lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2024-11-14 05:53 pm
lomonaaeren) wrote2024-11-14 05:53 pm
[From Samhain to the Solstice]: Shattered Pieces of the Human, PG-13, gen, 1/6
Title: Shattered Pieces of the Human
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Past Voldemort/Lily and James/Lily, background Ron/Hermione, otherwise gen
Content Notes: AU (Harry is Voldemort’s son), angst, drama, present tense, violence, torture, minor character death, Dark Arts, Parseltongue, unwilling Dark Lord Harry
Rating: : PG-13
Summary: After his tense, tormented summer in Voldemort’s company, Harry goes back to Hogwarts, swimming in grief over being Voldemort’s son and stressed with keeping that a secret from his friends. Add in Dumbledore’s lessons on Voldemort’s history, Harry’s “court,” and his father’s expectations, and Harry is living in shattered pieces.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “From Samhain to the Solstice” chaptered stories being posted between Halloween and the winter solstice. It’s a sequel to my fic “Broken Glass Life,” so you should read that first. This should be five or six chapters.
Shattered Pieces of the Human>
“You are unhappy.”
“Obviously.”
Basilisk’s bond to Harry has been becoming clearer and clearer in the days since Voldemort gave her to him. Harry thinks of it as a stream flowing back and forth between them, whose colors and motion he can “feel.” It’s gold and green right now, with small riffles of puzzlement.
“But why are you unhappy?”
“Because I can’t tell my friends the truth.”
Currently, Harry is lying on his bed in Gryffindor Tower. His curtains are spelled shut, especially since it would look odd if someone opened them and saw him playing with empty air. Basilisk is under a Disillusionment Charm that no one except Harry can see through, and Voldemort cast it, but Harry still thinks it’s best to be cautious.
“But you cannot tell them the truth because your blood-master forbade you to do so.”
Harry grimaces. He hates the name Basilisk has for Voldemort, which is something like “the eldest and therefore owner of the bloodline.” She refuses to change it. “Yes.”
“Then it is not your fault, and you have nothing to be unhappy about.”
Harry sighs and wonders if it’s worth debating philosophy with his snake. He decides it’s probably not, on the whole. “Are you all right? Are you hungry?”
Basilisk curls around his wrist and darts her tongue out at him. Her eyes have become larger since she hatched, turning a deep green flecked with blue that is lovely enough to make Harry’s breath catch in his throat. “I am not hungry, but in a few days I will need a rat.”
“Not a mouse?”
“I am growing. Mice are too small.”
Harry frowns a little. He wonders if Basilisk will grow more rapidly than he thought. It hasn’t been much of a problem carrying her around while she’s small, but if she becomes Nagini’s size or even half the size in a few months…
“You are worried again.”
“I’m worried that you’ll get too big for me to carry.”
“Then I will slither on the floor,” Basilisk says, and the bond flows more slowly and becomes dark green, which is her way of being patient and obvious with him.
“But someone might step on you there. How can you be safe if I don’t carry you?”
Basilisk leans forwards and nudges him on the cheek with the side of her triangular head. Pure affection flows down the bond, and it becomes a fast, clear river. “I must grow and become bigger. I must accompany you. We will figure it out.”
Harry sighs and closes his eyes. He feels like his concerns are tearing him apart.
There are so many things to worry about. What will happen if Ron and Hermione find out he’s Voldemort’s son. What will happen if other people find out, like Rita Skeeter. What Dumbledore will do. How Theo and Draco will act now that they’re back at Hogwarts. What happens if someone sees his “courtiers’” Marks. How Voldemort will check up on him. How to keep everyone he cares about safe. How he’s supposed to defeat Voldemort when Voldemort is so much more powerful and has a bunch of chains on Harry besides.
Whether he will still be human at the end of this.
Harry at least knows that he can’t do anything about helping Basilisk right now, so he curls up to make a warm space for her in front of his knees and goes to sleep.
*
“Are you ever going to tell us where you stayed this summer, mate?”
“I told you, Ron, it’s under Fidelius. Like your place.”
Harry sips the last of his pumpkin juice and stands with his bag on his shoulder. Basilisk is in it, Disillusioned and asleep. He ignores the stab of grief under his breastbone at the reminder of Grimmauld Place and Sirius, ignores the way he can feel Theo and Draco looking at him from the Slytherin table, ignores everything.
He knows he won’t be able to do that forever. But everything is so overwhelming that for now he has to do this.
“But you could give us a name,” Hermione says. She’s smiling at him, playful and serious at the same time. Harry knows it really bothers her that he had to “witness” the Dursleys dying and live somewhere else over the summer.
It would bother her even more if she knew that Harry just regrets the Dursleys as casualties of Voldemort and doesn’t grieve them as much as he does Sirius.
But there are lots and lots of lies that Harry has to tell right now. He half-shrugs. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“But why not, Harry?”
“Oh, the person who took me in is pretty secretive.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, he just said that I wasn’t to talk about everything, you know?”
“Why, though? That sounds like a bad sign to me.”
Harry stops walking to Defense and turns around. Ron and Hermione cluster behind him, staring at him hopefully.
Maybe it’s a mistake to confront them this way, but Harry cannot do this all year.
“I don’t know why he insisted on so many secrets,” Harry says quietly. “But he saved my life, and I’m not going to keep telling you I don’t know over and over again when there’s no answer. I don’t know, okay? You can accept that, or you can’t. But there’s not going to be a different answer.”
“But, Harry—”
“Does Dumbledore know?” Ron cuts in. He’s frowning a little, as if he knows something is wrong but not what. Harry wants to laugh hysterically. You have no idea. “I mean, if he knew…”
“Yeah, he actually thought it would be a good idea for me to keep some of the secrets in the first place.”
