[From Samhain to the Solstice]: Shattered Pieces of the Human, PG-13, gen, 3/6

[lomonaaeren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Also, he tried to kill me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why get pregnant?”

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

“But why keep me?”

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

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

Yeah. He can see that.

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

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

He lowers his head into the Pensieve.

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry? Are you quite all right?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

*

“Bugger off, Nott.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I don’t.”

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

“Father did insist I improve.”

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

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

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

“But that’s what you are.”

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

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

“Why did you do it?”

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

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

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

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

“You are wrong, my lord.”

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

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

“For right now.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Draco and Theo both respect you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I respect those who deserve it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which there aren’t, Harry thinks uneasily.

Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He wants you to choose him.”

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not in the last three months.”

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

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

“Yes, there bloody well have!”

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

“Will he?”

Harry glares at Theo.

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

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

Draco smiles at him. “I made it.”

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

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

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

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

They’re all mental here. Including me.