminds Harry just a tiny bit of the Priori Incantatem effect that happens when spells from his and Voldemort’s wands connect.

But not much like it.

“What are you doing?” Harry demands, forcing his way back to his feet and glaring at them.

Pansy smiles at him, while Draco lingers behind her, peeking over her shoulder at Harry. Harry has the distinct impression that Draco will claim credit for the idea if Harry likes it, and won’t if Harry doesn’t. “We think that you need to learn how to duel against multiple opponents, my lord. The Order of the Phoenix likes to do that kind of thing in battle.”

Harry has to swallow several times before he can get past the notion of fighting Order members. Like Dumbledore. Like Sirius. “And attacking me without warning is the way to get me used to that?”

“You managed to duck,” Draco says. “And I’m impressed, because we cast silently.”

Yeah, he’s claiming credit for a share of the idea. Harry rubs the back of his neck and frowns a little. “Well, I felt the energy building in the air. The spell energy?” he adds, when Pansy and Draco both stare at him. “The magic that you use to cast the spells?”

Merlin, this is going to be embarrassing if it turns out to be another freakish Harry Potter-Gaunt thing and no one else can feel the energy.

Theo laughs quietly. He’s lounging against the wall of the Room, his eyes so bright that Harry finds it hard to look at him. “I told you that our lord is a remarkable lord,” he says. “And that it wouldn’t work.”

“So normal people can’t sense that kind of thing?”

“Don’t use the word normal, my lord.” Theo glares at him. “It’s an uncommon ability. And I would want you to hone it before trying to rely on it in battle. You might have been able to sense it from Pansy and Draco so well because they’re your courtiers. We’ll work until you can identify it from enemies and strangers, too.”

Harry bites his lip and nods. Then he decides he wants to jab back a little. “Did you not join in with them because you were being a distraction, Theo?”

“I can’t cast magic at you, my lord,” Theo says very softly. “Except if I were using it to save your life, or heal you, or the like. My bond is different from the bonds of others.” He shrugs, his tone holding something like wistfulness, but his expression and the bond are both smug. “My loyalty to you runs too deep. Unlike some other people’s.”

Harry opens his mouth, and then closes it again, because he doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh, fuck off, Nott,” Draco is snapping. “Not all of us had the ability to trust in a lord right away.”

“I was talking about Weasley and Granger, Draco, but if you have anything you want to disclose, please do so.”

“You’re such a wanker, Nott.”

Harry feels a smile cross his face as he watches Theo and Draco argue. Maybe it shouldn’t, maybe he should just act as though he’s the stern lord and above it all, but he can’t help it.

“You’re good for us.”

Harry blinks at Pansy, who has come up to stand beside him, but who’s looking at Theo and Draco arguing instead of him. “For your dueling practice and protection?”

“And for us as people.” Pansy tilts her head at him, her smile sad, but the look in her dark eyes as hard as granite. “I told you about Draco not smiling like himself in a year, but now he does, all the time. He laughed at a joke Crabbe made in the common room the other day, and he hasn’t laughed much in the last year, either.”

“Crabbe makes jokes?”

Pansy ignores that. “And Theo has relaxed. He was always on the edge of violence before. Simmering with it. There were people three years older than him who avoided him because they thought that he would lash out any second. Now he’s calmed down and he can be around other people without scaring them. Especially the firsties.”

“Do—do other Slytherins know where these changes come from?”

“Not everyone’s put it together yet, and Theo and Draco haven’t approached anyone as openly as they approached me. But it will come.”

Harry rubs his forehead. “I don’t think all of them can possibly be in situations as bad as yours, right? I mean, not all of them will have parents who are pressuring them to serve Vol—the Dark Lord.”

Pansy, who’s tensed like she’s about to flinch, settles down and smiles a little. “No, but some of them might simply want the power.”

“The power of—following someone else?”

“There are different kinds of power, Harry. If you think that Theo is powerless, then I’m amazed you’ve survived as his lord.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not the same as independence and not having obligations. Following your own will.”

“None of us have that luxury.” Pansy folds her arms. “We owe each other too much, or our family owes other families. I know that you might not be happy with this, but believe me, you’re not crushing the dreams of anyone who wanted to stand on their own. If someone does manage that, they wouldn’t approach you to serve you in the first place.”