The way Harry feels right now, it would be almost a relief for Ron and Hermione to go to Dumbledore, and for the Headmaster to tell them the truth. He would probably regret it later, but it would remove one burden.
“We’re just worried for you,” Hermione says softly, putting a hand on his arm.
And Harry feels bad again, but he also knows that nothing is going to change in the immediate future unless someone else makes it change. And he’s not going to tell Hermione just because she’s curious.
“Come on,” he says, and turns around so he can walk down the corridor more briskly. “We’re going to be late to Defense.”
*
Snape is the Defense professor, because of course he is.
Harry can feel Snape’s eyes burning into him. He keeps his head bowed as though he’s trying to avoid looking at the horrible pictures of curses on the wall, and sits down at his desk, head still bowed as he sorts through his things.
Harry doesn’t know what Snape will do. After the incident when Harry conjured snakes to nearly kill Snape, the man just taught him Potions during the summer as Voldemort ordered in an almost robotic voice. He corrected mistakes and explained the proportions of ingredients needed in the same way.
So Snape might yell that he’s Voldemort’s son to the class, or spin around and kill him, or just maintain the pretense that he did during the summer. It could be anything, really.
“Potter.”
Harry doesn’t think he imagines the sneer in Snape’s voice. Ah. So it’s going to be a continuation of the treatment from the first five years of school, then, with an extra twist because Snape knows that he doesn’t have a right to the name Potter.
James is still my dad.
Harry shuts down all thought as firmly as he can behind his sort-of-apathy-Occlumency, although it’s never worked as well as it did after the first few weeks of summer at the Dursleys’. He looks up. “Yes, sir?” he asks.
“Come up to the front of class. We’re going to do a demonstration duel.”
Harry sighs as he stands. He has to leave his bag behind, of course, and just nod to Ron’s whisper of, “Bad luck, mate.”
Harry knows it’s not bad luck. He knows Snape is going to get his own back one of the few ways he can.
And Harry will lose the duel, because he’s not as good as Snape, and he can’t use the Dark Arts spells that Mrs. Malfoy was teaching him over the summer.
What does it matter? Next to everything else, a lost duel is only a lost duel.
Harry gets up in front of Snape. Snape draws his wand, his face fixed in a sneer that does seem to have an extra edge to it. Yeah, definitely getting his own back.
Harry swallows. He hopes he’ll be able to maintain his composure. Because even if it’s only a duel, it might be the thing that makes him crack.
“When you are ready to begin, Mr. Potter.”
Harry nods shortly, and Snape makes him bow. Old memories echo through Harry, and he nearly stumbles into the first hex Snape throws, a silent burning one.
But then he snaps back into the mindset he needs—or almost the mindset he needs.
He is fighting for his life.
There is an enemy in front of him, and one who is casting silent magic, so Harry can’t anticipate the spells. He dodges, he shields, he rolls. He doesn’t try to attack for long minutes because he literally can’t. He’s too busy just making sure that nothing pieces his skin or burns his fingers off or freezes his lungs.
But at last he finds his balance, his rhythm, and he looks at Snape and thinks, I can play this game.
“Serpensortia!”
Harry feels his bond with Basilisk quicken and brighten as the viper lands in the middle of the floor. Harry doesn’t know what kind it is, and it doesn’t matter. He steps back and hisses to it, “Attack the man who is casting at me.”
Snape is fast and fluid, and he certainly doesn’t hesitate to Vanish the viper. But Harry is calling others now, faster and faster, and it will only look to the other students like he’s using the Serpensortia spell. In reality, he’s conjuring the snakes from the air the way he did when he turned Snape’s wine into them over the summer, a Slytherin bloodline gift besides the Parseltongue.
Snape’s eyes turn to meet his, and Harry floats a thought on the surface of his mind where he hopes a master Legilimens can pick up on it.
You want revenge for this summer? So do I.
Snape blinks, and in the meantime, Harry conjures a viper that wraps around his neck.
Snape ducks and snaps his head from side to side, and that snake goes flying. But more and more are crawling across the floor towards him now, and if Snape pauses to Vanish or kill them all, they both know Harry is going to conjure another serpent on his neck.
And Snape can’t just use Finite Incantatem, since they’re not the product of an ordinary spell, no matter what they look like.
Snape is backing away, his eyes full of hatred. Harry doesn’t really care. The man doesn’t even have a reason to hate him for being James Potter’s son anymore, but here he is, hating him anyway.
It makes Harry furious, abruptly, his temper roaring to life in him like a wildfire.
“What are you doing?” comes Basilisk’s hiss from his bag.
“Morsmordre.” Harry hisses the spell in Parseltongue. He saw Voldemort do this once over the summer, and he knows it won’t make the Dark Mark appear, not when it’s uttered in the snake tongue.
Instead, it stabs unendurable pain straight through Snape’s Mark. He staggers, crying out more with the surprise than the agony, Harry’s sure. Snape would have endured worse with the Cruciatus.
But now it makes him vulnerable to the snakes that Harry has set crawling all about his feet. And another one appears coiled around Snape’s neck as Harry wills it, pressing its fangs against Snape’s jugular.
The world seems to snap into place around Harry, and he finds himself standing still, shaking. Snape remains still as well.
Harry swallows and glances at his classmates, then wishes he hadn’t. Their faces are full of horror.
Even—even Ron and Hermione’s.
And it is the moment of Harry’s breaking after all, although not the way he imagined.
He makes the right (useless) movement with his wand and says “Finite Incantatem” aloud, while concentrating hard on making the snakes disappear. Some of them seem to fight him for a moment, flickering in and out of existence, but in the end, they go.
Harry races over to his bag, snatches it off the floor, and pelts out of the classroom, his head lowered and tears motionless on his cheeks, as still at the moment as his bond with Basilisk. He finds a dark alcove near a staircase to the second floor and huddles there with his hands over his face, hating himself more than he’s ever hated Snape.
