lomonaaeren

Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last part of the story.

Part Four

Harry shakes his head a little at the letter in his hand. Sirius hasn’t written to him at all during the Tournament, and Harry hasn’t written to him, either.

At first it was simply a matter of keeping Sirius safe. Harry didn’t want him charging back into the country and possibly getting himself captured by Aurors or Dementors. But then Harry became involved in learning from Alastor—Barty—and he decided that having Sirius nearby wouldn’t serve either of them. It would upset Sirius and lessen Harry’s concentration on the Tasks and studying Dark Arts.

Now that Sirius has sent him a letter, Harry has to wonder whose idea it was, Sirius’s own or Dumbledore’s.

“That’s from your godfather?”

Harry exhales and looks up at Barty, who’s lounging on a chair in the corner of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s office. “Yeah.” He holds it out. “Did you want to read it?”

Barty reads through it, then shrugs and gives it back (his eyes no longer revolving). “I don’t see any reason for me to get deeply involved unless you think that he’s a danger to you. And he just wants to meet?’

“Yeah.” Harry runs his fingers over the parchment before tucking it into the depths of a pocket. “And I have to say, I don’t know what I want to happen with him in the future.”

“When you join my Lord?”

Harry nods. “There’s no way Sirius would just accept it. He hates your Lord for killing my parents.” Sometimes it still makes something in Harry tilt sideways and fall down a cliff, when he thinks about how he is joining the bastard who made him an orphan, but he reminds himself that his parents sacrificed themselves so he would live, and the world stabilizes again. “But I don’t want Sirius hurt, either. He tried to protect me last year. He offered to let me live with him.”

“A deception strengthened with the truth, then,” Barty murmurs. His hands tap and slide down the arms of the chair.

(Harry always loves that Barty is in constant motion. It’s the kind of thing that Harry likes to think he would have done himself as a child, if he wasn’t confined to the cupboard and if the Dursleys didn’t yell at him every time there was the slightest sound. When he’s free, Harry will move all the time).

“We’ll tell him that you ran away from the war, but that you’re not dead,” Barty says, and nods a little. He fixes his gleaming blue eyes on Harry. “But you have to meet with him at least one more time before then.”

“Yeah. And I don’t know if he’s a Legilimens.”

Barty snorts. “I would highly doubt it, just from what I remember of him in school. Maybe a little bit of Occlumency, if he managed to hold onto his sanity in prison.”

“What am I going to tell him?”

Barty grins and leans forwards. “You let me worry about that.”

And the glorious thing is, Harry can and does. The relief of finally having an adult he can trust still strikes him dumb sometimes.

*

Barty stands wrapped in Harry’s Invisibility Cloak over the Polyjuice as Harry bends down and enters the cave where Black said to meet outside Hogsmeade. It’s a bit of trouble to limp along after Harry without giving himself away, but Barty knows that he’s not the only one in the castle who can see through Invisibility Cloaks. He won’t give himself away when the spring leaves are on the trees and the puzzle is in the air and they are so close.

“Hi, Sirius.”

Barty adjusts his position a bit and casts a spell that bends light enough to let him see around the corner into the cave. He chuckles as he watches the huge black dog transform into a man, but frowns more when Black flings himself at Harry and bowls him over to the floor of the cave in his excitement.

He had best not damage him, Barty thinks, and then thinks of ice and wands and ashes.

“Harry! Why didn’t you tell me that you were in trouble? Why didn’t you write to me the minute your name came out of the Goblet? I would have come back! I would have helped you study!”

Black’s words blur and tumble over themselves. Barty raises an eyebrow. He knew the general story of Pettigrew’s guilt and Black’s innocence from Pettigrew himself, of course, but he had the impression that Black was saner than this due to brooding on his innocence. Pettigrew represents Black as a terrifying force.

Now, Barty thinks that’s probably the little rat’s exaggeration. Black sounds considerably less sane than Barty himself when he first broke free of his father’s Imperius Curse.

It helps to have a cause to focus on, of course. First his Lord, second Harry’s safety.

“I was afraid you would come back to Britain and run into trouble,” Harry says, his voice a little muffled. “And I assumed that you would probably see the stories about the Tournament in the Prophet anyway. Or hear from Dumbledore.”

Barty smiles. Black has just lost some points, not that he’s probably aware of that. Black could have come back at any time, or expressed his concerns to Harry by letter, the way he did just recently. Staying distant means there’s probably a reason he’s here now, and not a reason that has to do directly with Harry.

Such as Dumbledore telling him to.

(Hatred of Dumbledore tries to eat a hole in Barty’s brain. He soothes it back. His grudge against Dumbledore is less than his Lord’s, less than Harry’s. He can stand there and smile while they do the torture, and that will be more than enough).

