Chapter Text
The Dark Lord sat in splendor on a black stone throne, the exact opposite to the one that sat at Hogwarts. He surveyed the room before him. It was large, even larger than the Great Hall where his greatest enemy sat. It currently sat empty, the black marble floor gleaming in the light from the wall sconces. Windows lined the walls, and sunlight fell in through the western set, lighting the dust motes that floated through the air.
He took a deep breath. It was good to be back in a proper body again. He ran his hands up his chest to his neck, and then over his face and through his hair. Yes, hair. He had nearly killed the worthless rat for his mistakes with the rebirthing potion. Fortunately, as soon as Severus had come groveling back to his service, he had been able to set him the task of repairing Pettigrew’s mistakes. He still wasn’t sure what to make of Severus Snape. He didn’t believe he had the man’s loyalty, but then, he knew that neither did Dumbledore. He wasn’t a fool. He had set several tests of false information to be shared and to be concealed, and the man had passed each. At the same time, he sensed a distance in the potions master that wouldn’t have been there, had he been completely loyal.
A conundrum. He disliked conundrums.
He didn’t much like traitors, either. Spies were one thing, they set out to be intentionally disloyal to one side in order to prove their loyalty to the other. A spy had a purpose, a goal, and in that, they deserved a modicum of respect. Traitors on the other hand had no loyalty to anyone. Traitors could not be trusted by either side and deserved no respect at all for their cowardly betrayals. So, no, the Dark Lord did not trust Peter Pettigrew. A man who could betray his friends could far more easily betray his enemies, after all.
He turned his thoughts to the rest of his supposedly loyal followers. Lucius lived and breathed self-interest, had no subtlety, and had over-indulged his heir to the point of rendering him utterly useless. He was valuable for his bank vaults and political knowledge, but that was it. Crabbe, Goyle, and McNair were blunt instruments, and would as easily turn in his hand to cut him as they would follow his orders. He knew this. Avery had a short temper, but he also had a brilliant gift for dueling and made a passable trainer for the lower ranks. He had never learned to control his emotions and reactions, though. Always, he had been the first to anger, the first to cast, the first to jump into action, action that was not always well thought through. Nott was the only one he considered truly valuable. The man was visionary in his viciousness, a true strategist and relentless in his desire for vengeance. Voldemort considered him the exact opposite to Avery, but they each had a use.
Pettigrew interrupted the Dark Lord’s ruminations, scuttling into the otherwise empty throne room carrying a paper bag with markings of some sort on the outside. Voldemort lifted an expressive eyebrow. “ Crucio .” He watched, mildly interested, as the pathetic little man squirmed and screamed on the floor. He lifted the curse before the rat could soil itself. He didn’t want the mess contaminating the room. “Wormtail.” He watched as the man pulled himself up to his knees, trembling. “What brings you, so precipitously, into my presence this afternoon?”
“M-m-my-my L-l-l-lord,” Voldemort considered for a moment that there was no better matched animagus form to wizard than the rat masquerading as human before him. “I-I-I f-found, in a bookshop!” He paused and breathed harshly for a moment before continuing. “I-I knew-w that y-you would w-w-want me t-t-to b-bring these to you.” He quickly scrabbled to gather the spilled books back into the paper bag.
“Books?” Voldemort leaned closer to examine the bag. “ Muggle books, Wormtail?”
“Muggle books about H-H-Harry P-P-Pot-tter, my Lord.” And the rat was back on its knees in front of his throne.
The Dark Lord snatched the bag away from the stuttering mess on his floor. “Leave,” he thundered, and Pettigrew was out the door before he could return to his seat. He shook his head, but found himself interested in spite of the muggle origin of the books. Perhaps because of the muggle origin. What on earth would muggles know of Harry Potter? He rifled through the bag. Seven books. He could vouch for the general topics of only three of them. The Philosopher’s Stone made sense, as he had been after the artifact a few years ago. The Chamber of Secrets also seemed genuine, although he had no idea how the brat managed to learn of it. Goblet of Fire, now that had only just happened.
