Harry is sat in a wooden chair. It feels solid beneath him. Stocky and strong, but equally ancient and eternal. As if it has been in this room for the last two hundred years and never moved. Maybe it has been? He can't say.
He's not alone though.
Sat opposite him, his chair equally sturdy and timeless, is Rodolphus. There is a table between them, its legs black and gnarly, and Rodolphus's hands are clasped together in the middle, so that where Harry is relaxed back into his chair, Rodolphus is near pulled out of his. He watches Harry hungrily. As if this is the last time, he will ever see him.
"I'm sorry for not giving it to you sooner," Rodolphus whispers. His voice is a fragile, cracking thing that fills Harry with an unexpected rush of grief, and suddenly, he knows the truth of it: this will be the last time they ever see one another.
He's dreaming. He knows that he is. This isn't real, and yet he feels hot tears on his cheeks. He reaches a strangely numb hand up to touch his cheek to catch them, but this action takes him off his predetermined path, and he finds himself forced back onto it.
"I'm sorry for not giving it to you sooner," Rodolphus whispers again.
"No, you're not," the words are out of Harry's mouth against his will, and they are fonder and more heartbroken than he expects. What is this? What has happened? He's long since given up questioning these dreams, and simply goes with them and the feeling deep in his bones that this, all of it, is inevitable.
"I'm not," Rodolphus admits with a smirk. His voice doesn't match his face. He sounds old and feeble, but he looks young and virile, "Do you have a new photo? Of Thea?"
Harry's mouth tries to open, but it's as if the hinges of his jaw have caught on a stray piece of bone, and he struggles, "Who's Thea?" He says, but he knows by the timbre of his voice that it's wrong.
"I'm sorry for not giving it to you sooner," Rodolphus whispers.
"No, you're not," again, the words are an automatic response that Harry clenches his jaw against.
"I'm not," he sees just a hint of Rodolphus's teeth, "I was afraid you'd stop visiting,"
"I wouldn't have," Harry denies.
Rodolphus nods, slow and weary, and his eyes flick down to where his hands are clasped together; Harry sees the briefest flash of shackles around Rodolphus's wrists, pinning him to the table, before they are gone, and he sees the flicker of something else in Rodolphus's hand. Something small and gold. Something familiar. Intrigue has Harry leaning forwards the smallest amount.
"Do you have a new photo? Of Thea?"
Harry is thrown, and even though he knows he shouldn't, he says again with more confusion, "Who's Thea?"
His back is pressed into the chair again, and Rodolphus's hand is closed.
"I'm sorry for not giving it to you sooner," Rodolphus whispers.
Harry wants to fight it, but he know's its futile.
"No, you're not,"
And so, he leans into it, pressing on the accelerator and hoping his patience will give him answers.
"I'm not," Rodolphus's lip twitches, "I was afraid that you would stop visiting,"
"I wouldn't have,"
Rodolphus wilts, "I suppose it doesn't matter now," he murmurs, "Is he with you?"
There's something bitter and sad about the question.
"He's always with me," Harry presses his right hand to his chest; it's numb and tingling strangely, but it's not enough to distract him from the dual heartbeats he can feel in his chest.
"He's here though," Rodolphus insists.
"He is,"
"Who's looking after Thea, then?"
He steps off the path without even meaning too, the question coming out incredulous and confused, "Who is Thea?!"
The image stutters and fractures, and Rodolphus is suddenly wizened and weak and in a white cot, and then he's in his chair and the scene restarts.
"I'm sorry for not giving it to you sooner,"
Harry's eyes are on Rodolphus's closed hand; he follows the script he knows despite his lack of rehearsal, "No, you're not," the shackles appear, then disappear just as quickly.
"I'm not. I was afraid that you would stop visiting,"
"I wouldn't have,"
Rodolphus's fingers uncurl slowly, and sitting in his palm, small and gold, is a key. Harry frowns. He recognises this key. He has one of his own he thinks. But the sight of it has anticipation building in his gut. He's been waiting for this key. Yearning for it. He thinks this is why he has come to see Rodolphus, but it feels like a lie.
He's come, because this is the last time.
"The key doesn't do much," Rodolphus murmurs, "but you still need it,"
Harry reaches for it, but Rodolphus's hand is closing around it, "Not yet. Trade first. Do you have a new photo of her? Of Thea?"
He doesn't even mean to, but the question, desperate and pleading is out of his mouth before he can stop himself, "Who is Thea?!"
And the scene resets.
Except they're not sat opposite one another now. Harry is still in his eternal chair, but Rodolphus is supine in some kind of narrow infirmary bed. He looks awful. His skin is grey and thin, and he's lost so much weight that it's almost as if his eyes are sinking back into his skull. He squints up at Harry as if he can barely see him.
His hand is down by his side, and sitting in his palm is a tiny golden key. Tiny, perhaps only in comparison to his enormous skeletal hands. Harry reaches for it, because he's meant to, but Rodolphus closes his hand around it, "Not yet," he rasps, swallowing and near gasping, "Trade first. Do you have a new photo of her? Of Thea? I want to see her one last time,"
"Who is Thea?!!"
"Not yet," Rodolphus croaks breathlessly again; Harry knows that he could tear the key from his fingers, the man is so weak, but he won't, "Trade first. Do you have a new photo of her? Of Thea? I want to see her one last time,"
"Who is Thea?" Harry asks, desperate, but he feels himself being dragged forwards.