“You impressed your enemy. It was not a waste.”
Harry holds his arm out to Basilisk without looking at her, and she climbs it and twins herself gently around his neck. Harry leans over so that his cheek touches her scales, and shakes.
“It was not a waste,” Basilisk insists again, filling their bond with bright red and orange, her comfort colors. The bond flowers into a torrent of water. “The plant-smelling one will be slow to attack you now.”
“But my friends are upset with me.”
“They are upset with you all the time. Or you worry they will be upset with you. It seems to me that they are useless.”
Harry huffs a laugh and rubs his cheek against her scales. Basilisk makes the bond shine with delight. Ordinary snakes don’t like to be touched this much, but either their bond or the fact that Basilisk is the same species as Nagini or both makes a difference.
Harry holds her in his hands and says, “I still want to be around them. But it’s getting harder and harder.”
Basilisk flickers her tongue out and snaps her neck to the side like a weapon being aimed. “Your shadow comes.”
Harry starts to stuff her back into his bag, thinking she means Ron, but it’s Theo who comes around the corner and gives a deep nod to him that’s so near a bow it makes no difference. “My lord. I felt your distress.”
Shit. Harry closes his eyes. That’s not something he meant to do. He has to clamp down on his emotions, do his best not to feel them, the way he did after Sirius’s death.
“My apologies, Theo.”
“There is no need to apologize, my lord.” Theo sounds so firm that Harry blinks and looks at him. Theo is edging towards him, eyes huge and dark and posture stiff. “I wish only to know how to be of use to you.”
“I did a stupid thing and showed off in Defense,” Harry says tiredly. There might still be portraits watching, and while Dumbledore wouldn’t be that surprised to hear Theo addressing him as a Lord, Harry doesn’t want to reveal the exact specifics of his snake-summoning gift. “Snape was making me angry, and then I set snakes on him and commanded them in Parseltongue, and when I got back into my right mind and looked at my friends, they were horrified.”
Theo makes a small sound of contempt so pure that Harry bristles in instinctive defense of Ron and Hermione. “Your friends are useless.”
Harry laughs despite himself, and Theo raises his eyebrows. Harry shakes his head. “That’s just—what someone else said.” He gestures to the air around his neck, and Theo nods without surprise.
“Well, it’s true.”
“They’ve been friends with me for so many years. And you know I’m worried about how they’ll react to—this.”
“You should keep the secret because of what would happen if they discovered it, but my lord, the other things? The normal minutiae of your daily life? Don’t let their horror drive you away from releasing your temper or having fun or relaxing. They’re not worth it.”
“Theo—”
“They’ve been sheltered, protected, coddled. They can put up with a little change in the way you relate to them.”
“They weren’t coddled! They stood with me so many times when it came to things like the Ministry last year, and if it weren’t for Hermione I never would have known that there was a basilisk in the Chamber—”
“But were they with you in the final confrontations? Ever? They might have helped you get there, but you faced the Dark Lord alone. They didn’t have to kill a professor or a giant snake. They didn’t have to bring a dead body back. They suffered, but they didn’t endure.”
Theo’s eyes are deep and dark and wild. He looks as if he might attack someone if Harry doesn’t believe him. Harry puts his hands up, swallowing. He normally doesn’t pay as much attention to his vassal bonds with Theo and Draco as he does to the one with Basilisk, but right now, Theo’s is madly buzzing.
“Theo,” he whispers. “Theo, it’s all right.”
“They are causing you distress.”
“Yeah, but some of that is my fault. They know I haven’t told them everything, and they—”
“None of it is your fault. I will curse them until they know better.”
“Theo.”
At least Harry manages to put enough flat command in his voice this time to make Theo pay attention. He starts, blinks, and reaches out as if to touch something hovering in the air between them. Harry thinks it might be his own visualization of the vassal bond connecting him to Harry. “My apology, my lord,” he murmurs.
Harry nods briskly. “Apology accepted. But you need to make sure you don’t just tear around the school cursing Ron and Hermione. Or anyone else,” he adds, as he sees Theo open his mouth. “That’ll reveal us in a hurry.”
“They might only think I was cursing them for being Muggleborns and blood traitors. Or Gryffindors.”
“Might isn’t enough. I don’t want to risk your safety.”
Theo bows his head, but his eyes are shining. Harry remembers Theo telling him that most people in the magical world follow magical power, and that Theo never intended to try standing on his own.
Harry checks a sigh. He wishes Theo would. He thinks Theo would be happier asserting his own will and following his own goals, ultimately, not limited by how different Harry is from him as a person.
But it’s not something Harry can control, so he says only, “Thank you. Now, you should go back to—whatever class it was that you were in?”
“Arithmancy,” Theo says, and gives him a dazzling smile. “Draco is covering for me. He said I was sick to my stomach and had to run to a loo.”
Harry nods uncertainly. “And you don’t mind looking weak because of that lie?” he has to ask. It’s not one he would have thought Theo would use.
“I know it is for a higher purpose.”
Theo sounds so—serene. Honestly, it unnerves Harry, and adds to his burden, being in control of someone else’s life like this. Theo trusts him to make the decisions, but what if he makes the wrong one?
A sudden tide of cool certainty pours over him. Harry gasps and stares at Theo, his heart thumping wildly, and then slowing, and then picking up again. “What was that?”
“I can give you some of my own calm when your fear is devouring you alive, my lord. I hope you will not object?”
Harry swallows and closes his eyes. No, perhaps it would be better not to. After all, he was on the edge of collapse. And it doesn’t seem like the cold affected anything other than his emotions and heartbeat. Basilisk is hissing contentedly, in fact.
“This one is not useless.”