He set the other books aside and began to flip through the book. Triwizard, yes, that was accurate. He found the scene in the graveyard. It mentioned his botched rebirth, and of course, losing a duel to a fourteen year old. He shook his head. He still had no idea what had happened between their wands or why this boy, this untrained, untried, nothing of a boy was supposed to be his downfall. He flipped through the pages. He knew that Barty had been lost to him the moment Potter had escaped the graveyard. But even though he could read all about Dumbledore’s actions and reactions, they made no sense. He still had questions. He eyed the other books. He might have to actually read through all seven.
He wondered at the order of them, and then examined the publisher’s imprint. His eyes widened. Some were from the future? How on earth? The rat was an untalented scrub of a man, had it really been him to stumble across books written by and ostensibly, for muggles of the future? He shook his head, and put the books in their proper order. If these were, in fact, accurate— and based on his skimming of the Goblet book, they appeared to be—then he had just been handed information crucial to the future of the war.
He would definitely need to spend some thought on these books. The last time he had been given important information about the future, he had ended up disembodied for thirteen years. He would need to be more careful with this information. He sat thinking for several long moments.
A knock on the chamber doors sounded loudly, but unlike Wormtail, these followers had the manners to wait to be admitted. “Come.” He waved his hand and the doors at the end of the long hall opened of their own accord. Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape strode in together, their long strides eating up the distance between the door and the dais where sat his throne. The men walked in step, and he noticed their hands had a tendency to brush at certain points, although neither acknowledged the contact. They dropped to a single knee in front of him. He did not require excessive groveling from the most competent of his followers, and these two, despite their faults, were very competent. They did bow their heads and keep their eyes lowered in respect. Much better than the rat. “Report,” the order snapped out, he sat back in his throne, ready to hear news of the Ministry and the Order.
“My Lord,” Lucius lifted his head. “Someone has sent two dementors after the Potter brat. He used the patronus charm in order to deflect them despite a muggle being in the vicinity, and has been expelled from Hogwarts for underage magic as well as the breaking of the Statute. I just received the word from the Minister, who is hoping to turn the wizarding world against the Boy-Who-Lived, and thus cast more doubt on any claim of your return.”
“The boy is unharmed?” Voldemort wondered why he cared. But then he determined it must be his desire to kill the brat himself. He wanted no one to claim that he used dementors to take out his enemies because he couldn’t handle them himself. After that duel in the graveyard, he knew he would have to prove his strength in battle with the Potter boy.
Severus took up the story. “He is, My Lord. Dumbledore is in a rage. He has been at the Ministry all afternoon, presumably reminding Fudge that although the Minister has many powers, expulsion from Hogwarts is not one of them. He has arranged for the boy’s future attendance at the school to be decided by a hearing in front of Madam Amelia Bones. He is arrogant enough to believe that the woman will not want to act against him.”
The men in front of him fell silent, and the Dark Lord sat contemplating the new turn, and how these events might play out. His gaze fell on the bag from the muggle bookshop and an idea began to form in his mind. After all, why not? He had to read the books anyway, and it might be entertaining. He raised a hand and waved the men to their feet. He also stood and began to pace in front of them, making plans.
“Lucius, did the ministry report include the boy’s address?” He glanced quickly at his politician.
“It did, My Lord. The boy lives in Surrey.”
He continued pacing, wondering if he should arrange a loud bloody raid or a quiet, undercover operation. “Severus, what does Dumbledore intend to do about the breach in the boy’s security?”
“The Order of the Phoenix has gathered at a safe house, my Lord.” Severus stood with his hands behind his back. “Unfortunately, I cannot provide you with their address, but I believe that he intends to move Potter there within the week. For some reason, he has not moved immediately to secure the boy, who, I assume, is still at the home of whatever relatives he usually stays with.”
“Very well,” Voldemort looked carefully at both men. The assessing gaze took in their closeness, Severus’ obvious discomfort at disclosing information about the boy, and Lucius’ squeamishness at the idea of bloodshed. Yes, this would be a marvelous little test of both his supposed best men. “I wish for you both to go to the Surrey address. There will undoubtedly be intent wards up, so you will go with the certain knowledge that the boy will not be harmed under any circumstances during his removal, and that I do not intend him harm once he arrives here. He will be my guest for a small literary gathering of friends, and thus protected under the Olde Laws of hospitality.”