His numb right hand reaches inside of his cloak pocket, and he pulls out a small photograph. He feels a flash of grief-stricken fondness. This is it; he knows. This will be the last time that Rodolphus sees her, because he's about to die, and Harry should hate him for all that he has done, but he can't. He hates the man, almost as much as he loves him. Why? Why?!
Harry tries to stop the movement of his hand; to freeze the image so that he might peer at the photograph he's about to hold out for Rodolphus to see. His arm trembles and tingles and he loses his grip. His hand stutters onwards. Seeing the photograph is not in his future. Perhaps because he has already seen it so many times before, that it never even occurs to him to look?
Rodolphus smiles weakly at the photo, his eyes flicking about it, "I wish I could have met her," he says softly; his eyes flick up to Harry's, and his palm opens fully, "Watch out for the dragon,"
And then Harry wakes up.
"My brothers and sisters," the Dark Lord was on his feet and speaking in his usual rasping hiss down the length of the drawing room table, "the day approaches. The day where we begin our mission to take what is rightfully ours. I know you have been frustrated - do not deny it," there was an uncomfortable shuffling down the length of the table, but rather than an explosion of anger, the Dark Lord only gave an understanding nod, "There are many here that wonder what has held your Dark Lord back from destroying his enemies,"
Harry was listening, only because it was hard to ignore the speech occurring right next to him. He wasn't as engaged as he should have been though. Part of him was fixed on the three-headed serpent in his lap (even with the fire blazing, the drawing room was cold, and the Moirai had burrowed beneath his robes with only her three snouts poking up out of his collar so that he could stroke her heads where they rested below his throat), and another dwelt on the conversation he had had with Narcissa seven nights ago.
'There is another fireplace,' she had whispered urgently to him, 'An identical one. In an old farmhouse in Cornwall. Draco knows of it. The fireplaces - they are linked. But this fireplace is disabled by the wards. It can be forced into activity if its brother were activated though. You could be smuggled out through them - but the farmhouse has its own wards. Wards that, like the Manor, can only be altered by a Malfoy by blood. Only Draco can alter them,'
"And the truth, my brothers and sisters, is that it is caution that has held me back," the Dark Lord continued; Harry pretended that he couldn't feel Severus's eyes flicking occasionally to him, "My downfall all those years ago, was my own ego. But it was not only my downfall, but the downfall of all that we had worked together to achieve. I would not sacrifice our hard work now by repeating that mistake,"
Harry glanced down the length of the table; his eyes sailed past Narcissa and landed on Macnair. He tried not to stare at the man. The man who acted as if Harry didn't exist. Sometimes, Harry caught a flash of fear in the man's eyes when he looked at him. Was it regret? For agreeing to act as torturer to the Dark Lord's protégée? Harry had no doubt that, should he demand Macnair's head, the Dark Lord would give it to him. Did Macnair know that too?
He wouldn't demand it though. It felt like cheating. Like throwing the game. He would have Macnair's head, but it would be on his own terms, not the Dark Lord's.
Or perhaps, Harry thought, suppressing a smile, it was because of the small ways Harry was learning to torment the Death Eater.
He took a deep breath, nothing more than a sigh to anyone watching him, and closed his eyes. He pushed his consciousness forwards carefully. At Macnair's shields, he slipped past them deftly, and for a split second, he superimposed an image of himself over every other Death Eater seated at the table, so that, to Macnair's eyes, he was surrounded by Harry on all sides.
He saw Macnair flinch and look around wildly, but before he had even turned to focus on his neighbour, Harry had retreated from his mind, and opened his eyes. He held in his smirk, and turned back to the Dark Lord, his hand always petting Clotho's searching nose. His eyes caught briefly on Narcissa's.
'And how would Draco do that?' Harry had asked, a numb feeling spreading out from his chest and feeling a little as if the world was collapsing around him, 'He's at Hogwarts, and then he will be here with me,'
Harry stared at her lips for a split second. They had trembled last night, as she had said, 'You must make him leave, Harry,' even just remembering it made him want to be sick, 'The Dark Lord would mark him. He would tie him to this cause forever, and you, too. Because you would never leave Draco here, would you, Harry?'
Turning back to the Dark Lord, Harry unconsciously mouthed the answer he had given her, 'No,'
"And so, to your eyes, I have dawdled," the Dark Lord continued seriously, "I have sat on my laurels and taken my time. And I have. But with good reason. I never meant for my return to be revealed last June, as you well know," he didn't look at Lucius Malfoy, but out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the man flinch, "If I had acted impulsively, I might have struck then. Began my grand takeover of wizarding Britain. And perhaps I would have been successful. The Ministry is weak, after all; made lame by the ignorance of Cornelius Fudge," a dark chuckle spread across the table, "He has done more for my cause than any other," the Dark Lord said, clearly amused, "Perhaps I should honour him in some way when I am come to power?" Bellatrix let out a bark of laughter, "His influence has left the Ministry trembling. Like a chair balancing on two legs. It would not take much to topple. It is being held up at this moment in time, I believe, only by the efforts of Dumbledore and Scrimgeor combined,"
'And Draco would never leave you here,' Harry swallowed back against the memory of her whispered words.
'I can't leave here, Narcissa. You know that I can't. Severus said that it would take years to remove the runes - if they could be removed at all!'
