[Songs of Summer]: Frazil, sequel to Rotten Ice, R, Harry/Voldemort, 3/4

[lomonaaeren]

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Part Three

Harry can’t believe how much his life has changed.

He was—he was barely alive, he thinks now, as he spins in the battle room under Bellatrix’s tuition, hurling curses as she barks their names. He gave up on everything. He just sat back and let life take its course. Why shouldn’t he have, when everyone either told him this was the way things had to be or averted their eyes and laughed a little too loudly when Harry told them the truth about James?

“He bears an immense burden. You have to understand.”

Everyone said variations of those words. Sirius, Remus, Stepmother Elinor, the Headmaster, Fred and George and his other Quidditch teammates, Neville Longbottom. Some of them looked more uncomfortable saying it than others. But they still said it.

And now, Harry doesn’t have to understand. He can understand curses. Defensive spells that he never practiced all that hard in class, because he wasn’t going to live very long, so what did it matter? Charms and even healing magic that Bellatrix praises his understanding of.

“And no one ever tried to make you do better in school?” Bellatrix asks, staring at him as Harry relaxes against the wall after a particularly intense bout of curse-casting. “None of your professors saw the talent you have?”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t really display it.”

“Why not?”

Harry laughs. He’s comfortable enough around Bellatrix to do that, now. “Well, some of it was on me. I barely showed them any talent to begin with. I just drifted through my class and got Acceptables, and that was enough.”

“They should have known. You got Exceeds Expectations on your OWLS, and an Outstanding in Defense!”

Harry narrows his eyes. He’s never discussed his OWL scores with Bellatrix. “How did you know that?”

Bellatrix laughs at him. “You think our lord doesn’t have agents in the Wizarding Examinations Authority? He aims to reshape all aspects of society. Of course it would be important to know who got what marks.”

“But he probably didn’t send someone to look them up until I became a Death Eater.”

Bellatrix’s bright laughter banishes the resentment that is starting to curl in Harry’s chest. “Of course he did! You were important then, too. But that was as potential leverage against your father. Aren’t you glad things have changed?”

Harry grins. “Yeah,” he says, and shoots a curse at Bellatrix that will break her arm if it lands.

Bellatrix swivels out of the way and begins firing spells back at him. Harry dances out of the way, and then has to dodge and shield as well as dance. But Bellatrix increases the speed and deadliness of the spells carefully, and Harry can adapt and keep up.

Even when one of her curses gets through his defenses and tears the flesh all along his arm open in a bloody gash, Harry can only laugh, because he knows that he’ll be healed. His pain is recognized. He’s important.

“Would you care to engage in a bout against me, Mr. Potter?”

Harry turns his head and considers Evan Rosier. James spent a lot of time ranting about Rosier during Harry’s childhood, so Harry knows who he is, but they haven’t spoken before. Harry smiles. “Sure.”

“Heal that first,” Rosier says, nodding to his arm.

Bellatrix does it for him, since Harry is getting a little light-headed from the blood loss and doesn’t know the right countercurse for this particular one anyway. But then they step back from each other, and bow, and Rosier shoots the first spell while Harry is still bowing.

Harry knows better than to assume anyone will play fair, however, especially a Death Eater. He ducks and rolls as the curse turns around and arrows back towards him, then raises a Transfigured wall of stone between him and the spell. The stone cracks, but dissipates the magic.

“Impressive,” Rosier comments, before he begins raining magic on Harry that makes Harry feel not at all impressive.

But he reminds himself that no one here expects him to be perfect all the time, unlike James and Stepmother Elinor. He counters what he can, shields when he can, accepts a few minor hits, and waits for the moment when Rosier will relax because he’s so confident—

There.

Rosier spends a moment longer than he should adjusting his grip on his wand. It should be fine, given that Harry hasn’t cast one curse back so far, but it isn’t fine. Harry hurtles towards him.

Rosier starts, and that buys Harry one second more. He is already casting wordlessly, something he can’t do all the time but has practiced with on this one spell, and a long cut opens down Rosier’s cheek.

Only that, and then Rosier is back to casting offensively, this time with a Shield Charm hovering in front of him. Harry never gets another chance to strike before Rosier opens a hole in the stone floor and drops Harry in, then wraps the stone around his waist, imprisoning him. But Harry is still grinning.