“Well, I wanted to be here. I should have been here. Albus told me about the kinds of spells you’ve been learning, Harry.”

Barty sighs, smelling the stiffening in Harry’s posture even before he sees it with the help of the spell. Yes, Black’s lost Harry. He doesn’t know it yet, but he has.

Barty has him. Barty is very pleased by the thought, and wishes he had claws he could scratch Black with.

“I’m doing what I have to do to survive,” Harry says, his voice as stiff as his shoulders. He takes a step away from Black. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Dark Arts. Durmstrang is a whole school that teaches the Dark Arts.”

“Yeah, but Krum hasn’t used them in the Tournament.”

“He actually did. He Transfigured his head into a shark’s for the Second Task. Did you know that human Transfiguration like that is illegal and considered Dark in Britain? The Animagus transformation isn’t, but only because it was grandfathered in when the laws were passed. Something about a partial transformation being worse than a whole one. And that’s why all Animagi have to register.”

Something Black still hasn’t done. Barty holds back a chuckle. Harry is playing him like drumsticks against an icicle.

“I—didn’t know that. About partial Transfiguration, I mean.”

“Yeah. But no one got upset about Krum using that spell, and no one got upset about him using the curse on the dragon in the First Task that blinded her, either. I’m the only one who’s under that level of scrutiny, even though those spells have been keeping me alive and not hurting anyone else. Why is that?”

“I—well, Krum goes to a whole school that teaches Dark Arts, the way you pointed out. But you shouldn’t be using them, Harry!”

“Why not? You would have used them last year to torture Pettigrew if I hadn’t stopped you, right?”

“That’s not the point, Harry.”

“What is, then?”

“I could use them because I’m already spoiled!” Black waves his arms around. “Affected and tarnished by using Dark Arts in the past and because of the way my fucking family raised me. But you’re not spoiled, Harry. You don’t need to use them and expose yourself to the corruption that comes with them.”

Barty bites down on his arm, drawing blood, to keep his laughter at bay. If Black knew. If he knew.

“I want to be alive, Sirius. If I get a little tarnished because of that—whatever that actually means—at least I’ll be alive to appreciate it!”

“Your father would have killed himself before using any Dark Arts.”

Barty blinks at the low, guttural tone of Black’s voice, but Harry only scoffs a little and says, “So the way he played pranks in school never turned to Dark Arts? Not even one of the borderline illegal spells?”

“How did you know about that?”

“You’re not the only person who knew him, Sirius, and not the only person who’s told me about him. Professor McGonagall’s told me a little about the record detentions that my dad piled up.”

That’s true, but Barty is the one who told Harry most of the truth about his father and the pranks the Marauders played. Harry used that as another reason not to feel so bad about the Dark Arts he was learning. Barty is fine with that. Anything that can keep the pressure up on Harry, show him where he belongs.

“Well…”

“So he wouldn’t have killed himself before using them, right?”

“He was your age or a little younger when he used them. He learned better as he grew up.”

Barty rolls his eyes incredulously. He can spot the hole in that argument that’s big enough for an Abraxan to fly through. And Harry doesn’t need Barty’s prompting to do it.

“So it’s fine for me to use Dark Arts as long as I’m this age, right? And to survive the Tri-Wizard Tournament, which someone working for Voldemort definitely put me in?” Barty bites his arm to stifle his laughter again. “Thanks, Sirius!”

“No! Listen, Harry, Dumbledore is so worried about you that he thought I should come talk to you—”

“Yeah, that’s right. You came because of him, but not because of me. How worried are you about me using Dark Arts, really?”

There’s a long silence. Barty waits, and recasts the charm that lets him see around the corner, since it’s faded. Harry is standing in front of Black, his arms folded and a look on his face that says he’ll argue Black into the ground if he has to.

(Barty knows that look. He wonders if Black does. According to Harry, they haven’t actually spent all that much time around each other).

“Well, what about your friends?” Black asks, in an obvious and pathetic distraction. “I know that last year you said Ron and Hermione were your best friends and you would never leave them no matter what, but Dumbledore tells me you have.”

“They left me,” Harry snaps, his anger flaring like an aurora borealis. “Ron was upset when my name came out of the Goblet of Fire and accused me of putting it in. He didn’t listen when I tried to explain to him I hadn’t had anything to do with it. And Hermione supported him and spent all her time with him and didn’t even ask me what the First Task was before it happened. Then, when I survived the Task but with a broken wrist, they came into the tent and yelled at me about the spell I was using. That was all they cared about, not the danger I was in.” Harry pauses. “Kind of like you.”

“Harry, no! I care about you! Of course I do! I’m your godfather.”