She had cried then, 'I know. I know. I don't think there's any escape for you now, Harry. And I think you know it too. But there is still hope for Draco. He could leave. You must make him leave,'
He'd scoffed, 'And how am I meant to do that?'
'The fireplace. Tell him that it's your only escape. That he alone can save you, when the runes are removed,'
'And if they can't be removed?'
'Then at least he will be safe,'
"But even they, with all their power and wisdom, cannot hope to weather our forces combined!" An approving murmur rippled around the room and there was a jeering laugh and the sound of mugs being banged against the table, "Now - with our powers drawn together and solidified, we must begin our assault. We must present the wizarding world with a terror so intense, that by the time we have hoisted the heads of our enemies on pikes in the middle of the Ministry of Magic, they will all breathe a sigh of relief, and be glad that we have brought order to the world!" There were more shouts of approval, "Now: the aim is not indiscriminate slaughter my friends," the Dark Lord continued more softly, "Magical blood is too valuable to be spilled without cause - even the most polluted of magical blood. There is a place in this world for the mudbloods and blood-traitors, and it is in mopping our floors and cleaning our boots and saying yes sir, and yes ma'am! It is in knowing that they are less than us, and always will be!" There was a roar and the stamping of feet, "There will be time enough for slaughter, my friends. When the Aurors and the Order are before us," he chuckled, nodding along with the boos and hisses, "Oh - then there shall be time for slaughter,"
'And if he won't leave?' Harry's heart had hammered in his chest, and he had felt sick with it; he couldn't lose Draco. He couldn't. He needed him. How was he meant to survive without him? Oh god… oh god! He couldn't let him go. He couldn't face the world without him.
'Then you must convince him, in anyway that you can. Beg him, plead with him to see reason. Convince him that he can save you if he only leaves you now. Threaten him if you have to - threaten me,' he'd have balked at the suggestion a week ago, but now he knew that threatening her would come easily to him. He had suddenly understood the motivation behind her confession: she had wanted him to be angry with her.
'Why should I?' Harry had said coldly, shaking with the idea of being parted permanently from Draco's side, 'Why should I help you with anything, when this is all your fault to begin with?'
"We shall begin our assault in Diagon Alley – the week before Christmas, when the alley is at it's busiest. We shall target Ollivander's - it has long been my goal to control the production of high-quality wands, but I have been hindered in this effort until now. The aim is not to kill Ollivander; not unless it is completely necessary. We must capture him, and take his wands, so that his skills may be put to better use and kept from the enemy,"
'This isn't for me, Harry. This is for Draco,'
God. The idea of being parted from Draco strangled him. Betrayal simmered inside him. She would have him alone. She, who had pretended to love him, who had confessed her greatest sin not because she felt remorse, but because she would use him now to save her true son. He meant nothing to her. Not really. And if Draco was gone, there'd be no one who cared about him, except perhaps Severus.
'Get out,' he had snarled at her, 'Get out, and don't come back,'
"This strike must shake the very foundations of the wizarding world!" The Dark Lord spoke with a mad fervour, "We must make them see that we have been merciful until now. That the only option for them, if they wish to live, is to join with us! The superiority of magical blood cannot be denied, and we shall take our rightful place in this world at the very top, and it shall only be by our leave that the mudbloods and muggles of this world live another day! We shall take the power that is owed to us my friends, and there are none that can stand in our way!" The Dark Lord raised a fist, and the Death Eaters roared their approval.
Harry should have done the same, he knew, but his mind was still stuck in his suite, sat on the sofa with a whispering Narcissa at his side. His lack of reaction did not go unnoticed, and the Dark Lord stopped him from leaving.
"Harry," he said softly, holding out a hand to him, "come to me, child,"
Harry ignored the other Death Eaters that filed out past him towards the door and allowed the Dark Lord to draw him into his side. A hand on his shoulder, the Dark Lord led him towards the enormous crackling fireplace at the back of the room.
"My Lord?" Harry murmured; he felt the Moirai tighten about his waist below his robes, the length of her body slithering up his back so that her heads could rest on his shoulder.
"You are not yourself," the Dark Lord said, "This is a day for celebration. Those who have wronged you - Dumbledore, who placed you with abusive relatives again and again, the Ministry who called you a lunatic and a liar, and the wizarding masses who ignored you - all of them, are about to learn your true power. Our true power. You should be happy," the hand on his shoulder tightened for the briefest moment, so that the Dark Lord's nails dug into Harry's shoulder, "and yet you are not," he said coldly.
"I…," Harry peered nervously up into his red eyes; he couldn't tell him the truth. That his despair at his situation was threatening to strangle him. But perhaps some facet of it would be enough.
"What, child?" The Dark Lord reached for his cheek and stroked his thumb against him possessively, "Tell me,"
"I don't feel how I think I should feel," he whispered, "I feel afraid, and alone. I feel, one moment as if I have found a family for myself, and the next as if I've forgotten who I am. I want… I want to be strong," the truth, "I want to be all that you have tried to make me," he tried to tell himself that it was a lie, but it was the truth as well; it would all be that much easier if he could just be the unfeeling lieutenant that the Dark Lord was trying to make him into, "I don't want to disappoint you," oh, and how that was more true than he wanted it to be.