Harry nods slowly. “Thanks, Pansy. You’re a great courtier.”

She actually blushes a little, something that Harry doesn’t think he’s seen her do in six years of sharing classes with her, and gives a little curtsey to him. “Thank you, my lord. Now, let’s interrupt Draco and Theo’s argument so we can do some more dueling practice.”

And they do so, and Harry feels something foreign welling up in him. It’s so foreign that it takes him some time to really recognize it.

Happiness. He’s feeling it again.

Voldemort is going to be happy, too, he thinks, but for once, the thought holds no fear or resentment.

Chapter Text

“Harry, can we talk?”

“Sure, but I might not have anything to say.”

Hermione hesitates, then nods. “Just as long as we can talk.”

Harry follows her up to the seventh floor and the waiting Room of Requirement. He has to hide his amusement. Hermione wouldn’t want to hear about the kinds of dummies the Room can conjure if asked.

When Harry walks in, his amusement falters. The room beyond the door is an exact replica, except larger, of Ron’s room in the Burrow. He doesn’t know if his friends are trying to be intentionally manipulative, but they are laying it on a bit thick.

He takes a slow breath and walks forwards.

Ron stands up from one replica of his bed when he sees Harry. There’s another bed facing him and a giant Chudley Cannons poster on the wall behind him. He bites his lip, his eyes darting back and forth between Hermione and Harry. Then he says, “Tell us about the relationship you have with the people you Marked.”

Huh.

Harry doesn’t know if they sincerely want to understand, if they think they can persuade him out of Marking anyone else, or what. It doesn’t matter much. He sits down on the bed across from Ron. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you start Marking them in the first place?”

“Because they were in danger of being Marked as Death Eaters. Or being made to serve Voldemort some other way.”

“And they would rather serve you? Voldemort’s son?”

At least Ron’s disgust makes sense with the way he words it, so Harry just nods slowly instead of taking offense. “They think I’m saner than he is, and I think they’re right.”

“But you didn’t have to.”

“No. I could have refused, and probably died, and left them to be Marked as Death Eaters anyway. Maybe put to use as spies in the school.” Draco mentioned a task that Voldemort was thinking of giving him at one point, and then clamped his lips shut and looked so terrified that Harry never did have the resolve to pursue it.

“That’s still a choice.”

“Not a choice for me or them.” Harry speaks as calmly as he can, his eyes locked on Ron’s face. “Maybe for you.”

“I wouldn’t let myself be drawn into that situation in the first place!”

“So I should have just killed Voldemort when he showed up at the Dursleys’ and kidnapped me?”

Ron makes a frustrated gesture, and then springs to his feet and paces around the replica of his bedroom. Harry shoots a glance at Hermione, but she just blinks and shifts her balance and looks pointedly back at Ron. Okay. Apparently they’re hearing his objections first.

“It shouldn’t have turned into this!” Ron half-shouts, turning towards him with an expression that makes Harry glad Theo isn’t here right now and Basilisk is back in his bedroom. “The blood protections on your relatives’ house should have held—your mum shouldn’t have slept with him—”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, and she did. What do you want from me, Ron? Really?”

“An apology would be nice.”

“I am sorry that Voldemort found out I was his son. But he found out in the Department of Mysteries, when I wasn’t exactly in any shape to fight him off. Hiding it from him wasn’t an option. Unless you think I could have Obliviated him?”

“Why did your mum sleep with him in the first place?”

Harry just shakes his head. “She was an Unspeakable, and she seems to have been spying on him.”

“But she cheated on your dad! I mean, Potter!”

Harry shrugs. “At this point, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

Ron puts his hand across his face and exhales shakily. Harry watches him and thinks that Ron is going through some of the same realizations and thoughts that he did, but months later. And unlike Harry, he doesn’t have to live with the results.

It means that Harry is less sympathetic when Ron swivels around to face him and says, “Just because you’re his son doesn’t mean you need to act like him. Marking people, spending time with the Slytherins, letting them address you like some kind of lord—”

“I explained the options, Ron.”

“I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Yes, I think we’ve established that.”

They stare at each other in silence for long enough that Hermione clears her throat and steps forwards. “There’s one thing we don’t really understand, Harry.”

“Just one?”

She flushes. “I mean, you look like the man everyone thought was your father, and I don’t think even Voldemort suspected you weren’t until he possessed you. So do you intend to be openly his son or not, in the future?”