He smirked slightly at the confused look on their faces. Lord Voldemort knew that he was not famous for his literary gatherings. But this one, he surmised, would be something to remember. He found himself actually looking forward to the boy’s reaction to the various books. “Oh, and as he has already received a warning for magic use, you will not actively cast while you are in the muggle world.”
Lucius and Severus bowed deeply and stepped backward twice before turning to leave. The Dark Lord chuckled to himself as he glanced down again at the pile of books next to his chair. Yes, Lord Voldemort was not a renowned literary critic, but this gathering would be different. It would have a special flair.
To that end, he made some key plans. He would need a broad audience for the reading. He wanted to gather his followers immediately, but decided against the idea after some thought. Having the boy would be what made this evening’s entertainment great, so he would wait until he had word that Lucius and Severus had been successful.
In the meantime, he would organize a rescue party. Certain members of his organization had been left to rot by the respectable wizarding world. He scoffed. Respectable, and yet they use dementors. He shook his head. He may have also used them, but he was the Dark Lord for Circe’s sake. He was supposed to do evil and torturous things. The so-called Light establishment was just as bad, only they refused to own up to it. Hypocrites. So yes, he believed his most faithful had been languishing without him for long enough. It was time to retake Azkaban. For that, he needed Nott. The man had the right kind of mind for plotting. He summoned a house elf and sent it out with a message for both Lords Nott and Avery to attend him at once.
They arrived within minutes of one another, and glanced quickly at each other before stepping up to knock on the large doors. The Dark Lord had conjured a table in the center of the hall, and stood over it looking at plans he had summoned from previous attempts at Azkaban during the first Wizarding War. He glanced up at them and waved them closer.
Nott tilted his head to look at the papers across the makeshift desk. “You’re planning an escape, My Lord?”
“A rescue, Nott,” The red eyes gleamed. In actuality they were still the ice blue they had been when he was a boy, but he liked the dramatic effect they had on others, so he kept a glamour over them. He could also pull the snake-man effect up if he wished it.
“Of course, My Lord,” Nott nodded his head, respectfully.
Avery took up the list of guards and began ticking off those who could be bribed. “Are we planning on a straight rescue, or will we be leaving golems in their place?”
“Golems will disintegrate before they can be disposed of, Avery.” Nott’s voice was dripping with disdain. “Transfigured corpses would be better. If they are dead before they are modified, no one will notice. We could even use muggles.”
“Good.” Voldemort rarely offered praise, but in this case, it was deserved. “Avery, take Crabbe and begin collecting some dead muggles. I believe we will need at least a dozen, perhaps fifteen, just to be certain. You know who our comrades are, try to find muggles of a similar coloring.”
Nott sat down to examine the architecture of the building more closely. The blueprints they had were old, but no one had done any repairs or modifications on the prison since Ekrizdis had built it and filled it with dementors. “How soon does this need to be done?”
“The sooner the better. No later than the end of the month. I want this done before Hogwarts begins.”
Nott hummed in reply, shifting the papers. That left just over three weeks. He had known that releasing their captive fellows would be a priority, but he hadn’t anticipated it being that urgent. He circled a spot on the island he felt would be the best place for an infiltration. They would need somewhere unobserved, as each of them would be side-along apparating a corpse or two, which was grisly, but needs must.
He looked up at the Dark Lord. “We may need one or two live muggles to place under the imperius curse. As little as I respect the intelligence of the Ministry and Dumbledore’s people, they will take notice of the mass death of all our friends. It would be better to stagger them.”
The Dark Lord frowned and then shook his head. “No, I don’t want to leave traces of our magic. If need be, we can stagger their rescues, taking only the most vital or most affected of our comrades with us this time. We will use the excuse of an epidemic or disease. Perhaps scrofungulus. It is contagious enough to the purpose, and deadly in those with compromised immune systems, such as at Azkaban. When transfiguring the corpses, we can add the visible symptoms, it won’t be questioned.”