As he spoke, a soft smile spread across the Dark Lord's face, "Ah, Harry," he threaded his fingers through Harry's hair, and cradled the back of his head, "Do not fear. I believe in you. You shall do all that I have taught you, and more. And you are never alone, for I am here with you," Harry ignored the instinct to freeze as the Dark Lord bowed down above him, and pressed his cold lips to Harry's forehead, "I have faith in you," the Dark Lord whispered against him, "Now go - sleep, and be at peace. All shall be as I have said. Together, we are unstoppable,"
Rodolphus was waiting for him at the door of the drawing room - looking at him, for a split second, all Harry could see was the frail, ill old man he had seen his dreams. And then he blinked, and the intimidating, strong Rodolphus was back in front of him.
Rodolphus followed at his back as he walked slowly back to his rooms. On the floor below the Aethonan suite, Harry stopped.
"Rodolphus," he asked carefully, "Do you know anyone called Thea?"
Rodolphus frowned at him, "No. Sounds like something from one of those myths that Narcissa likes so much. You should ask her,"
Harry scowled, and said coldly, "No,"
Rodolphus sniffed and shrugged, "Suit yourself. I shall be in my rooms if you require me,"
Harry was silent as he watched him go. He moved only when Rodolphus had disappeared into his room.
"Are you alright, my own?" Lachesis murmured sleepily into his ear from his shoulder.
"As well as I can be," he muttered back to her.
He tried not to, but he groaned in frustration when he found that his rooms were not as empty as he'd hoped they might be, "It's a weekend Sev," he muttered petulantly, pulling his robes off and draping them over the back of the armchair closest to him. The Moirai uncoiled herself from around him, and practically dived towards the fireplace.
Sitting on the other armchair, Severus scowled lightly at him, "Yes, and in a week or so, the Dark Lord will be expecting you out in front at this little Diagon Alley raid he has planned," he said coldly, "We must prepare you,"
Harry scowled, and sat down heavily, "Rodolphus will be there,"
"Rodolphus will not always be by your side. The Dark Lord may have given you a bodyguard, but he is expecting you to lead from the front. He intends to use your strength. He cannot use it if you are hiding behind Rodolphus's skirt,"
"And since when do you care about realising the Dark Lord's vision?" Harry said, unable to keep the confusion out of his voice.
"I don't," Severus said through gritted teeth, "I care about keeping you alive and in his good graces. He might stroke your hair and sing your praises now, but never forget what he is prepared to do to you if he feels he must," Harry flinched, and averted his gaze, "I…," Severus let out a frustrated sigh, "I don't say this to be cruel, but to prepare you. You have done well - rising to meet his expectations and playing the part. But that is within the safety of the manor. You have not had the same experience outside of the manor, and he has noticed," Harry said nothing; he tried very hard not to think about what had happened the last time he had left the manor, "He is being patient, but he will not be patient forever. You must do better. I will help, but you must let me," there was something desperate and imploring in his tone, and it was this that had Harry looking up.
He nodded shakily, and swallowed, "Yeah… yeah, okay,"
To someone who hadn't spent as many hours with him, the slight relaxation of Severus's shoulders would have gone unnoticed, "Good… good… we're going to start something you already have much experience in. Using occlumency to dissociate, so that you can cope with what lies ahead of you. Though I shall be training you to use it sparingly - only when your emotions are running high and threatening your physical safety, do you understand?"
"I thought you said not to dissociate," Harry said warily, "And I've already been using occlumency for that," he admitted reluctantly, expecting chastisement.
"I did," Severus agreed, "To dissociate the way you did in the cellars is dangerous to the integrity of your mind - mental pain serves a purpose in the same way that physical pain does. It teaches us to protect ourselves from harm - without physical pain, we could easily injury ourselves without realising it. Mental pain is the same. It is there to keep us safe from that which would destroy us entirely. But we also have mechanisms in our bodies to block out pain so that we can escape a dangerous situation, like adrenaline. You have already been using these techniques you say - this is good, but I shall teach you to perfect them. To shield in a way that does not threaten the integrity of your mind. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded again, "Yeah… can I ask you something first?" Severus inclined his head, "Have you ever heard of someone called Thea?"
Severus gave him a peculiar look, and was slow to answer, "No… though there was a girl in my year called Dorothea, who we all called Thea. Why?"
So perhaps Thea was short for something - but what? How was he meant to figure out who she was if he didn't even know her proper name?
"Harry - why?" Severus repeated impatiently.
Harry shook his head, "No reason - just heard the name and wondered. Shall we get started?"
Severus didn't look convinced, but his desire to save Harry from the Dark Lord won out, and he began their lesson.
Harry is reclined in a wooden chair. He hears it creak beneath him as he shifts, his foot propped up on an equally fragile wooden stool. A glass of smoking liquid in a filthy tumbler dangles from the fingertips of his right hand. He considers his fingers. He… he can't feel them precisely. He feels pressure and tingling, but nothing more. He is not alarmed by this.
He looks up sharply at the sound of shuffling feet above him - he can see the movement of shadows through the wooden planks above his head. He hears voices, muffled and high and frightened. And there's another voice - closer and deeper and near growling.
"Get out of this pub,"
At the bottom of a wooden staircase, he finds Dumbledore. He is slumped on the ground, a hand clawing at his side and his teeth gritted and bared. Harry has never heard Dumbledore speak like this before. Rough and rude and biting. As if his voice belongs to someone else. How strange.