“I look more like him than you’d think, but you’d have to have seen the diary shade,” Harry murmurs. He’s not about to reveal the Pensieve memory-lessons Dumbledore showed him. “But I don’t know exactly what will happen. For all I know, Voldemort could send a letter to Rita Skeeter tomorrow about how I’m his son.”

“But you don’t have to have that identity at school, do you? Or with us in the future unless he makes you announce it? You could be just Harry?”

Hermione’s eyes are wide and pleading, and Harry understands better what she, at least, wants. For things to go back to normal. For nothing to have changed, as long as they can skirt around some of the arguments they’ve had.

“Things have changed too much to go back to what they were, Hermione.”

She flinches.

Harry smiles at her a little sadly. “And my—father and my court would object, anyway. I can’t just turn my back on them and go back to pretending to be an ordinary person.”

“You’re giving them more power over your life than you need to. What do they give you in return?”

“Voldemort hasn’t tortured or raided or murdered anyone for three months. And he’s promised me that he’s not going to torture or kill you for finding out about my heritage, either.”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth. Then she says, “That was a possibility?”

“How can you at one and the same time think that he’s incredibly dangerous and also that the main thing you’re in danger from is hurt feelings?” Harry sighs at the look on her face. “He was the one who ordered me not to share the news with you. So I was the one who had to plead with him not to hurt or murder you. And he granted it, because I asked.”

“You shouldn’t be in that position with him!”

“Then there would be lots of raids and torture going on right now,” Harry says steadily.

“It shouldn’t be this way!”

“But it is.”

Hermione stands there and looks at him as if expecting Harry to join her in the nice safe world where she can ignore reality. Harry only folds his arms. That’s not going to happen, and he wishes his friends would see that. At this point, he’s willing to accept that they might reconcile months or years later as long as they can accept that he really is Voldemort’s son and he can’t run away from that.

“Your saving-people thing,” Hermione whispers suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You’re doing this because you want to save us, and all the people Voldemort might kill otherwise, and the Slytherins you Marked, and—” Hermione wipes at her eyes. “It’s not because you want to. It’s just because you feel like you have to save people.”

“I didn’t say that—”

Hermione ignores him and turns to Ron, who is staring at her with a wrinkled forehead. “Oh, Ron, we have to find out a way to protect ourselves and the Slytherins and as many people as we can! Then Harry wouldn’t feel like he has to be Voldemort’s son.”

Ron considers her with wide eyes, then turns to Harry. Harry just stares at him, wearily. He almost hopes that Ron won’t fall for it.

On the other hand, if it made things more peaceful with his friends, he couldn’t say that he wouldn’t take it.

“Do you feel like you have to save people?” Ron asks him, his voice low and serious.

“Of course I do—”

“Well, you could let us do it instead.”

“And you would save Theo or Draco or Pansy?” Harry asks, deciding that he might as well act obtuse if they’re going to do it, too. “When you don’t even know exactly what they face? When they wouldn’t want to tell you?’

Ron hesitates. Harry shakes his head. “You can’t save them in the way that I can, anyway, because Voldemort wouldn’t listen to you.”

“You shouldn’t be relying on him! We would find some other way!”

“What other way?”

“I don’t know, but we would find it!”

Harry rubs his hand across his face. Once again, he thinks, Ron and Hermione are trying to live in an unreal world, one where there’s always some other secret way to get around the distasteful course of action, one where they can do what they want and still come out on top.

And some of that is probably the fault of the “adventures” they had in the past, ultimately. They did manage to find crazy ways of stopping Quirrell and the basilisk, rescuing Sirius, and getting to the Department of Mysteries.

But a gulf opened in the Department of Mysteries, and Harry is on one side of it now. He doesn’t know if Ron and Hermione can ever cross over it. Maybe they’ll manage it, someday, but Harry can’t spend his life waiting for them.

“If you can find some way, then you can tell me,” he says quietly, dropping his hand. “In the meantime, I’ll do what I have to.”

“But you don’t have to!”

“Yes, I do.”

Ron and Hermione watch him. Then Ron gives a sigh that is too stern to be sad, and nods. “You’ll go about protecting people in your way,” he says, “and we’ll do it in ours.”