Nott nodded. “I know at least one or two of the guards who can be convinced that they noticed the symptoms throughout these upcoming weeks.”
“No,” Voldemort wondered what had happened to the brilliant strategist he once had. “No traces. No bribes, no friendly help. I want our people out, free and clear. There can be no one with knowledge of the breakout who is not one of our own.”
“Very well, My Lord. My apologies.”
Voldemort waved the offense away, refocusing on the plans. They stayed up late into the evening making plans. They decided to make it happen at the end of the week, under a new moon. The dementors would pose a slight problem, but the Dark Lord’s ranks included enough people who could cast a patronus. It would be unpleasant, but possible to push through the despair that surrounded the place.
The next morning, the current inhabitants of Slytherin Manor were gathered for breakfast when Lucius and Severus entered. They bowed to the Dark Lord, before taking their places at the table at his acknowledgment. Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “It is done, My Lord,” Severus murmured. “The boy is recovering in the medical wing.”
“Recovering?” A very dangerous note had entered his voice. “I ordered that he not be harmed.”
“Nor did we harm him,” Lucius spoke up. Severus put his hand on the other man’s thigh and squeezed in warning. “We found the boy near comatose, in danger of bleeding out, with broken bones and ruptures, and I don’t know what else. Narcissa is at the moment working to repair the damage the muggles did to the boy.”
“Muggles?” The Dark Lord was about to lose his patience, and when that happened, everyone suffered.
“My Lord, if I may explain,” Severus spoke up. He knew that Lucius had been beyond shocked by what he had seen. His lover lived a life of elegant ease. All the violence he had seen had been magical damage, bad enough, but not on the same physical, gut-wrenching level that a muggle could hand out. He also had never seen child abuse at the same level they had witnessed the day before. He doted on his own son, and his father, Abraxas, while occasionally harsh and demanding, had been guilty of thoughtless neglect, not active abuse.
“You had better.” The clipped reply from the Dark Lord left Lucius the one clenching a hand around Severus’ thigh this time.
Severus nodded, and quickly replied. “My Lord, Dumbledore has apparently spent years lying about the condition of his pet savior. He was not spoiled, not indulged. Indeed, he was barely educated. He has been worked harder than the lowest of house-elves, beaten, broken, and starved. It’s a wonder that he survived to attend Hogwarts. As a child, he was kept locked away in a cupboard, but he learned how to survive, how to use what little he had to make a life for himself.”
Severus rubbed a hand over his face. “When he arrived at Hogwarts for his first year, I’m sure you remember, My Lord, the boy looked more like eight years old than eleven. He had problems with food, with people touching him, with loud noises, but he learned to adapt, and adapt quickly. I have been reviewing my memories of that year, and I am ashamed to say that I missed all the cues. It was clear that he played the part expected of him, acting the brash Gryffindor idiot. But I now see that it was all an act.”
“Abused? The Boy Who Lived was left to be abused by muggles?” Voldemort didn’t want to believe it, but the looks on both men’s faces made it clear.
“I’m afraid so, My Lord.” Severus sighed. “I looked into the muggles’ minds,” more like he ripped into them with a legilimentic attack sure to leave them drooling. “What I saw repulsed me. Apparently, the dementors didn’t only attack Potter on the second of August. He was with his cousin. Potter managed to repel both dementors, but the other boy was naturally affected. When they returned home, and Potter explained what had happened, they took their anger, fear, and frustration out on him. In particular the father, who is a brute of a man. The woman, Potter’s mother’s sister, I remember from my own childhood. She was a violent, vile, shrew of a woman then, and has only become worse with time.” Severus sighed. “Potter was using the fear of his escaped convict of a godfather as a threat to keep them from harming him. Apparently, they had seen his picture on the muggle telly, at some point. The boy is devious and clever, but not clever enough. The muggles had already injured him— they like doing so on his birthday, of all days—then the dementor exposure, and one of the worst beatings I’ve ever seen evidence of. I’m afraid, he is in bad shape.”
Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed dangerously. “I thought he was being guarded?”