Harry opens his eyes and manages to smile at Theo, who looks just as contented. “Thank you, Theo. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“You have already repaid any debt I might ever owe you, my lord.”
Harry sighs silently at that, but he’s not going to argue. Theo has to get back to Arithmancy, and Harry has to go face the consequences of his actions.
“Thank you,” he repeats, and Theo bows once more and turns around to run back to Arithmancy. Harry stands where he is for a moment, holding Basilisk, and listening closely to her suggestions about how they could go outside and sit near the lake, in the sun.
Then he sighs, tucks her back into his bag, and walks towards the Headmaster’s office.
*
“Thank you for guessing that I would want to see you, Harry.”
Harry gives Dumbledore a weak smile. The gargoyle was standing aside when he came to the bottom of the moving staircase, and he practically ran up the steps. He’s already wondering if it was a mistake, coming here.
But it’s also a mistake to just allow Theo and Basilisk and his irritation with his friends’ constant questions to influence him, he thinks. He has to have a balance of both sides.
To remind him if he’s still human.
Dumbledore has been making tea, and he sets the steaming cup down in front of Harry now, with the sugar in it that Harry requested. Harry picks up the cup and holds it between his hands, closing his eyes. For right now, he just wants the warmth.
“What happened in your Defense class today, Harry? Was it possession by Voldemort?”
It’s a little strange, after this summer, to hear Voldemort referred to by name instead of as “the Dark Lord,” but that’s Harry’s problem. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “No, sir. It was me.”
“Why did you attack Professor Snape, Harry?”
Professor Dumbledore seems a little less sympathetic now. Harry sighs, swallows a small sip of tea, and says, “He still hates me. Even though he knows that I was never James Potter’s son, and he’s the one who delivered the prophecy to Voldemort, and even though he was in love with mum and he got her killed—he still acts like he has a right to hate me!”
“Professor Snape is a complex man, Harry, with complex motivations.”
“His hatred seems pretty simple.”
Dumbledore considers him for a moment. He isn’t drinking tea himself, but Harry doesn’t really care. He doesn’t think the tea he has is drugged with Veritaserum or anything like that.
“What would you like me to do about it?” Dumbledore asks.
“Tell him to stop tormenting me in class.”
“I cannot order him to curb his feelings.”
Harry laughs, a broken sound that makes Basilisk stir in his bag. At least it makes Dumbledore’s eyes widen, too. “I didn’t ask you to do that! I just told you that he should stop tormenting me in class.”
“Or what will happen?”
“Probably more snakes. I’m at my bloody breaking point,” Harry said, and slams the teacup down on Dumbledore’s desk, tears starting to his eyes. He didn’t mean to do that, but maybe it’ll make his point. “I’m trying to keep my secret and fend off Ron and Hermione and make sure Voldemort doesn’t have any reason to hurt anyone here and study for NEWT classes and—it’s too much. If Snape keeps up the pressure, he’ll get the consequences, too.”
Dumbledore’s face is hard to read. But he nods slowly. “I should have considered this. Very well, Harry. I will tell Severus that displays like the one he made in class today cannot happen again.”
“Thank you.”
“And I will also tell your friends that you were indeed at an Order safehouse for the summer, and that they should not question you on the identity of your—protector.”
“Thank you,” Harry repeats.
“What was it like?”
Harry looks at Dumbledore and hopes his exhaustion is plain on his face even if Dumbledore can’t see anything else. “Terrible.”
Dumbledore looks down at his hands for a moment, and nods. Then he says, “I do intend to help you learn how to fight Voldemort this year, Harry.”
How can I duel someone who’s in my mind and my blood and my soul?
But Harry just asks, “Oh?”
“Yes. I have been investigating Voldemort’s history, and I have learned some surprising things…”
*
“We need to talk.”
Harry utters a heartfelt groan as Hermione sweeps up to him the minute he enters the Gryffindor common room. But he says, “Fine,” and follows her over to a couch in front of the fireplace, where Ron’s also waiting, his arms folded.
“What the hell was that?” Hermione leans near to hiss, while Ron raises a Privacy Charm around them. “You attacked Professor Snape!”
Harry looks at her. He decides, then, that his priority should be soothing the upset in his own chest.
“He attacked me.”
“No more than he usually does!”
Harry laughs without humor. “He never hexed me during Potions.”
“You could have done something else.”
“But I used snakes. It’s done. I went and talked to Professor Dumbledore about it, and he’s going to talk to Snape.”
“Professor Snape.”
Harry ignores her and turns to Ron. “What? Want to rip into me for defending myself, too?”
Ron blinks and looks closely at him. “What’s up, mate?” he asks slowly. “You’ve seemed upset and on edge since even before Snape’s class. What is it?”
Well, at least this is the perfect excuse.
“The Dursleys died over the summer,” Harry reminds them in a low voice. “I wasn’t fond of them, but they’re still people related to me, who died because of me. And Sirius died before that. And then I had to be apart from you lot the rest of summer and you won’t stop asking me endless questions about the person and the safehouse I was taken to even though I said I couldn’t tell you. Can you just—back off? Stop expecting me to act like the most perfect and balanced person ever, when you wouldn’t be, either?”
By the time he finishes, both Ron and Hermione have wide eyes and are radiating guilt. Harry crushes his own. Good. That means they’ll step back, then.
“Sorry, mate,” Ron whispers, a little hoarsely. “Sorry.”
“I wanted to know,” Hermione whispers. “But that wasn’t enough reason to ask you over and over again.”
Harry just nods and stands. “Thanks. I just—I want to stay friends with both of you, but it won’t be the way it was before.”
“No.” Hermione watches him with sad eyes. “I can see that.”
“I’m going off to bed,” Harry says, and he walks away.
In the bedroom, he takes Basilisk out of his bag and curls up on the bed with her around his neck, closing his eyes. His heart is pounding sickly and his mind is clear with sorrow.