Part of Harry wants to protest, to say they’re probably going to put themselves in danger if they do something to contradict Voldemort’s plans. But Harry reminds himself that in that case, he can ask Voldemort for their protection, or for mercy, and—

He truly thinks he will get it.

Part of him still wants to scoff at himself for being delusional, but if he really believes that, he might as well give up now. And he doesn’t believe it, not really. He will keep going, and he will make compromises, and he will protect the people he can, and he will be happy.

“Good-bye, Harry.”

Harry blinks and returns to the present with a jolt. Ron has already slipped out of the Room of Requirement. Hermione is lingering, her smile sweet and painful. She leans forwards to hug him.

“I hope that we can be friends again someday,” she whispers to him. “You’ll see that our methods are the ones that really save people and win the war. I hope you won’t be disappointed in your father when he reverts.”

I hope that you won’t be too disappointed when things don’t work out the way you think they will, Harry thinks, as he hugs her back.

“Good-bye, Hermione.”

*

“You’re invited to spend part of the holidays with Father and me.”

Harry starts and looks up. Theo is walking beside him on the way to the carriages that will take them to the Express, and his back is very straight and he’s looking ahead as though he can’t bear to see Harry’s face if he gets rejected.

“I think my father will insist that I spend all the time with him.”

Harry keeps his voice low, since they’re not alone. Theo turns towards him, his mouth twitching up a little. “Father is part of your father’s court. He suggested that you could use some time with friends, and Father’s Lord listened to him.”

Well, why not? Isidore did give Voldemort some child-rearing advice during the summer.

“All right. I’ll ask him.”

Theo ducks his head, but he can’t hide his pleased smile. “It will be nice to be able to talk to each other and not have to hide our conversations from someone every time we want to speak honestly. Or our dueling practice.”

“Do you think Pansy and Draco will want to visit?”

“Maybe not for the whole time you’ll spend at our house.”

There’s a tone in Theo’s voice that Harry’s learned to interpret. He stops with a sigh and puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder, squeezing. “You’re still the only one who doesn’t feel some terror around me some of the time. I don’t think Pansy means to, but she’s half-convinced this is a dream and she won’t be allowed to stay my courtier. And Draco is relaxing, but it’ll probably take years for him to realize that he can really disagree with me. You’re the only one who’s completely mine.”

Theo looks as if Harry’s given him the stars on a platter. His throat bobs as he swallows. Then he says, “Thank you, my lord.”

Harry smiles back at him—

And feels the gathering of energy behind him, magic rising as someone prepares to cast a powerful spell.

Harry dives, his arms around Theo, bearing him to the ground as well. A spell crackles over their heads, aimed at only them. It stops, hovering, in the air, and then turns around and flies right back at them.

Harry spits the incantation for a shield that Narcissa Malfoy taught him during the summer. It forms, manifesting like a pair of dragon’s snapping jaws shaped from blue light, between him and the spell, and swallows the magic.

Theo is back on his feet by the time Harry turns around. “Snape,” he breathes.

Harry takes a deep breath and feels something settle within him, even though part of him is also terrified at the thought of fighting Snape. So it’s come to this at last. The enmity is out in the open, and Harry is pretty sure that Snape won’t hold back.

Theo steps up to Harry’s side. Harry opens his mouth to command him away, but Theo only shakes his head, sharply, once, and his bond is solid and silent with stubbornness, not swaying and singing the way it usually does. So Harry is quiet.

Snape takes a step towards him, eyes quiet and measuring. His footsteps are quiet, too. Everything about him is so much more frightening than Harry has ever seen before, and he has to lock his left arm by his side so it doesn’t tremble.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks. His voice is a little shrill, but he hopes people wouldn’t blame him for that.

“Taking care of the rubbish.”

“You know what the Dark Lord would do to you,” Theo says softly. He’s moved a little to the side, and Harry sees the way Snape’s eyes track him. Snape is warier of Theo than he is of Harry.

But his eyes come back to Harry, and Harry knows it won’t make any difference. For whatever reason, Snape has decided on this insane course of action.

“You were never truly hers,” Snape whispers. “You are not the boy I swore a vow to defend. Everything lay in the wording. Everything lies in the thinking.” A ghastly smile stretches his lips for a second, one that makes Harry glad that Snape’s not smiled more often in the past. “And with an Occluded mind, I can kill you.”