"Harry…," and then McGonagall is there, stood between them as if she has been there the entire time; she speaks gently, reaching for him, "Please. Please, come with us. Hide with us,"
He stares at her outstretched hand, longing stirring in his chest. He wants to go with her, but he knows it's futile. Still, he is unable to resist the temptation, and he stands. The glass slips from his fingertips and smashes on the floor, and then he is sitting again, the glass reformed and resting on his right knee.
"Get out of this pub," Dumbledore's words sound as if they are coming from the void. His lips move but they don't precisely match what Harry hears.
McGonagall hushes him, "Please. We can keep you safe. Harry. Please,"
He wants to stay - the feeling sits in his chest and threatens to suffocate him with sheer longing. He knows that he can't - that he won't. Still, he tries.
The glass shatters, and he is in his seat again.
There is a new shadow in the room, and Dumbledore watches it and sneers, while McGonagall straightens in defiance. Harry can see the fear in her eyes, and yet she holds it back.
"The Dark Lord isn't gonna' care bout' a few school kids and an ancient teacher and a pub landlord," a familiar, rough voice drawls with a laugh.
Harry puts his glass down, and he stands.
Harry felt as if he were existing just a few inches above his body - there, and tethered, but barely. He couldn't be sure if it was his mind hiding itself away against his will, or the strong occlumency shields that he had in place. So strong, that Severus had scowled at him in disapproval until he had dialled them back a touch. It felt a little like being drunk all over, only without the associated sick, dizzy feeling.
"I should be able to dress myself," Harry muttered, not quite able to achieve the disapproving tone he had been aiming for as he held out his arm so that Severus could secure his bracers tightly to his forearm. He could tie them himself, but this was easier, and in a way, soothing - for both of them, he thought.
They were in his bedroom stood opposite one another, the Moirai on his bed watching them anxiously.
"Do you have to go?" Clotho whispered mournfully.
Harry sighed and didn't answer her.
"It will get easier," Severus assured him.
"I don't want it to get easier," Harry said petulantly.
Severus said nothing and dropped his left hand to move on to his right; the more complicated fitting, as his wand holster needed to be factored into the arrangement. Harry found himself staring at his fingertips. They tingled, sharp and fuzzy, as if he had been sleeping on his arm strangely, and yet he had awoken with his hand resting on his chest several hours earlier, and the feeling had yet to completely abate.
"You smell strange," Atropos said suspiciously.
Harry turned his head, listless where he might otherwise have been sharp, "How so?"
"Dim," Lachesis answered for her sister head, "You smell dim,"
"A dull light," Clotho agreed.
He did feel dim, he supposed. A smothered flame. That couldn't be good for survival, and Rodolphus or no Rodolphus, Harry had no doubt that he would need his wits about him for whatever chaos was about to unfold.
He pulled his shields back carefully. Just enough that, while his heart wasn't hammering in his chest, he could feel anticipation and anxiety tingling in his fingers and toes (the stinging numbness of his right hand intensified for a brief moment).
"Better?"
"Better," Clotho agreed, "You smell like a frightened rabbit trying to be brave - like the one that bit Atropos before she ate it,"
Harry snorted, "That will have to do, I suppose,"
"What did she say?" Snape asked distractedly, working the leather straps into place, Harry's forearm held close to his body so that the knuckles of Harry's hand brushed against his robes.
"That I smell like I'm pretending not to be terrified,"
Severus paused, "Are you? Terrified?"
"I am…," Harry searched for a word that could summarise the scramble of conflicting emotions in his chest, each one fighting for dominance and achieving it only for long enough so that Harry felt a flash of it, "I am resigned," he said tiredly, "I'll perform as I must. I just…,"
"What?" Fingers flexed around his wrist for a moment.
Harry spoke in a whisper, "I don't want to do this,"
Severus looked at him, his shoulders rising and falling in a weary sigh, "You must," he said quietly, "To survive, you must,"
"I don't want to survive if it means this," Harry said lifelessly.
Severus released his wrist to briefly touch his cheek with the tips of his fingers, "I have faith in you," he returned his attention to securing the wand holster about Harry's wrist, "You will be fine, and this struggle will all be worth it,"
"Will it? When I'm free, you mean?"
"When you are free," Severus agreed.
"I don't think I'll ever be free again," Harry confessed quietly; he held his breath for a split second when Severus pulled the straps tighter than necessary.
"You shall be," Severus said harshly.
"Narcissa doesn't think so," Harry said dully, his heart twinging with pain at the thought of her. The woman he felt so utterly betrayed by, but still wished she was there with him now.
"What makes you say that?" Severus said sharply.
"She told me so,"
Severus paused, then spoke carefully, "I had noticed that she has been absent from your rooms as of late. What happened?"
"She wants me to make Draco leave," Harry said in a whisper, as if voicing such a thing in any more than a soft murmur would have the Dark Lord hammering his door down, "To force him to run, and to stop him from taking the mark. She wants me to… to make him believe that he can only save me later by escaping now,"
Severus slowed as he finished the last of the laces around Harry's wrist, "How? How does she think you could convince him of such a thing?"
"The fireplace," Harry glanced to the door of his room, as if he could see the grand fireplace through it, with its wings protruding from the walls and the horse's head gazing overhead, "She said that it's part of a matching set - it has a twin in Cornwall. They're connected,"
Severus frowned and dropped Harry's hand, "Surely all he'd need to do is bring you Floo powder," he said slowly.