Severus could feel the atmosphere of the room thickening with unspoken threats. “So he is, or was. A rotating number of Order members have been taking it in turns to stand down the street under an invisibility cloak. They have been guarding him from outside threats—us. They have done nothing to protect him from those inside the house.” And Severus intended on taking up that issue with several members of the Order as soon as he could. The elder Weasleys who claimed to care for Potter as family, the Merlin-damned aurors who were trained in violent confrontations and abusive situations, hell even the pensioners and thieves Dumbledore insisted had value to the cause still had eyes and could have reported the abuse. All of them would feel his anger, one way or another.
Voldemort stood from the table and gestured for Lucius and Severus to join him. He strode deliberately through the mansion toward the rooms set up for medical care. He had anticipated their use by those recovering from Azkaban, not his teenaged nemesis. No matter that he hated the boy, he hated muggles more, and more than all, he hated the thought of the filthy beasts daring to put their hands on a magical person. His jaw clenched at the sight of the broken body laid out on the examining table.
He glanced up at Narcissa, who had blood on the front of an otherwise white apron. “Well?”
She rose from the deep curtsy, and returned her attention to Potter’s injuries. “He is still in danger, My Lord. The concussions are deep, and there’s scarring even on his internal organs as though his magic has been healing them. Unfortunately, although they are healed, they are only just functional, not perfect. I have been repairing the most essential ones first, but there’s much to correct. Likewise the older bone breaks. They’ve healed but many are misaligned, some drastically so. It’s a wonder he could hold a wand or a quill, the way the bones in his hands have been smashed. The bones will have to wait, though as the soft tissues are far more vital. He’s also fighting several infections, the effects of long-term malnutrition, and a low-level case of mumblemumps. He must not have had all his childhood vaccines. That one should be given at two years old, so he would have already been with the muggles.”
Narcissa looked exhausted. “If you need assistance, I can watch while you rest.” Severus spoke up. He and Narcissa had had a rocky beginning. Her betrothal to Lucius had come between them more often than not, but they had come to an understanding eventually. She didn’t actually love her husband, not romantically, at any rate. She now considered both men as her brothers. The clauses in her marriage contract allowed for both parties to have affairs once an heir had been produced, and since they had had Draco, both were living separate and happier lives.
She smiled at Severus. “Thank you. Right now, he needs my magic to guide his own in the healing process. His magic wants to do the work, but doesn’t know how or where to focus.” She shook her head and glanced back at her patient. “He must have been in constant, debilitating pain, even when he wasn’t obviously injured. I’ve induced a coma, as the healing is going to be painful, and he has been in enough pain.”
“Will he live?” Voldemort wondered why he cared, but he did, so he asked the question.
She turned surprised eyes on him, but murmured, “I cannot say one way or the other, My Lord. I believe the chances are good. His magic is obviously accustomed to healing him, and with some guidance, good potions, and luck, he will make a recovery.”
The Dark Lord turned to Severus. “He will have the best potions.”
Severus bowed. “So he shall, My Lord.” His mind began to whirl. His vow to protect Potter had caused him no end of agonizing over his loyalties to one side or the other. When the Dark Lord had killed Lily, he had been in a rage. But Dumbledore had kept him like a pet on a lead, and perhaps it was time for that lead to snap. If the Dark Lord was now protecting Potter, then perhaps he could break free of the Headmaster’s benevolent slavery.
“My Lord,” Narcissa sounded hesitant. “I believe there is something on the scan that you should see.” She held out a long piece of parchment, clearly the diagnostic spell, and Voldemort felt himself growing angrier and angrier at the list of problems. They were listed chronologically from most recent, and he was growing impatient.
“What Narcissa?” His frustration near its breaking point. “I see nothing but further proof that muggles are foul.” Not all the damage had come from the muggles, though. The Dark Lord pointedly ignored the magical damage he’d had a hand in causing. In addition to the recent physical abuses, he noted several instances of the cruciatus curse and felt a twist of guilt in his gut.
Without a word, she lifted the parchment from where it trailed on the ground, and tapped her wand to one of the words, near the bottom of the list. Horcrux . His eyes widened. What had he done?