“I am here. I will always be here.”
Harry strokes Basilisk’s scales, and doesn’t reply.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Past Voldemort/Lily and James/Lily, background Ron/Hermione, otherwise gen
Content Notes: AU (Harry is Voldemort’s son), angst, drama, present tense, violence, torture, minor character death, Dark Arts, Parseltongue, unwilling Dark Lord Harry
Rating: : PG-13
Summary: After his tense, tormented summer in Voldemort’s company, Harry goes back to Hogwarts, swimming in grief over being Voldemort’s son and stressed with keeping that a secret from his friends. Add in Dumbledore’s lessons on Voldemort’s history, Harry’s “court,” and his father’s expectations, and Harry is living in shattered pieces.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “From Samhain to the Solstice” chaptered stories being posted between Halloween and the winter solstice. It’s a sequel to my fic “Broken Glass Life,” so you should read that first. This should be five or six chapters.
Shattered Pieces of the Human>
“You are unhappy.”
“Obviously.”
Basilisk’s bond to Harry has been becoming clearer and clearer in the days since Voldemort gave her to him. Harry thinks of it as a stream flowing back and forth between them, whose colors and motion he can “feel.” It’s gold and green right now, with small riffles of puzzlement.
“But why are you unhappy?”
“Because I can’t tell my friends the truth.”
Currently, Harry is lying on his bed in Gryffindor Tower. His curtains are spelled shut, especially since it would look odd if someone opened them and saw him playing with empty air. Basilisk is under a Disillusionment Charm that no one except Harry can see through, and Voldemort cast it, but Harry still thinks it’s best to be cautious.
“But you cannot tell them the truth because your blood-master forbade you to do so.”
Harry grimaces. He hates the name Basilisk has for Voldemort, which is something like “the eldest and therefore owner of the bloodline.” She refuses to change it. “Yes.”
“Then it is not your fault, and you have nothing to be unhappy about.”
Harry sighs and wonders if it’s worth debating philosophy with his snake. He decides it’s probably not, on the whole. “Are you all right? Are you hungry?”
Basilisk curls around his wrist and darts her tongue out at him. Her eyes have become larger since she hatched, turning a deep green flecked with blue that is lovely enough to make Harry’s breath catch in his throat. “I am not hungry, but in a few days I will need a rat.”
“Not a mouse?”
“I am growing. Mice are too small.”
Harry frowns a little. He wonders if Basilisk will grow more rapidly than he thought. It hasn’t been much of a problem carrying her around while she’s small, but if she becomes Nagini’s size or even half the size in a few months…
“You are worried again.”
“I’m worried that you’ll get too big for me to carry.”
“Then I will slither on the floor,” Basilisk says, and the bond flows more slowly and becomes dark green, which is her way of being patient and obvious with him.
“But someone might step on you there. How can you be safe if I don’t carry you?”
Basilisk leans forwards and nudges him on the cheek with the side of her triangular head. Pure affection flows down the bond, and it becomes a fast, clear river. “I must grow and become bigger. I must accompany you. We will figure it out.”
Harry sighs and closes his eyes. He feels like his concerns are tearing him apart.
There are so many things to worry about. What will happen if Ron and Hermione find out he’s Voldemort’s son. What will happen if other people find out, like Rita Skeeter. What Dumbledore will do. How Theo and Draco will act now that they’re back at Hogwarts. What happens if someone sees his “courtiers’” Marks. How Voldemort will check up on him. How to keep everyone he cares about safe. How he’s supposed to defeat Voldemort when Voldemort is so much more powerful and has a bunch of chains on Harry besides.
Whether he will still be human at the end of this.
Harry at least knows that he can’t do anything about helping Basilisk right now, so he curls up to make a warm space for her in front of his knees and goes to sleep.
*
“Are you ever going to tell us where you stayed this summer, mate?”
“I told you, Ron, it’s under Fidelius. Like your place.”
Harry sips the last of his pumpkin juice and stands with his bag on his shoulder. Basilisk is in it, Disillusioned and asleep. He ignores the stab of grief under his breastbone at the reminder of Grimmauld Place and Sirius, ignores the way he can feel Theo and Draco looking at him from the Slytherin table, ignores everything.
He knows he won’t be able to do that forever. But everything is so overwhelming that for now he has to do this.
“But you could give us a name,” Hermione says. She’s smiling at him, playful and serious at the same time. Harry knows it really bothers her that he had to “witness” the Dursleys dying and live somewhere else over the summer.
It would bother her even more if she knew that Harry just regrets the Dursleys as casualties of Voldemort and doesn’t grieve them as much as he does Sirius.
But there are lots and lots of lies that Harry has to tell right now. He half-shrugs. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“But why not, Harry?”
“Oh, the person who took me in is pretty secretive.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, he just said that I wasn’t to talk about everything, you know?”
“Why, though? That sounds like a bad sign to me.”
Harry stops walking to Defense and turns around. Ron and Hermione cluster behind him, staring at him hopefully.
Maybe it’s a mistake to confront them this way, but Harry cannot do this all year.
“I don’t know why he insisted on so many secrets,” Harry says quietly. “But he saved my life, and I’m not going to keep telling you I don’t know over and over again when there’s no answer. I don’t know, okay? You can accept that, or you can’t. But there’s not going to be a different answer.”
“But, Harry—”
“Does Dumbledore know?” Ron cuts in. He’s frowning a little, as if he knows something is wrong but not what. Harry wants to laugh hysterically. You have no idea. “I mean, if he knew…”
“Yeah, he actually thought it would be a good idea for me to keep some of the secrets in the first place.”
The way Harry feels right now, it would be almost a relief for Ron and Hermione to go to Dumbledore, and for the Headmaster to tell them the truth. He would probably regret it later, but it would remove one burden.