He did the best he could. And he actually is impressive.

Rosier is breathing hard as he wipes the blood away from his cheek and bows to Harry. He never even paused to heal the cut, Harry realizes for the first time. That shows how cautious he was of Harry’s prowess after he got through the one time.

Harry grins even wider.

Rosier looks at him with something that might be respect, or might turn into it with enough time and growth. “You are most impressive, Mr. Potter,” he says softly. “I would enjoy another duel at a time when you have advanced a little in your mastery of curses and countercurses.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just Evan, please. What does it say if Bellatrix enjoys your calling her by her first name but none of the rest of the Death Eaters do?”

Harry smiles. “Thank you, Evan. Please call me Harry.”

His heart lifts and soars even more as Evan nods at him and takes his leave. There were some people who always wanted to call him by his last name because they only wanted to ask him questions about James and run away again as soon as they had their answers.

What does it say about me that I’m making closer friends among the Death Eaters than I did at Hogwarts?

Harry answers himself firmly, and with a new answer, for the first time. It means that all those people at Hogwarts were way too preoccupied with my father’s manufactured fame.

“All right,” Bellatrix says, gesturing sharply with her wand. The hole opens around Harry’s waist, almost dropping him further down into the stone, but Bellatrix catches him with a silent spell and floats him back to his feet. “Now we’re going to try—”

“Bella. Harry.”

The low voice is accompanied by a flash of amusement like a bolt of sheer lightning behind Harry’s scar. He turns around and falls into a low bow even before he sees Bellatrix curtseying. He remains there until Voldemort adds in Parseltongue, “Rise, Harry.

“Thank you for your services in teaching Harry this afternoon, Bella. Now, I require time to talk to him alone.” Voldemort spends a moment examining Harry. “I am most pleased with his progress. Evan told me that he intended to duel Harry, but he did not intend to come away bloodied. Well done, Harry.”

“My lord,” Bellatrix says, so much devotion in her eyes that Harry wonders when he’ll feel something like that for Voldemort. Well, maybe eventually. He’s only been a Death Eater for a few weeks.

Harry bows his head again as Bellatrix trots out of the battle room and Voldemort continues to stare at him. He normally wouldn’t have trouble meeting someone’s gaze, but most of those people aren’t the bloody Dark Lord.

“You did not respond to the compliment I just gave you.”

Harry starts and raises his eyes back to Voldemort’s, which, from the smirk on Voldemort’s face, was probably what he intended. “I—thought it might be crass to, my lord.”

“Crass? Has someone told you that?”

Harry struggles for a moment to express what he means, but he can feel Voldemort’s growing impatience like sand behind his scar, and he finally gives up and goes for the plainest words he can to express what he means. “Not among the Death Eaters. But most people didn’t find many things to compliment me about, unless it was my Quidditch skills. So I didn’t know how you wanted me to react. If you meant it.”

*

How did James Potter fail his son so profoundly?

Voldemort has never had a desire for children, but he hardly thinks that even one he sired against his will and who grew up without his knowing of them could have been worse off than Harry was in James Potter’s care.

“I always mean it. Lord Voldemort has no need to lie, Harry.”

Harry nods slowly. His eyes retain their caution, but he also shows commendable obedience. “Thank you, my lord. And thank you for the compliment. I’ll try even harder, though, so that I’ll be fit to join you on the battlefield.”

“You will do that. But for now, I need to speak to you about something else.” Voldemort gestures with his wand and conjures a stone bench that curls like Nagini around the edge of the wall. He sits down.

It takes a gesture of his hand before Harry sits as well, which is taking it from commendable obedience to irritating fear. But Voldemort reminds himself of what Harry has endured.

“Yes, my lord?”

“What do you know about the nature of the connection between you and me?”

“Not much, my lord. Only that James and the others were afraid that I would tell you a lot. I never completely understood if that came from my not being able to learn Occlumency or just because you would capture me and be able to read my mind easily no matter how much I practiced.”

“Why could you not learn Occlumency?”

“No one would have taught me without a parent’s permission, and James said once when I asked that I didn’t need to learn it.”

Voldemort hisses, his nostrils flaring. He is almost sure that is because James Potter had already so thoroughly resigned himself to Harry’s death that he saw no need for his son to protect his mind.