“You will share that news with no one.” He wanted to rip into her mind and steal the information, but if he did that, he would lose his healer. She was too important to the cause, especially with the inmates of Azkaban arriving at the weekend. Besides that, she held the survival of one of his precious horcruxes, a part of his very soul, in her hands as she healed Potter. He needed her at peak performance. “You will reveal this to no one, and you will heal him. I don’t care what it takes, this is your only priority.”
His voice was deadly cold, but the woman met his eye evenly. He respected strength. “I, Narcissa Capella Malfoy, born a Black of the Ancient and Noble Family Black, swear never to reveal by any means the information contained in this diagnostic report to anyone other than the patient to whom it belongs, so mote it be.”
Voldemort growled and whirled out of the room and stalked back to his study. The vow was good, and he could hardly begrudge her the right to share the diagnostic with Potter. She’d already come close to breaking her vow as a healer by sharing the information she had with them. He suspected the only reason it didn’t break was the horcrux connection that recognized his soul within Potter. He slammed the door behind him. Fucking muggles. He didn’t like emotions, but seeing the boy laid out and broken in the hospital brought up all sorts of unfamiliar feelings. He picked up an inkwell and smashed it against the wall. It left a satisfying stain against the wallpaper. He would see the muggles punished. Not now, of course. He could do nothing that would alert Dumbledore to the boy’s absence any sooner than necessary, but those muggles had earned the attention of the Dark Lord.
He didn’t bother to consider whether the anger he felt on Potter’s behalf made sense or not. He knew that he had also tortured the boy not even two months ago, and the regret of it filled his soul. He tried to tell himself that it had been different. He’d been in such pain himself over the botched resurrection, and so so angry with his followers who hadn’t bothered to find him in all those years, and the feelings had just overflowed. He didn’t know how he felt now. Nothing made sense. He would need to speak to Potter first. Somehow he would need to find the strength to apologize to the boy. He blew out a gusty sigh. Lord Voldemort apologizing. That would be a once in a lifetime—his lifetime—event.
He settled himself in front of the fire, taking a deep breath. It would not help to continue to rage. He needed calm. The feelings didn’t make sense now, but maybe they would in time. He was Lord Voldemort, and he was good at getting what he wanted. Right now, he wanted his followers out of Azkaban. He wanted his supporters— all of them— gathered over the next few weeks. He wanted Potter alive and alert, and healthy enough to listen to their story. It was their story. Potter’s life had twisted and turned and entwined with his own, more than he had ever realized, they were joined together. Even the books began with their meeting over the Philosopher’s Stone. As he evaluated his emotions, they calmed. He may not know why he wanted those things, but he could see clearly that he was on his way to getting them, and that satisfied him. It would be enough for now.
By the time he had finalized the plans with Nott, ensured that Avery had gathered enough corpses, and pulled in enough support to succeed in the mission, Harry had been stabilized. He planned on leaving Severus behind, along with Narcissa. Both would be responsible for readying the medical ward for the comrades they planned to free, but their first duty was to the wizard lying comatose in a private and warded bed. He did not want his soul to wake up surrounded by those he would necessarily consider enemies.
Once the boy had awakened fully, he would explain, and hope for the best. Perhaps he would have Severus assist with that. He stood in the medical wing, over the boy’s bed, just watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, until Lucius carefully brushed his elbow. “My Lord,” he murmured. He had liked that about Lucius. The man knew when to interrupt and how to do so with respect.
He turned toward the blond and nodded. “Yes, Lucius. It’s time.” He swept from the room and headed toward the floo room, which was the only point in the house with weak enough security to allow for entrance and exit. Even out in the grounds, one would need to return here before apparating away from the property.
He surveyed the assembled Death Eaters. Nott, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, and Lucius would be going with him. Each of them would be carrying a dead and transfigured muggle. He had made some hard decisions, and came to the conclusion that not all of his followers would be removed from Azkaban at this point. It had been impractical, and would stretch the belief of the guards and the ministry. But they could remove six, and as those six grew stronger, it would enable them to eventually free all their captive comrades.