Harry shook his head, "The connection is disabled on this side - she said it can only be reactivated by opening the link from the Cornwall fireplace. The farmhouse it's in is protected by its own wards though, and only a Malfoy by blood could lower them. Or… or at least that's what she said," Harry trailed off, doubt suddenly seizing his heart. Narcissa has been lying to him for over a year; who was to say that this wasn't a lie too? A lie she needed him to believe so that he might free her son.
No. No, she'd been reticent about the fireplace before all of this had happened - if he were a gambling man, he'd put money on it being the truth.
"Surely Lucius would realise if Draco tried to gain access to this farmhouse?"
Harry stepped back in frustration and stretched past the spectating Moirai to reach for his outer robe, "It doesn't matter Sev - it's all a facade anyway. To convince him that he can save me when he can't - we both know he can't. There's only one way I'll be free now," he said in a dark mutter.
"No," Severus snapped, understanding him immediately and seizing his wrist, "No,"
"You said you would help me," Harry said, accusatory and frightened despite his attempts not to be, "When I crossed the line - when survival no longer became worth it. You said you would help me! This is the only way I can see for that to happen,"
"No," Severus said again, dismissing him and turning away to the bedroom door, "Finish getting dressed," and he left with the furious sweeping of his robe at his back.
The room was silent in his absence.
"He is afraid," said Lachesis, nudging against his elbow with a curious nose.
"So am I," Harry whispered reluctantly.
"You will come back?"Clotho asked anxiously.
He turned his eyes from the door to her eyes. He stroked a comforting thumb beneath her jaw, but he made no promises, "I love you," he said instead. He hoped he wouldn't come back, one way or the other, but the idea of leaving her on her own pained him.
They chimed as one, "We love you,"
With his robes about his shoulders, he finished by securing his stolen knife to his left calf. He wasn't as agile with a knife in his left hand, but it was more important that he kept his right free for his wand. He hoped he wouldn't need either.
He pulled his hood up and secured his mask over his face.
Severus wasn't waiting for him in the sitting room, but Rodolphus was.
Rodolphus gave a low nod, nearly a bow, and murmured lowly, "My Lord,"
Harry resisted the urge to snap that he wasn't his lord. Instead, he stood taller, and followed the imposing man out of his rooms and down the stairs to the front of the house. Harry kept a constant guiding hand on the bannister on their way down - as if the carved wood could steady the nauseous feeling he could feel threatening him.
They emerged into the December air to find a swarm of people gathering on the outskirts of the property. There were more than just the Death Eaters who attended the Dark Lord's meetings there - Harry could recognise by the hair that escaped their hoods and their frames, that the baby Death Eaters who hung on his every word in the conservatory were there, though they wore masks that were less intricate than those worn by their comrades who were truly in the fold.
He gritted his teeth. He needed to be stoic. To be brave. And yet fear sat in his chest. They were going to Diagon Alley, as the Dark Lord had planned, to announce his official 'glorious' return to the rest of the wizarding world.
Harry didn't much care about this glorious return.
He was too busy dwelling on the sight of Tonks snowing down on top of him.
What if he hurt someone he loved again?
The murmuring of the crowd fell silent as heads turned in his direction, though he felt their eyes pass over him. He turned, and stalking his way out of the manor, his robes floating across the grass, was the Dark Lord himself. Rodolphus caught Harry's sleeve and pulled him to one side, bowing as he went. It was only Rodolphus's fingers closing around his wrist that reminded Harry that he should be bowing to.
The air fell still, and though he couldn't see with his head tilted down towards the ground, Harry knew when the Dark Lord turned towards him. The hem of his robes appeared within his vision, and Harry felt fingers under his chin tilting his head up.
The Dark Lord smiled down at him, thin and pleased. A cold thumb caressed his cheek and then released him as the Dark Lord turned to appraise his followers gathered outside of Malfoy Manor.
"Remember," he said, his cold voice carrying on the air though he didn't bother to raise it, "I want the wand-maker alive, as well as any other individual who might make a talkative prisoner," there was a murmur of laughter across the crowd, "Today my brothers and sisters, we bring terror to the heart of wizarding Britain. Terror today, so that our people might be freed from fear forever!" The murmurs raised into a jeering, excited cheer, "Now, my loyal Death Eaters, we must hold our tongues," the Dark Lord raised a finger to his lips, and though they fell immediately silent, Harry could feel their collective anticipation like a buzz in the air, "And now… we begin," the Dark Lord smiled, and the silence was replaced with quiet pops and loud cracks as one by one, the Death Eaters began to disapperate.
"We need to teach you to apparate," Rodolphus said softly in his ear, offering his forearm, and waiting until Harry's hand was wrapped securely around it to pull them both away from the earth beneath their feet.
They reappeared, and abruptly the setting sun was nowhere to be seen. Harry blinked to adjust his eyes to the sun's sudden absence; he quickly realised the cause of the darkness.
They had emerged down a winding alleyway, walled with shops and buildings on all sides and creeping up and up into the sky so that Harry imagined that the sun only penetrated down to the cobbled streets below at the height of midday. He might have only been there once before, but it was not difficult for Harry to recognise Nocturn alley. He peered up at the flats above and found expectant faces staring down at them. The silent supporters of the Dark Lord.
Harry flinched as someone brushed up against him; he heard Rodolphus snarl something at the culprit, but Harry didn't see the point. Knocking into one another seemed inevitable when the alley was slowly filling to the brim with silent Death Eaters.