“The connection goes deeper than they knew or told you,” Voldemort says, and reaches out to press his hand to Harry’s right arm. Harry goes still even though it’s the opposite arm from the Mark. “The truth is that you are what is called a Horcrux. My Horcrux.”

Harry stares at him, maybe because of the unfamiliar word and maybe because of the possessive tone in his voice. Voldemort just watches, smiling, and stroking Harry’s skin. Sooner or later, Harry will ask the question.

“What is a Horcrux, my lord?”

“Before I tell you that, Harry, you will swear an oath to me that you will mention this to no one else.”

Harry promptly slips to one knee, the way he did when he was swearing his Death Eater oath to Voldemort. He lifts his hand and says, “I swear on my Mark and my scar that I will not tell anyone what a Horcrux is who does not already know.”

Voldemort hisses again as the oath settles. He did not need to tell Harry the wording he would accept. He did not need to tell him what to swear by. By choosing two things embedded in his own skin, Harry has ensured that he will die instantly if he breaks his word.

That obedience, by someone who carries part of Voldemort’s soul, makes him hungry, makes him want to crowd closer and take Harry in his arms and—

“My lord?”

Voldemort eases back with a shake of his head. Harry is a virgin, and he still does not know about the nature of the Horcrux link. It makes sense that he would be wary of offending Voldemort until that is explained.

“Take a seat on the bench again, Harry.”

Harry nods and does so, sitting a little closer. His eyes are bright with curiosity but also such caution that Voldemort wants to break something. Not even the assurance of an oath is enough to destroy all the scars that brand Harry’s soul, then.

Voldemort hisses a warning to himself and says simply, “A Horcrux is a vessel for a piece of soul. I have used them to make myself immortal. As long as pieces of my soul remain in the Horcruxes, I cannot die, and I can be resurrected.”

It is more vulnerable than he has been with anyone except Nagini in years. Part of Voldemort, in turn, is coiled tight, ready for a betrayal, as much as Harry is.

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. Then he says, “I didn’t even know that you could split your soul, my lord. How did it happen?”

“It is a deliberate act,” Voldemort says, and watches Harry’s eyes, holding onto both the Horcrux link and what he can feel of Harry’s surface thoughts as he explains. “I intended to kill you because of the prophecy that binds us—”

“What?”

“You do not know of the prophecy,” Voldemort says, and then wonders why that surprises him. Given how much James Potter’s side kept from Harry, he should not have expected them to tell Harry the truth about this, either.

But since he knew that James and Dumbledore and the rest thought the prophecy mistaken, he did think that they might share it, because it would have been an error instead of a truth about the war that they thought they had to keep from Harry.

“No, my lord.”

“There was a prophecy that a child born at the end of July would be able to vanquish me,” Voldemort says, and Harry flinches so hard that he looks as if he’ll fall off the bench. Voldemort reaches out and captures his hands. “I know that you would never do such a thing, Harry.”

There’s the fact that Harry can’t, now, but Voldemort thinks Harry also needs the reassurance that Voldemort trusts him.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

Harry appears to be retreating, curling up in his shell again, which is the last thing that Voldemort wants. He gives Harry’s shoulders a brisk shake, and the boy focuses on him with a gasp.

“You are the prophecy child,” Voldemort says. “Your mother sacrificed herself for you, and gave you the power to deflect my Killing Curse. The mark is upon your brow. I remember that much. But in the moment before my body disintegrated, James Potter raced into the room and cast a spell at me. Because my body broke apart immediately after that, he believes he killed me and that the prophecy was mistaken.”

He watches Harry carefully as that truth settles over him. Harry looks as if he might have a seizure. Lord Voldemort will be ready to catch him if he does.

*

Harry can hardly breathe.

One of part of him, deep inside, is laughing. If James knew the prophecy was right, and the delusion of being the Man-Who-Conquered that he always took such pride in is a delusion, and Harry is the one who could defeat Voldemort—

His Mark burns. His scar burns. Harry pulls himself hastily away from the thought.

If he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to.

He looks at his lord, and Voldemort looks back, careful in a way that Harry didn’t expect. Harry swallows. He knows some of what Voldemort didn’t say, because it’s just logical.