He whips his wand forwards. Harry doesn’t know that spell that comes flying out, and something tells him that a shield won’t work this time. He falls to the ground and rolls, though, and behind him, there’s the sound of one of the carriages breaking apart.

“Ossa confringo!”

Theo’s spell, a Bone-Breaker Curse, slams towards Snape. He blocks it, but he turns to Theo for a moment with his lip raised. “So you have chosen your side.”

“I chose it the first day that I swore,” Theo says in a low voice with no emotion in it. His bond in Harry’s head still feels like a solid block instead of anything alive. “You are the traitor.”

Snape laughs. “If you knew what I served,” he says, and turns his wand back to Harry.

Harry knows that he will die in a one-on-one duel with Snape. There’s Theo, but he might not be enough to help.

So Harry drops back as if overcome by fear, uses the staggering motion to open his bag, and hisses softly, “Go. Bite him.”

Basilisk slides away, a moment before Snape casts something at him that Harry doesn’t know and can’t avoid. He screams as it hits and his skin begins to blister and burn.

Theo shields him from Snape’s next spell and then whirls and hits the professor with a barrage that makes Snape have to concentrate on fighting back for a second instead of hurting Harry. But it passes, as Harry knew it would. Snape is straightening, his face creased in a sneer that’s as frightening for the despair behind it as for the hatred.

“You must die,” he says, almost soundlessly. “Albus has given me permission.”

Harry remembers the meetings that Snape was having with the Headmaster, the ones he and his courtiers laughed and joked about—

And then Snape is the one who staggers to one side.

“I bit him!”

Harry is stunned at the amount of blood that pours out of Snape’s ankle. He puts down his arm, and Basilisk slithers back to him as fast as possible. Harry backs up, with her coiled around his arm and shoulder, and aims his wand.

Snape is clawing at his robe pocket for something. Theo tenses, but doesn’t move. Harry wonders if Theo thinks that he’ll leave Harry vulnerable than he does.

Then Snape drags out a wrinkled stone, and—

Theo’s next spell shatters it.

Snape falls into the snow, his arms stretched in front of him, his hands curled so that they look like claws tearing at the air. His eyes are still dark, still full of hatred, as they rest on Harry, but a narrow smile is making its way across his mouth. Harry doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t think that it’s any good sign for him. He remains back from Snape, next to Theo, his wand still raised.

“Albus had me swear a Vow,” Snape chokes. The poison seems to be affecting his blood and his breathing. “To defend you—Lily Potter’s son. I had to work around it—Occlumency—to attack you—”

Harry tenses, thinking that Snape is going to blurt out something that will reveal him as Voldemort’s son to all the watching, sobbing, screaming students, but he doesn’t. His head falls into the snow, and he dies before that happens.

Harry is still staring, himself, when Theo presses his shoulder against Harry’s.

“My lord,” he says, low, intense, “if Dumbledore countenanced one assassination attempt, he might have countenanced another.”

Harry blinks, swallows, nods, and turns around. The carriage nearest to them is a splintered mess from whatever spell Snape fired at it that missed Harry, but Theo finds them a whole one.

A minute after he herds Harry into it, Draco and Pansy hop in. Both have their wands drawn and sit between Harry and the door.

Harry, now that he’s past the immediate moment where he had to fight Snape just to survive, can bow his head and shake. And he does, while Theo heals his burns and Basilisk coils on his shoulder and hisses gently. She’s trying to comfort him, but also proud of herself.

“I bit him! He is dead!”

“I know,” Harry whispers at last, sitting up and taking her from his shoulder so she can wind around his fingers. “You saved my life. I’m so proud of you.”

“Is that...?”

“Later, Pansy.”

“What happened?” Pansy turns to Theo, probably because Draco is the one who told her to wait to ask about Harry’s invisible snake. “Did Snape go mad?”

“He said something about a vow, and how he had used Occlumency to get around it.” Theo looks at Harry from the corner of his eye.

Harry takes a deep breath and stops his shaking. He survived, they all survived, so why is he acting like this is the worst thing he’s ever faced? He shakes his hair out of his eyes and says, in the most normal voice he can muster, “Snape was—friends with my mum. I think. I saw a memory where she tried to intervene when—James Potter bullied Snape. Snape called her a Mudblood. Maybe Dumbledore made him swear a vow to protect me. That would mean he couldn’t get around it without Occlumency to convince himself that…”

“That you were no longer truly Lily Potter’s son? That you weren’t truly the boy he swore to protect?” Theo’s mouth crimped. “If he knew Occlumency, then maybe he could do it.”