Always a tall and imposing figure, the Dark Lord with his unnatural paleness was easily picked out amongst them, peering over all their heads through keen red eyes. Finally, the Dark Lord was satisfied with their assembly, and he said softly. "Come. But stay quiet. The element of surprise shall be our friend,"
"Stay with me," Rodolphus muttered in his ear, pulling him close by his elbow.
"I can't stay by your side forever," Harry bit back quietly, pulling his elbow free but following Rodolphus and the rest of the crowd forwards anyway, "He will want me to strike out on my own eventually,"
"Perhaps, but not today. Today, you stay with me,"
"And with me,"
Harry looked around sharply, just as he recognised the mildly familiar voice.
Nott.
"Fuck off, Atticus," Rodolphus growled, catching Harry's elbow again and pulling him through the crowd so that he was on Rodolphus's other side and next to some other unknown Death Eater. Or perhaps not so unknown, Harry thought, catching sight of a streak of platinum blonde hair.
Was this another vision of the future, only a waking one this time? Would this be Draco one day, following at his side and obeying the Dark Lord's orders obediently?
The idea left him uneasy, but he swallowed the feeling back. He needed to focus.
The mob of Death Eaters crept onwards like the eleventh forgotten plague of Egypt. Above them, he heard the creak of shutters either being closed, or being carefully pried open to allow a narrow view of the alley below. Those trying to hide, and those trying to spectate. Ahead of them, through the bobbing of their heads (the Dark Lord's pale skull stood above them all) Harry could see the low sun creeping into view, and he knew that it was Diagon Alley.
How quickly would the people of the alley realise that Death and all his disciples were amongst them?
Just as soon as the thought came to his mind, a shrill scream pierced the air. The occlumency shields that had been left mostly relaxed, slammed back into place just before the blood could truly start thumping in Harry's ears, and so he felt strangely calm and detached when, as a unified, silent swarm, the followers of the Dark Lord rushed forwards.
Not all of them though. Rodolphus kept him at his side with a firm grip around his elbow, and it was only as they broke out into Diagon alley, and the screams started in earnest, that Harry realised that they were breaking off from the main crowd of Death Eaters. There were about ten of them not counting Harry. Lucius Malfoy was at their head, his platinum hair trailing behind him as he led them determinedly in the opposite direction of the rest of the horde. Ahead of them, in between the black cloaks of the Death Eaters around him, Harry could just see slithers of the witches and wizards that were fleeing ahead of their advance.
And then a man stepped out from a shop into the cobbled street - a wiry, old man with white hair, and wide frightened eyes.
Ollivander. Their true quarry.
Harry expected him to turn tail and run, and judging by the way he hesitated, Harry imagined that that had been the man's instinct as well. But surely, he knew there was no outrunning the Dark Lord? His eyes hardened, and his look turned determined. His wand was steady as he raised it. One moment, he was still, and the next he was firing curses in their direction with a speed and accuracy Harry only thought was to be expected from a man whose life work was the life blood of magic itself.
The Death Eaters around him were clearly among the Dark Lord's most powerful, and they were quick to react to the wand-maker's onslaught. But not as quick as Harry.
He found the same instinct that had had him dealing the killing blow to Tonks motivating him to action. His wand darted through the air like a dance, blocking and deflecting Ollivander's curses, and dispelling some of them just as they left the tip of his wand. With his free hand, Harry gathered magic at his fingertips, and cast the largest, strongest shield he could manage. It wasn't a practical choice - there was no way he could maintain it for long - but he doubted he would have to.
Ollivander turned afraid again. Rodolphus chuckled with approval at his side, and Harry wondered what he should have been feeling in that moment, because he was sure it wasn't this dull interest.
"Easy as pie," Harry heard someone say with a chuckle - Rabastan, he thought.
But the man had spoken too soon. Behind them, a group had broken past the mob of Death Eaters that were assaulting the other end of the alley, and curses were raining down on them once more. He heard Rodolphus hiss in pain, and then let out a roar not dissimilar to an enraged dragon. Piercing and bellowing in one. A sound that promised retribution.
Harry's heart jolted at the thought of Rodolphus being hurt - the dangerous man who, against all odds, Harry found himself strangely attached to - and he whipped around to confront their new opponents. He knew who they were at once by the sight of their red hair.
They were Weasleys, though they were too far away, and moving too quickly for Harry to be able to discern exactly how many of them there were, or who they were precisely.
The Death Eaters around him had turned to confront them, but Harry knew that he couldn't. Occlumency shields or not, survival or not, he could not, would not, raise his wand against the family that he had wished he could call his. And so, while the Death Eaters dealt with the Weasleys, Harry turned back to Ollivander.
This. This he could do.
Ignoring Rodolphus's bark trying to call him back, Harry broke from the pack and advanced on the wand maker on his own. The aim of Ollivander's wand was true despite the frightened trembling of his arm, but it didn't matter when Harry was smothering his spells before they reached their target. Their duel was a dance of silent and flashing magic, as Ollivander was rendered impotent, and Harry aimed only to disarm, not to kill.
The Dark Lord didn't want him dead, Harry reminded himself repeatedly, the thought bringing him a rush of relief that nearly choked him.
He didn't have to kill him.
Finally, Ollivander was on the floor, his wrists bound and his wand in Harry's hand. He tried to crawl away, but Harry stopped him with a lasso of magic about his throat that yanked him back and had him gasping and choking in alarm.