“And yet, the first thing you decided to do was scold me about using Dark Arts, and lie about my dad using them. You didn’t ask me why, you didn’t ask why I learned them, you didn’t at least ask me to explain, you just—”

“Using curses could turn you into a Death Eater!”

(Pleasure howls in the back of Barty’s mind, and he bites his arm again).

Harry lets out a long, low, incredulous noise. “You really believe that.”

“Yes!”

“Then why did using them when he was a teenager not turn my dad into one? Why did he turn into the kind of person who defied Voldemort?” Barty thinks he’s the only one who would notice the slight pause before the name. Harry mostly calls him “the Dark Lord” now or “your Lord” out of deference to Barty’s sensibilities.

(Barty’s never had anyone defer to his sensibilities before. It’s amazing).

“…Look, Harry—your dad was a different person than you are—”

“What, I’m more likely to be corrupted or something?”

“No, it’s just—this is so important, Harry, that you don’t use Dark Arts and you make sure you have Gryffindor friends—”

“What would you say if I told you that the Hat almost Sorted me into Slytherin?”

Black leaps away from Harry with wide eyes, and transforms back into a dog halfway through the leap. For a moment, he stands where he is, staring at Harry with his tongue hanging out and his panting echoing through the cave.

Barty hastily renews a scent-blocking charm he’s wearing as Black bolts from the cave. He shakes his head. He predicted the conversation wouldn’t go well, but Harry still wanted to believe in his godfather.

Not that it’ll make that much difference to their plans, Barty thinks. They can still send Black a letter telling him Harry got sick of the war and left the country. They’ll just do it to get Black looking in the wrong direction rather than because he deserves the notice.

Harry comes out of the cave, feet dragging. Barty falls in beside him as they walk back towards Hogsmeade. If someone else came along to spy on them, they don’t want to reveal Barty’s presence too soon.

“I really thought he would be different,” Harry whispers. “That he wouldn’t—take it that badly.”

“I think he probably did because of his years in Azkaban,” Barty says. He can be as diplomatic (as a wolf) when he needs to. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder for a minute. “He might come back and apologize later.”

“If I don’t want his apology?”

Barty smiles. “You don’t need to accept it.”

They continue walking towards the castle, but Barty doesn’t take his hand from Harry’s shoulder. It’s unlikely that someone would notice the ripple and distortion in the air, and if someone comes up the path, they should have enough time to move apart from each other.

But Barty doesn’t particularly want to move apart from Harry.

*

Harry opens his eyes and takes a slow breath, sitting up. He’s no longer in his familiar bed in Gryffindor Tower but in a place that looks as if it’s carved of stone and with ornamental snakes crawling all around the walls. The Chamber of Secrets.

Barty warned him this would probably happen. Voldemort wants to meet with him before they finalize their plan for the Third Task, and since Harry admitted he dreams of Voldemort sometimes, dreaming is the most convenient way.

“Harry Potter.”

Harry turns around. There’s a chair behind him, a stone throne with its back to him. He walks towards it and steps around in front of it.

The baby-sized creature stares at him, hands resting on the heads of carved snakes that curl around the arms of the chair. Harry swallows back revulsion. His dream last summer sort of prepared him for this. He stands a moment and holds the red eyes, hoping Voldemort can use some kind of Legilimency to tell he’s honest.

Then he kneels.

The baby-thing on the throne slowly hisses out. “You are…submitting to me of your own free will, Potter/”

The voice sounds as though it’s speaking through clutches of seaweed and rotten eggs and broken things. Harry resolutely keeps his head bowed. This is the path he chose. “Yes, my lord.”

The words feel unnatural in his throat, nestled there like broken fishbones, but it doesn’t matter. This is the path he chose.

“And you are…prepared to fight against your former friends and professors?”

“I hope that I’ll be able to get away without killing anyone I care about,” Harry says carefully. “But I know that might not be possible. I’m doing this because I want to survive and I want to continue studying Dark Arts. I will do anything you command me to that relates to those goals.”

“And you will swear an oath to aid in the resurrection and obey me in return for my protection.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How has Barty…persuaded you?”

“It seemed like he was the only one who cared about me,” Harry says, and bows his head as the cold laughter cascades over him. It will probably never stop making gooseflesh appear on his arms and neck. But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the fact that he’ll live to feel those things. “And then he started giving me actually powerful spells. No one’s ever offered me that kind of training before.”

“Because it was Dark…Arts?”

“No, my lord. I mean, they haven’t tutored me in dueling spells or powerful defensive ones, either, except for Professor Lupin teaching me the Patronus Charm last year. They just—I don’t know. Expected me to always survive and win, I suppose.”