The murder of Lily Potter split his soul again, in a way that he didn’t plan on, and the shard of soul is what Harry carries behind his scar. It’s why he can feel Voldemort’s emotions and pleasure when Voldemort touches him. It explains what the connection between them is that Dumbledore and the rest didn’t understand no matter how long they researched it.

Horcruxes can’t be common, or they would have found out what Harry is and—

They would have destroyed me.

Harry takes a deep breath. He doesn’t like the idea that part of Voldemort’s soul got attached to him because of the murder of his mother, something that started all his troubles in the first place. He has to think that James would have been a decent bloke to Harry if Lily survived. Everything Remus and Sirius said about her makes Harry think his mum wouldn’t have stood for the sort of treatment James heaped on Harry.

James rarely said anything about Lily at all, and less after he married Stepmother Elinor.

Voldemort, meanwhile, seems pleased to keep Harry close and trust him and make him a Death Eater and allow him the chance for revenge on his father and the others.

Harry swallows, meets Voldemort’s eyes, and hisses softly, “Is that the reason I can speak Parseltongue, my lord? I know that there’s no history of that kind of thing in the Potter family.”

Voldemort smiles at him, a piercing expression like light off a knife. “Yes, Harry. Living Horcruxes are rare—Nagini is the only one I have ever heard of before now—and the connection between us is profound and not easy to understand. But it would make sense that we would share a gift as important to me as the language of serpents. It makes you even more special.”

Harry can hardly catch his breath.

Special. Voldemort thinks he’s special. No one ever has before, except as a Seeker.

And rare. Harry is one of only two living Horcruxes. And he knows that he is the only human besides Voldemort trusted with the secret that Nagini is a Horcrux as well.

Nagini defended him at the parley a fortnight ago. Even she considers Harry as a treasure to be protected.

Harry could feel disgust that he has the shard of a Dark Lord’s soul attached to him. But he doesn’t live with James any longer, and his father gave Harry precious little reason to emulate him anyway.

He will be proud. He will be honored.

“Thank you for telling me, my lord,” he whispers, and doesn’t bother hiding the tremor in his voice. Voldemort will probably like that, he reflects.

*

Voldemort wishes, very much, that there was a bed in this room.

And yet, he does not wish to frighten Harry, or to bear him down on the sheets merely out of obedience. He wishes Harry to desire him in return, to come to him and kneel before him with fervor instead of fear.

It will have to wait.

“If I assign you to guard one of the other Horcruxes, or to protect Nagini in return, do not be surprised,” he hisses instead, and reaches out to skim his fingers down Harry’s cheek and brow. The scar seems to be alive beneath his touch. “Do you understand? You are one of the few people I can trust with their true nature and location.”

“I understand, my lord. Do you think…”

“Speak.” For the first time, Voldemort wishes he had not cultivated as much fear among his Death Eaters. He knows that is the reason Harry hesitates so often, but he wants Harry to be more confident and truly embrace the honor Voldemort is offering him.

“Do you really think I’ll be good enough to do that one day?”

Ah. Harry craves praise at the moment even more than he does trust or pleasure. Voldemort does not smile, but it is a near thing.

“Yes, Harry. Based on what Evan and Bellatrix have both said of you, you take naturally to the Dark Arts, and that is the kind of magic that I need both on the battlefield and in defense of my Horcruxes.”

Harry’s face lights up until the radiance from it could flood the room. Voldemort feathers his fingers along Harry’s cheek again and then reluctantly draws his hand back.

He has things to do that, alas, involve more than just spending time with his beautiful Horcrux.

“I do have a special mission I would like you to accomplish, if you agree, Harry.”

He understands the worshipful eyes Harry lifts to him. At the moment, he could ask Harry to leap into fire and the boy would do it.

That, of course, is the reason that Voldemort will never do it, even more than because Harry holds a shard of his soul. Such unaffected loyalty is rare even among the Death Eaters, and not to be disposed of lightly.

“Please, my lord,” Harry whispers, in English this time, which he seems to think will make his agreement more marked. “Please tell me what you’d like me to do.”

Voldemort smiles at him, and begins to explain.

*

Sirius steps out of his own Floo with a long sigh. He understands what James is going through, of course. It’s absolutely shocking that Harry has turned into a Death Eater, and more shocking still that he hates James so much. That would take anyone some time to get over.