Something twinged in Harry's gut. He hadn't meant to do that.
But the action had the crowd behind him laughing meanly. It was only then that Harry realised that the battle behind him was coming to an end.
"Don't kill them," he heard Lucius command in a shout over the sound of the Weasley's last stand, "They are followers of Dumbledore - the Dark Lord will want to hear what they might tell us before they die,"
The twinge of regret in Harry's gut was overtaken by a rush of frightened relief. He didn't want them to die, but he knew what it meant to be captured alive.
A final flick of his wand had Ollivander hog-tied and on his stomach.
Then Harry saw a flash of poisonous green out of the corner of his eye - the incantation itself lost in the din. The shouting turned to horrified screaming.
He didn't want to look, but he was unable to stop himself.
Ollivander at his feet, he turned to stare over his shoulder, and found three men on their knees with wands digging into their throats. Bill, Charlie, and one of the twins. It hurt in a deep, aching kind of way, like an old wound that hadn't quite healed over, for Harry to realise that he didn't know which twin was which anymore.
They were staring as one at a crumpled figure on the ground. Charlie was letting out a grief-stricken roar, tears pouring down his cheeks and mingling with the blood about his chin. Bill was trying desperately to escape the Death Eater at his back - not to fight, but to be with the body on the cobblestones. The twin was silent, his mouth open but making no noise that Harry could hear.
Harry followed their gaze, to find Arthur Weasley dead on his side, his glasses askew, his eyes open, and blood oozing lazily from a wound at his temple.
Harry didn't have time to figure out what he could feel beneath his occlumency shields.
Rodolphus was suddenly next to him, peering down at a quivering Ollivander, "Good job," he said gruffly. He flicked his wand, and Ollivander's wrists and ankles were no longer bound together uncomfortably. The wand maker let out a cry of frightened alarm as Rodolphus hauled him to his feet.
"The Dark Lord will be pleased," Harry heard Nott say pompously from where he was stood in front of the silent Weasley twin.
Harry knew without being able to see, that Lucius was rolling his eyes.
"Come," Lucius snapped, "We did what we set out to do. We shall return with the prisoners and you," he pointed to the Death Eaters who weren't currently restraining a Weasley, including Nott, and said, "take what you can of his stock before the Aurors arrive. Do not risk your freedom for a few extra wands," he said dangerously, "Burn the place to the ground before you leave,"
"Come, my Lord," Rodolphus murmured quietly in his ear, restraining Ollivander as if it were nothing, "We must leave. Rabastan," his brother came forwards, "Take him," he shoved the wand-maker forwards.
"With pleasure," Rabastan said meanly, tapping the trembling Ollivander's cheek sharply, "Hullo Mister Ollivander,"
Olivander only whimpered.
Rodolphus offered his arm expectantly, and Harry found himself clinging desperately to his occlumency shields to try and keep himself standing as despair threatened to crush him. He had no sooner wrapped his fingers around Rodolphus's wrist, then the man was apparating them away.
Stood facing the long drive of the manor, not for the first time, Harry found himself near strangled by the feeling of unreality that settled into his bones.
Mister Weasley was dead.
Then Rabastan shoved Ollivander forwards while Rodolphus worked about organising their captives into an orderly line facing the house ahead, but they made no move to march past the gates.
Ollivander, Bill, Charlie, and a Weasley twin's death warrants were as good as signed. And how would they die, he wondered macabrely. It wouldn't be quick. He knew that. Would it be kinder for him to do it now?
His fingers twitched by his side.
No. No, he knew that he couldn't do it.
It was only when Lucius pulled a slither of parchment from within his robes and started trying to force a shaking Charlie to read it, that Harry realised why they hadn't gone inside.
The Fidelius. They couldn't see the house. He imagined the parchment under Charlie's nose had the location of the Manor written on it in the Dark Lord's hand.
He stared for a moment, when a surprisingly rational thought managed to penetrate the fog that surrounded his mind.
He looked sharply to Ollivander in front of him.
His and Draco's working theory, was that he too was the secret keeper of the Manor, but that's all it was really. A theory. Now was the perfect time to test it.
But what was the point? Even if he proved that he was, what difference did it make? There was still no escape.
But then Rabastan was placing Ollivander's bound wrists in Harry's hand, and muttering, "Hold him for a minute," and leaving him to go and investigate what another returning Death Eater had managed to bring back with him from the wand-maker's shop.
Harry found himself panting to catch his suddenly trembling breath. Surely this was a sign? A sign that he had to try. Or had he really given up?
Lucius had moved onto Bill, and Charlie, dazed, was blinking up at the manor.
Fuck.
And so, Harry tried.
He shuffled closer, pulling Ollivander into him and making the man hiss in pain. He strained up, so that he could say in his ear, his voice a whisper on the air, "Malfoy manor, the home of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, can be found in the Wiltshire countryside,"
Ollivander made to peer over his shoulder, only to freeze. Harry watched, a feeling of triumph unfurling in his chest as a look of horror came over the wand-maker's face.
And then Harry stepped back, and Lucius was there, shoving his strip of parchment under Ollivander's nose.
It worked. It worked!
He followed the gang-chain of prisoners down the drive towards the manor.
The feeling of triumph was quick to fade, leaving only a sick feeling in its wake.
But what did it mean for him?
What did it mean for Draco?