“We’re just worried for you,” Hermione says softly, putting a hand on his arm.
And Harry feels bad again, but he also knows that nothing is going to change in the immediate future unless someone else makes it change. And he’s not going to tell Hermione just because she’s curious.
“Come on,” he says, and turns around so he can walk down the corridor more briskly. “We’re going to be late to Defense.”
*
Snape is the Defense professor, because of course he is.
Harry can feel Snape’s eyes burning into him. He keeps his head bowed as though he’s trying to avoid looking at the horrible pictures of curses on the wall, and sits down at his desk, head still bowed as he sorts through his things.
Harry doesn’t know what Snape will do. After the incident when Harry conjured snakes to nearly kill Snape, the man just taught him Potions during the summer as Voldemort ordered in an almost robotic voice. He corrected mistakes and explained the proportions of ingredients needed in the same way.
So Snape might yell that he’s Voldemort’s son to the class, or spin around and kill him, or just maintain the pretense that he did during the summer. It could be anything, really.
“Potter.”
Harry doesn’t think he imagines the sneer in Snape’s voice. Ah. So it’s going to be a continuation of the treatment from the first five years of school, then, with an extra twist because Snape knows that he doesn’t have a right to the name Potter.
James is still my dad.
Harry shuts down all thought as firmly as he can behind his sort-of-apathy-Occlumency, although it’s never worked as well as it did after the first few weeks of summer at the Dursleys’. He looks up. “Yes, sir?” he asks.
“Come up to the front of class. We’re going to do a demonstration duel.”
Harry sighs as he stands. He has to leave his bag behind, of course, and just nod to Ron’s whisper of, “Bad luck, mate.”
Harry knows it’s not bad luck. He knows Snape is going to get his own back one of the few ways he can.
And Harry will lose the duel, because he’s not as good as Snape, and he can’t use the Dark Arts spells that Mrs. Malfoy was teaching him over the summer.
What does it matter? Next to everything else, a lost duel is only a lost duel.
Harry gets up in front of Snape. Snape draws his wand, his face fixed in a sneer that does seem to have an extra edge to it. Yeah, definitely getting his own back.
Harry swallows. He hopes he’ll be able to maintain his composure. Because even if it’s only a duel, it might be the thing that makes him crack.
“When you are ready to begin, Mr. Potter.”
Harry nods shortly, and Snape makes him bow. Old memories echo through Harry, and he nearly stumbles into the first hex Snape throws, a silent burning one.
But then he snaps back into the mindset he needs—or almost the mindset he needs.
He is fighting for his life.
There is an enemy in front of him, and one who is casting silent magic, so Harry can’t anticipate the spells. He dodges, he shields, he rolls. He doesn’t try to attack for long minutes because he literally can’t. He’s too busy just making sure that nothing pieces his skin or burns his fingers off or freezes his lungs.
But at last he finds his balance, his rhythm, and he looks at Snape and thinks, I can play this game.
“Serpensortia!”
Harry feels his bond with Basilisk quicken and brighten as the viper lands in the middle of the floor. Harry doesn’t know what kind it is, and it doesn’t matter. He steps back and hisses to it, “Attack the man who is casting at me.”
Snape is fast and fluid, and he certainly doesn’t hesitate to Vanish the viper. But Harry is calling others now, faster and faster, and it will only look to the other students like he’s using the Serpensortia spell. In reality, he’s conjuring the snakes from the air the way he did when he turned Snape’s wine into them over the summer, a Slytherin bloodline gift besides the Parseltongue.
Snape’s eyes turn to meet his, and Harry floats a thought on the surface of his mind where he hopes a master Legilimens can pick up on it.
You want revenge for this summer? So do I.
Snape blinks, and in the meantime, Harry conjures a viper that wraps around his neck.
Snape ducks and snaps his head from side to side, and that snake goes flying. But more and more are crawling across the floor towards him now, and if Snape pauses to Vanish or kill them all, they both know Harry is going to conjure another serpent on his neck.
And Snape can’t just use Finite Incantatem, since they’re not the product of an ordinary spell, no matter what they look like.
Snape is backing away, his eyes full of hatred. Harry doesn’t really care. The man doesn’t even have a reason to hate him for being James Potter’s son anymore, but here he is, hating him anyway.
It makes Harry furious, abruptly, his temper roaring to life in him like a wildfire.
“What are you doing?” comes Basilisk’s hiss from his bag.
“Morsmordre.” Harry hisses the spell in Parseltongue. He saw Voldemort do this once over the summer, and he knows it won’t make the Dark Mark appear, not when it’s uttered in the snake tongue.
Instead, it stabs unendurable pain straight through Snape’s Mark. He staggers, crying out more with the surprise than the agony, Harry’s sure. Snape would have endured worse with the Cruciatus.
But now it makes him vulnerable to the snakes that Harry has set crawling all about his feet. And another one appears coiled around Snape’s neck as Harry wills it, pressing its fangs against Snape’s jugular.
The world seems to snap into place around Harry, and he finds himself standing still, shaking. Snape remains still as well.
Harry swallows and glances at his classmates, then wishes he hadn’t. Their faces are full of horror.
Even—even Ron and Hermione’s.
And it is the moment of Harry’s breaking after all, although not the way he imagined.
He makes the right (useless) movement with his wand and says “Finite Incantatem” aloud, while concentrating hard on making the snakes disappear. Some of them seem to fight him for a moment, flickering in and out of existence, but in the end, they go.
Harry races over to his bag, snatches it off the floor, and pelts out of the classroom, his head lowered and tears motionless on his cheeks, as still at the moment as his bond with Basilisk. He finds a dark alcove near a staircase to the second floor and huddles there with his hands over his face, hating himself more than he’s ever hated Snape.
“You impressed your enemy. It was not a waste.”