“He does. Did, I mean. Dumbledore had him trying to teach me Occlumency last year.”

“That was a disaster, probably,” Pansy mutters.

Harry nods. It’s better to think about the past and the way that he failed to learn Occlumency from Snape than to think about the fact that he just killed his professor with his pet snake. “Yeah. He told me to clear my mind, but not how, and just tore into it all the time.”

“I should have killed him before this,” Theo whispers, hand resting on his wand. “I should have killed him when he attacked you in front of the Defense class.”

“Instead, I’m the one who killed him.”

“Tell him.”

Draco speaks the words while continuing to look out the window of the carriage, so at first, Harry assumes he’s speaking to Theo or Pansy. But Theo and Pansy turn to stare at Harry, and he says, “Uh. What?”

“Your father must know about this as soon as possible,” Draco says in a clipped voice. “My lord, reach out to him. Tell him.”

Harry closes his eyes, ignoring the way that his spine prickles. If he can’t trust his courtiers by now, he really is fucked. Father?

An answering ripple of inquiry, but Voldemort doesn’t pull Harry into the dream-room this time. Maybe he can’t do that unless it’s night.

Snape just tried to kill me. Basilisk bit him, and he died.

There’s a long pause that makes Harry think Voldemort is trying to deal with rage or something. Then there’s the sensation of a mighty pull, and Harry opens his eyes to that dream-room lit with fire after all.

“You are well?” Voldemort hisses, his eyes flickering up and down Harry, even though Harry doesn’t know if his dream-self is a representation of his real self or not.

“Yes.”

“But you are shaken. Severus tried to kill you.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Why did he?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “I only have speculation, but he said something about a vow, and Lily Potter’s child, and Occlumency, before he died. I think that he swore a vow of some kind to protect me, but managed to get around it using Occlumency, so that he thought of me differently. Theo said you could—do that.”

“A skilled Occlumens could, yes. I am only beginning now to realize how skilled Severus was.” Voldemort paces over to Harry and stares into his eyes as if demanding more truth, even though Harry has told him all the truth he has to give him. “You said that he has been frequently meeting with Dumbledore?”

“Yes.”

“The man was talking him into thinking around the vow and attacking you, I am certain. Which means that Albus wants you dead. Which means that he knows you are a Horcrux.”

“Wait a minute, what?”

“He was interested in the idea that your friends might want you dead. You told me.” Voldemort’s breath hisses in and out of his lungs fast enough to make it sound like he’s a snake slithering through dry leaves. “He probably thought things would be simpler if he could convince you to simply die. And now he has wielded Severus as a weapon against you.

Harry swallows through a dry throat. He wants to say that’s unlikely, but there are a few things Dumbledore said that make more sense if viewed in that light. “Okay. So what does that mean for the future?”

“You will return to school after the Christmas holidays.”

“Er. I will?”

“Yes.” Voldemort’s smile is a long, dark slash, a glimpse into a midnight at the center of his tattered soul that makes Harry shudder. “Because I am going to kill Albus at last.”

*

Harry gets off the train after a long ride in the same compartment as his courtiers where they wouldn’t even let him go to the bathroom alone. A tall man with pale skin and red eyes steps forwards, and Harry gives him a startled, flickering glance, wondering why no one on the platform is screaming.

Then he realizes that Voldemort is wearing just enough of an illusion-disguise to keep people from recognizing him, and relaxes a little.

Theo and Draco and Pansy all give deep bows that they hold in the face of the Dark Lord. Voldemort pays no attention to them. He takes Harry’s shoulders in his hands and looks him over carefully, then nods. “We are going to my home,” he says, in a hiss low enough that the clatter of everyone getting off the train and greeting their families will cover it.

Harry barely has the chance to say goodbye to his courtiers and make sure that he has his trunk and Basilisk. Then he’s being Apparated away, and gasps a little as they land on a snowy walk leading up to a huge house of white stone.

Voldemort bends over him, tongue darting out as he carefully examines Harry. “You are all right? You are not wounded?”