But it’s been nearly a month since James and Albus met with Voldemort and Harry in the parley clearing, and James is still crying every hour and drinking himself to sleep at night. Elinor is concerned for him, and Emily and Vance are confused and frightened at what’s happened to their father.

Sirius is glad to escape the Potter family drama, even if only for a little while.

He casts himself on the couch in front of the fireplace and stares into the flames. He thinks about telling Kreacher to bring him a bottle of Firewhisky, but the last thing he needs is to start drinking himself. He has to be up early for an Order meeting tomorrow.

A knock sounds from the direction of the front door.

Sirius blinks and sits up. Few people come through that way. Remus and James always use the Floo, and no Muggles can see the house.

Which means it might be…

Sirius tries not to hold his breath as he runs for the front door. Because, after all, there are still lots of people it could be. An Order member who isn’t permitted to access his Floo, or Albus, even, although he hasn’t visited Grimmauld Place in all the years Sirius has lived here. Something about a disagreement with Sirius’s mother and a curse if he returned.

But when Sirius opens the door, it turns out to be the person he hoped it was.

Harry gives him a fragile smile. “Hi, Padfoot.”

He acts as if he wants to say something else, but Sirius doesn’t give him the chance to speak. He snatches Harry up and spins him around. Harry goes with him, half-protesting, half-laughing, and ducks and splutters when Sirius messes up his hair as he sets him down.

“Hey, stop that!”

“I’ll mess up your hair as much as I want,” Sirius says, drunk with relief. “What happened, Harry? How did you get away?”

“It took me a while, but you know how hard it was for Professor Moody to hold me with compulsions?”

Sirius doesn’t. He does remember that Moody taught Defense one year as a favor to Albus, but Harry never really told Sirius how he did in the class or what it was like. They weren’t talking by then. It was too dangerous, with Sirius spending so much time on trying to persuade the goblins to join the Order.

Any secret spoken to Harry might have been one that You-Know-Who would receive.

Harry’s face darkens, as he seems to remember that he didn’t tell Sirius about this, but Sirius says hastily, “It’s different, now that you got away. James was so sure that you were a Death Eater, but you weren’t, were you?”

Harry swallows. “Compulsions cast by someone like Professor Moody I could break through right away, but when they’re cast by someone like Voldemort?” He shivers. “It took me days and weeks. I didn’t even know I was enchanted at first—all the awful things he was saying about Dad seemed to be true—but even when I knew, I had to work and work at it. And sometimes I forgot, and slipped backwards.” He shivers again.

Sirius wraps his arms around Harry. “James thought something was wrong, but he never thought to look for compulsions. Oh, Harry, he’s going to be so happy.”

“He is?”

Sirius winces. He supposes they deserve that, both James and him. And Remus, too, and Elinor. “Yes, of course. He thought that you were corrupted, and now we know it’s not true, and everything is going to be better.”

It will be. Sirius will see to it. He’ll make the case to Albus and James both that Harry is of age now, and he managed to win free of a compulsion cast by You-Know-Who himself. And now that he’s been branded against his will and kidnapped and probably tortured, too, he has no reason to feed You-Know-Who information or join their side. They can trust Harry. Probably more than they can trust some members of the Order who brag about their ability to fight but when the actual fighting comes along are nowhere to be found.

“Everything,” Harry breathes.

“Yeah. Yeah. I promise, kiddo.”

Sirius pushes Harry’s hair out of his eyes and bends down to kiss his forehead. Harry’s scar feels hot and pulsing under his lips, but Sirius doesn’t know if that’s abnormal. He hasn’t touched Harry there before.

Embarrassed now, Sirius pulls back and clears his throat. “And no one will blame you for the Dark Mark being forced on you. It’s not like you could have resisted when you were compelled.”

“Oh, good,” Harry sighs. “It would make it harder.”

“It would make what harder?”

“Getting close to people,” Harry says, and smiles at Sirius even as he lifts his wand—when did he draw it? The sleeve slides back, and Sirius sees the Dark Mark. He winces and lifts his hands a little.

“Come on, Harry, you don’t believe that I’m a threat to you, do you?”

“No,” Harry says easily. “But only because I’m going to make sure you aren’t.”

“Harry, what—”

“Imperio.”

And Sirius’s free, conscious life abruptly ends.