Harry holds his arm out to Basilisk without looking at her, and she climbs it and twins herself gently around his neck. Harry leans over so that his cheek touches her scales, and shakes.
“It was not a waste,” Basilisk insists again, filling their bond with bright red and orange, her comfort colors. The bond flowers into a torrent of water. “The plant-smelling one will be slow to attack you now.”
“But my friends are upset with me.”
“They are upset with you all the time. Or you worry they will be upset with you. It seems to me that they are useless.”
Harry huffs a laugh and rubs his cheek against her scales. Basilisk makes the bond shine with delight. Ordinary snakes don’t like to be touched this much, but either their bond or the fact that Basilisk is the same species as Nagini or both makes a difference.
Harry holds her in his hands and says, “I still want to be around them. But it’s getting harder and harder.”
Basilisk flickers her tongue out and snaps her neck to the side like a weapon being aimed. “Your shadow comes.”
Harry starts to stuff her back into his bag, thinking she means Ron, but it’s Theo who comes around the corner and gives a deep nod to him that’s so near a bow it makes no difference. “My lord. I felt your distress.”
Shit. Harry closes his eyes. That’s not something he meant to do. He has to clamp down on his emotions, do his best not to feel them, the way he did after Sirius’s death.
“My apologies, Theo.”
“There is no need to apologize, my lord.” Theo sounds so firm that Harry blinks and looks at him. Theo is edging towards him, eyes huge and dark and posture stiff. “I wish only to know how to be of use to you.”
“I did a stupid thing and showed off in Defense,” Harry says tiredly. There might still be portraits watching, and while Dumbledore wouldn’t be that surprised to hear Theo addressing him as a Lord, Harry doesn’t want to reveal the exact specifics of his snake-summoning gift. “Snape was making me angry, and then I set snakes on him and commanded them in Parseltongue, and when I got back into my right mind and looked at my friends, they were horrified.”
Theo makes a small sound of contempt so pure that Harry bristles in instinctive defense of Ron and Hermione. “Your friends are useless.”
Harry laughs despite himself, and Theo raises his eyebrows. Harry shakes his head. “That’s just—what someone else said.” He gestures to the air around his neck, and Theo nods without surprise.
“Well, it’s true.”
“They’ve been friends with me for so many years. And you know I’m worried about how they’ll react to—this.”
“You should keep the secret because of what would happen if they discovered it, but my lord, the other things? The normal minutiae of your daily life? Don’t let their horror drive you away from releasing your temper or having fun or relaxing. They’re not worth it.”
“Theo—”
“They’ve been sheltered, protected, coddled. They can put up with a little change in the way you relate to them.”
“They weren’t coddled! They stood with me so many times when it came to things like the Ministry last year, and if it weren’t for Hermione I never would have known that there was a basilisk in the Chamber—”
“But were they with you in the final confrontations? Ever? They might have helped you get there, but you faced the Dark Lord alone. They didn’t have to kill a professor or a giant snake. They didn’t have to bring a dead body back. They suffered, but they didn’t endure.”
Theo’s eyes are deep and dark and wild. He looks as if he might attack someone if Harry doesn’t believe him. Harry puts his hands up, swallowing. He normally doesn’t pay as much attention to his vassal bonds with Theo and Draco as he does to the one with Basilisk, but right now, Theo’s is madly buzzing.
“Theo,” he whispers. “Theo, it’s all right.”
“They are causing you distress.”
“Yeah, but some of that is my fault. They know I haven’t told them everything, and they—”
“None of it is your fault. I will curse them until they know better.”
“Theo.”
At least Harry manages to put enough flat command in his voice this time to make Theo pay attention. He starts, blinks, and reaches out as if to touch something hovering in the air between them. Harry thinks it might be his own visualization of the vassal bond connecting him to Harry. “My apology, my lord,” he murmurs.
Harry nods briskly. “Apology accepted. But you need to make sure you don’t just tear around the school cursing Ron and Hermione. Or anyone else,” he adds, as he sees Theo open his mouth. “That’ll reveal us in a hurry.”
“They might only think I was cursing them for being Muggleborns and blood traitors. Or Gryffindors.”
“Might isn’t enough. I don’t want to risk your safety.”
Theo bows his head, but his eyes are shining. Harry remembers Theo telling him that most people in the magical world follow magical power, and that Theo never intended to try standing on his own.
Harry checks a sigh. He wishes Theo would. He thinks Theo would be happier asserting his own will and following his own goals, ultimately, not limited by how different Harry is from him as a person.
But it’s not something Harry can control, so he says only, “Thank you. Now, you should go back to—whatever class it was that you were in?”
“Arithmancy,” Theo says, and gives him a dazzling smile. “Draco is covering for me. He said I was sick to my stomach and had to run to a loo.”
Harry nods uncertainly. “And you don’t mind looking weak because of that lie?” he has to ask. It’s not one he would have thought Theo would use.
“I know it is for a higher purpose.”
Theo sounds so—serene. Honestly, it unnerves Harry, and adds to his burden, being in control of someone else’s life like this. Theo trusts him to make the decisions, but what if he makes the wrong one?
A sudden tide of cool certainty pours over him. Harry gasps and stares at Theo, his heart thumping wildly, and then slowing, and then picking up again. “What was that?”
“I can give you some of my own calm when your fear is devouring you alive, my lord. I hope you will not object?”
Harry swallows and closes his eyes. No, perhaps it would be better not to. After all, he was on the edge of collapse. And it doesn’t seem like the cold affected anything other than his emotions and heartbeat. Basilisk is hissing contentedly, in fact.
“This one is not useless.”
Harry opens his eyes and manages to smile at Theo, who looks just as contented. “Thank you, Theo. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“You have already repaid any debt I might ever owe you, my lord.”