(The more he thinks of it, the more Harry is sure it’s that. Hermione and Ron didn’t conspire against him or want to see him die, but they didn’t want to see him live, either. Not enough to try to find the spells that would really keep him alive. Barty is the only one who did that).

“And you were able to get over seeing…that he serves me?”

“It was a shock,” Harry says, which is only true. “But then he told me that you would leave me alone if I was loyal to you and turned. And that’s what I want, my lord. Out of this. Beneath the shelter of your power.” Barty told him to use that phrase. It was the one that he put into the letter.

Voldemort is silent for long moments. Harry continues to kneel. For all that he knows this is a dream, the feel of the stone beneath his knees is incredibly real.

“He said in his letter that he believed you could be useful. That is the only reason I am willing to consider this.”

Relief sweeps through Harry like a blizzard. Yes, he knows that. Voldemort didn’t have a sudden change of heart or think that Harry deserves to live. He’s making decisions out of his own self-interest.

That’s fine with Harry. That’s the only way you can really trust someone, as far as he can figure out.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

“I require the assurance that you will not…harm Wormtail.”

Hatred for the traitor is another blizzard, but Harry knows what Barty said is true: Pettigrew only matters to Voldemort because he’s useful, too. All Harry has to do is eclipse Wormtail in usefulness, and Voldemort would be willing to give him to Harry as a reward.

It will take time, but eventually, Harry’s parents will be avenged. And Sirius, but Harry doesn’t care as much about Sirius anymore.

“Yes, my lord. I will give that. Do you want me to make the promise now?”

“No. With the other promises. And then we will also certainly investigate this…unusual connection that we have with each other.”

“Yes, my lord.” Harry bows down until his face touches the stone of the cavern, and remains that way until he gets a nudge from something that feels solid. Voldemort’s legs are too short to reach the floor, though, so it’s probably just a projection of magic pushing at him.

“Rise and go away, Harry Potter. This conversation tires me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The dream dissolves around him, and Harry wakes shaking in his bed, tears streaking his face.

It’s done. Voldemort has accepted him. He is going to make the promises. He’ll leave the letter for Sirius. He’ll go with Barty, and be able to keep learning Dark Arts and be free forever from people staring at him in disappointment.

He’s free.

(Free).

*

Barty is shaking along with Harry as he casts Harry’s willingly given blood into the potion after Harry “disappears” from the center of the maze, and follows up with Pettigrew’s arm. It’s tempting to let the traitor bleed to death, but he can still be useful to the Dark Lord, so Barty reluctantly seals the wound.

(But at least he can cauterize it, and Pettigrew screams in pain like obsidian before fainting, so Harry has that much revenge).

Barty falls back, eyes fastened on the cauldron, as he watches the surface bubble and bend, and then the Dark Lord rises from the surface. Wings of power extend around him, a mighty and overwhelming presence that Barty thinks might be even stronger than the presence the Dark Lord wore before he was disembodied. Or else Barty’s memories are spotty from the Imperius Curse and Azkaban.

Barty kneels. Harry does the same thing beside him, eyes wide. Barty winks at him and squeezes his hand once.

“I am here again,” says the Dark Lord, and his voice surrounds them with rings on rings of protection, a castle of sound. Barty presses his face to the grass of the graveyard, and doesn’t have to look to know that Harry is doing the same thing beside him. “Potter, come here.”

Harry scrambles up, but doesn’t stand, crawling over to the Dark Lord, as Barty indicated to him he should do. He offers his wand, and the Dark Lord picks it up and turns it back and forth, his eyes widening for a moment when Barty sneaks a glance.

He hisses something in Parseltongue at Harry, who hisses back and nods. The Dark Lord flings his head back and laughs.

Barty rolls on his back and arches with the sound of that laughter, like a hand stroking his brain.

“Brother wands,” the Dark Lord says. “A connection forged as deep as our souls. The Boy-Who-Lived, on my side. Oh, yes, Harry, I think this will be most enjoyable for the both of us.” And once again, he directs Harry to kneel, and begins hissing at him, making the promises in Parseltongue.

Barty’s heart resounds throughout his body as he watches. These promises will keep Harry safe. He and Harry will be beside each other for the rest of their lives, casting magic in war, studying Dark Arts in peace.

Harry glances back at him and smiles when his promises are finished and when the Dark Lord has created a cuff of pure silvery magic around his wrist, which will stand in for the Dark Mark until the Dark Lord is ready to give that to him.

Barty holds out his hand. Harry promptly scrambles to his side and takes it.

We will have the future, Barty thinks, as he holds up his left arm so that the Dark Lord may summon the ranks of the less faithful, an eternity of days.

The End.