Harry shakes his head, breathless. Somehow, he thought talking to Voldemort in dreams was preparing him for the experience of being in front of his father again. But it didn’t. He ends up saying, “Snape tried a couple different spells, but Theo healed the only one that connected. I need to thank Theo as well as Narcissa Malfoy.”

“I shall do so,” Voldemort says. “Now, come.”

They walk up to the front door of the manor house, and Harry gasps again as that door swings open to reveal a bright, warm room with a fire crackling on the hearth. The walls are a soft dove-grey, not like the white of the stone on the outside, and in a corner of the room opposite the fire—

Harry chokes.

“Isidore said this was appropriate.”

“Er, yeah, it is,” Harry says, petting Basilisk as she starts to ask why he’s so startled. He tears his gaze away from the huge Christmas tree strung with fairy lights and stares at Voldemort. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the type to celebrate Christmas.”

“I would not be, but you should have what you want.”

Harry thinks of all those years when he never got to celebrate Christmas properly at the Dursleys, and he thinks of the holiday last year with Mr. Weasley getting attacked by Nagini and gifts in Grimmauld Place, and all he can do is smile helplessly. “I like it.”

“I am glad.”

And then Voldemort has a house-elf bring him hot chocolate, and Harry can do nothing but sit down on a couch and talk to his father about his marks, of all things, while Basilisk hisses sleepily on his shoulder about how killing someone and long train rides make her tired.

*

“Dumbledore fled.”

Harry looks up as Voldemort steps through the Floo. “Oh,” he says, and hesitates. “You think he went to hunt down Horcruxes?”

“Or where he thinks they are,” Voldemort says, and his tongue darts out in Harry’s direction as he sits down on the couch across from him. “I scanned the minds of several other professors before I Obliviated them. He told none of them of Horcruxes. The old man’s secrecy shall be the downfall of him at last.”

“So what happens now?”

Voldemort leans closer to him, so close that Harry shifts uncomfortably. Voldemort doesn’t seem to notice. “You, my son, my heir, my Horcrux, will attend Hogwarts with more protection than ever,” he says. “You will go to your classes and your meals with trusted servants of my own watching over you. You will learn more Dark Arts spells that could hurt those who try to hurt you. You will never be alone with your former friends or your Head of House who is now the Headmistress. I will keep you safe.”

Harry swallows. He hates to say it, but he has to point it out. “Some people would probably say that just keeping me trapped in the house all the time would make the most sense and keep me the most safe.”

Voldemort gives an impatient sway of his neck. “But you would be upset and unhappy, so I shall not do it. You shall go back. And now that Dumbledore is gone, I shall order some things in Hogwarts to my liking.”

Harry swallows again. He can just imagine what Voldemort is going to do. Since the school will be looking for both a Defense professor and a Transfiguration professor, he’ll probably slip Death Eaters into those positions. And he might “encourage” some Slytherins who were hesitating to swear to Harry as his courtiers.

But honestly?

It’s still so much better than what Harry once envisioned happening. It’s so much better than Voldemort torturing and raiding and killing.

“You are not reading the book I got you.”

“Er. It’s bound in human skin. It’s a little gross to handle, actually.”

“That is not human skin. It is giant skin.”

“Still—sort of—hard to handle.”

Voldemort looks baffled, but says, “I will have it rebound in a less objectionable leather.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Voldemort practically preens. Harry holds back his laughter, because what is he going to say? That he never imagined he could coax Voldemort into acting like this? That he’s starting to understand some of the things Theo and Draco and Pansy said to him in a new light?

“I also said those things to you.”

Harry strokes Basilisk’s scales, thinks about the fact that she was evidently reading his mind, and blows out a little breath.

“What is she talking about?”

At least Voldemort isn’t reading his thoughts the same way. Harry lifts his head to meet his father’s eyes. “She’s saying she told me so about you truly caring for me, essentially.”

Voldemort leans uncomfortably near again, until his red eyes fill Harry’s vision. “I wish you to be happy. You will be happy.”

And he sweeps out of the room, probably to start ordering Hogwarts to his satisfaction. Harry touches Basilisk’s scales and stares into the fire.

Despite everything…

He actually kind of is.

Will he always be in the future? He doesn’t know.

But he doesn’t know if the future matters as much as he used to think it did. What he has is here, now. His courtiers. His familiar. His books and his classes. His friends, maybe, someday.

His father.

I can be happy with that. I can try.

The End.