Harry sighs silently at that, but he’s not going to argue. Theo has to get back to Arithmancy, and Harry has to go face the consequences of his actions.
“Thank you,” he repeats, and Theo bows once more and turns around to run back to Arithmancy. Harry stands where he is for a moment, holding Basilisk, and listening closely to her suggestions about how they could go outside and sit near the lake, in the sun.
Then he sighs, tucks her back into his bag, and walks towards the Headmaster’s office.
*
“Thank you for guessing that I would want to see you, Harry.”
Harry gives Dumbledore a weak smile. The gargoyle was standing aside when he came to the bottom of the moving staircase, and he practically ran up the steps. He’s already wondering if it was a mistake, coming here.
But it’s also a mistake to just allow Theo and Basilisk and his irritation with his friends’ constant questions to influence him, he thinks. He has to have a balance of both sides.
To remind him if he’s still human.
Dumbledore has been making tea, and he sets the steaming cup down in front of Harry now, with the sugar in it that Harry requested. Harry picks up the cup and holds it between his hands, closing his eyes. For right now, he just wants the warmth.
“What happened in your Defense class today, Harry? Was it possession by Voldemort?”
It’s a little strange, after this summer, to hear Voldemort referred to by name instead of as “the Dark Lord,” but that’s Harry’s problem. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “No, sir. It was me.”
“Why did you attack Professor Snape, Harry?”
Professor Dumbledore seems a little less sympathetic now. Harry sighs, swallows a small sip of tea, and says, “He still hates me. Even though he knows that I was never James Potter’s son, and he’s the one who delivered the prophecy to Voldemort, and even though he was in love with mum and he got her killed—he still acts like he has a right to hate me!”
“Professor Snape is a complex man, Harry, with complex motivations.”
“His hatred seems pretty simple.”
Dumbledore considers him for a moment. He isn’t drinking tea himself, but Harry doesn’t really care. He doesn’t think the tea he has is drugged with Veritaserum or anything like that.
“What would you like me to do about it?” Dumbledore asks.
“Tell him to stop tormenting me in class.”
“I cannot order him to curb his feelings.”
Harry laughs, a broken sound that makes Basilisk stir in his bag. At least it makes Dumbledore’s eyes widen, too. “I didn’t ask you to do that! I just told you that he should stop tormenting me in class.”
“Or what will happen?”
“Probably more snakes. I’m at my bloody breaking point,” Harry said, and slams the teacup down on Dumbledore’s desk, tears starting to his eyes. He didn’t mean to do that, but maybe it’ll make his point. “I’m trying to keep my secret and fend off Ron and Hermione and make sure Voldemort doesn’t have any reason to hurt anyone here and study for NEWT classes and—it’s too much. If Snape keeps up the pressure, he’ll get the consequences, too.”
Dumbledore’s face is hard to read. But he nods slowly. “I should have considered this. Very well, Harry. I will tell Severus that displays like the one he made in class today cannot happen again.”
“Thank you.”
“And I will also tell your friends that you were indeed at an Order safehouse for the summer, and that they should not question you on the identity of your—protector.”
“Thank you,” Harry repeats.
“What was it like?”
Harry looks at Dumbledore and hopes his exhaustion is plain on his face even if Dumbledore can’t see anything else. “Terrible.”
Dumbledore looks down at his hands for a moment, and nods. Then he says, “I do intend to help you learn how to fight Voldemort this year, Harry.”
How can I duel someone who’s in my mind and my blood and my soul?
But Harry just asks, “Oh?”
“Yes. I have been investigating Voldemort’s history, and I have learned some surprising things…”
*
“We need to talk.”
Harry utters a heartfelt groan as Hermione sweeps up to him the minute he enters the Gryffindor common room. But he says, “Fine,” and follows her over to a couch in front of the fireplace, where Ron’s also waiting, his arms folded.
“What the hell was that?” Hermione leans near to hiss, while Ron raises a Privacy Charm around them. “You attacked Professor Snape!”
Harry looks at her. He decides, then, that his priority should be soothing the upset in his own chest.
“He attacked me.”
“No more than he usually does!”
Harry laughs without humor. “He never hexed me during Potions.”
“You could have done something else.”
“But I used snakes. It’s done. I went and talked to Professor Dumbledore about it, and he’s going to talk to Snape.”
“Professor Snape.”
Harry ignores her and turns to Ron. “What? Want to rip into me for defending myself, too?”
Ron blinks and looks closely at him. “What’s up, mate?” he asks slowly. “You’ve seemed upset and on edge since even before Snape’s class. What is it?”
Well, at least this is the perfect excuse.
“The Dursleys died over the summer,” Harry reminds them in a low voice. “I wasn’t fond of them, but they’re still people related to me, who died because of me. And Sirius died before that. And then I had to be apart from you lot the rest of summer and you won’t stop asking me endless questions about the person and the safehouse I was taken to even though I said I couldn’t tell you. Can you just—back off? Stop expecting me to act like the most perfect and balanced person ever, when you wouldn’t be, either?”
By the time he finishes, both Ron and Hermione have wide eyes and are radiating guilt. Harry crushes his own. Good. That means they’ll step back, then.
“Sorry, mate,” Ron whispers, a little hoarsely. “Sorry.”
“I wanted to know,” Hermione whispers. “But that wasn’t enough reason to ask you over and over again.”
Harry just nods and stands. “Thanks. I just—I want to stay friends with both of you, but it won’t be the way it was before.”
“No.” Hermione watches him with sad eyes. “I can see that.”
“I’m going off to bed,” Harry says, and he walks away.
In the bedroom, he takes Basilisk out of his bag and curls up on the bed with her around his neck, closing his eyes. His heart is pounding sickly and his mind is clear with sorrow.
“I am here. I will always be here.”
Harry strokes Basilisk’s scales, and doesn’t reply.