He had, himself, made up the list. All three Lestranges would be freed, as a gift to their father, who had long been a faithful friend and follower. He had hopes that the line would not be lost. Mulciber had made the list for the same reason, although he would need to be watched. He shook his head. If he had checked the man’s sadism before, then perhaps Mulciber would not have spent the last decade and more wasting away in prison. He’d have Nott keep an eye on the man. He was also ruthless, but he knew the limits. He would also be freeing Dolohov and Rookwood. It was high time he had some intelligent followers surrounding him, and both Rookwood and Dolohov had been among his best.
He had chosen this night for a reason. Not only would there be no moon, which he took as an advantage, but according to Severus, the order had finally noticed Potter missing from his home that very morning. They were in a panic, and he hoped to distract them with news from Azkaban. He would allow Severus to reveal the truth of their little raid tonight. It would hurt nothing, as he had no doubt Dumbledore would suspect such anyway, and if the man tried to publicize the news, he would be even more vilified by the press. The Ministry was doing an admirable job of putting its head in the sand. They wouldn’t tolerate any further rumor mongering from badly dressed old men.
“You know your roles and your assignments. We go quick and quiet,” He then led the way by apparating to the desolate dock they had chosen as a meeting point. The island had to be approached by sea. Five quiet pops filled the cold air around him, and they silently made their way to the boat. They couldn’t risk magic, and so all six of them took up oars. It was messy work, but necessary, and the Dark Lord smirked lightly at the sight of his ancient and noble comrades pulling at oars like commoners. Nevertheless, no one complained as they cut through the waves.
They pulled up to an all but unapproachable section of the coastline. Waves battering the boat and rocks all around. The Dark Lord jumped into the water, freezing up past his knees, and all five of his followers did likewise. Together they pulled the corpse-filled boat through the maze of rocks, caves, and cliffs before hauling it up and out of the water. The six of them stamped their feet, no one risking even so much as a warming or drying charm. They each took up their burden and began the walk up toward the tower.
Avery knew the guards on duty that night, and he knew that they were largely drunkards and lazy. Counting on those facts, the six men slipped past the perimeter fence and into the prison proper. From this point, the wards had been built into the walls and would prevent magic use from registering anywhere other than the guards’ room. The Dark Lord slipped quietly through the space and cast a mild sleeping spell on each of the five men guarding the prison that night. So much for the human guards.
Once inside the walls of the prison, they were finally able to warm and dry their robes. It was a good thing because the chill of the dementors fell on them instantly. Lucius, Nott, and Avery each pulled their wands. Patronus charms would be necessary from this point.
They reached the appropriate cells, and each man gratefully unloaded the dead weight of the corpse he carried. The final transfiguration was completed to ensure an exact match to the prisoner it was replacing, and then supporting their comrades back through the dementors, they carefully made their way back to the boat. The whole operation went off smoothly.
Once he was back in the boat, the Dark Lord took stock of how badly off his followers truly were. He winced. It was bad. They looked happy, indeed, Bellatrix looked mad in her joy, but they also looked wasted and broken. They began to row beyond the wards, and in the direction of the open ocean. This, too, was a part of his plan. Finally beyond all detection and detainment spells, they handed portkeys around to each of the former inmates. They would be taken directly to the medical wing, where Narcissa and Severus waited for them with potions and healing magic. He hoped it would be enough. Finally, he watched as the others apparated off the boat back to Slytherin Manor, before he cast a bombarda at the small boat, hovering over the tumultuous seas while it sank before apparating home himself. There would be no evidence other than the transfigured muggles, and that would soon be destroyed in the effort to contain the scrofungulus outbreak.
Pleased with himself and his night’s work, he strode through the manor toward the medical wing, intending on checking Narcissa and Severus’ progress before retiring for bed. Things were finally coming together. All he needed at the moment was for Potter to wake. He smiled faintly. Narcissa had done an admirable job, but Potter had taken on so much damage. He still didn’t know exactly how he felt about the boy housing a part of his own precious soul. Even more he didn’t suppose that the boy would feel good about it either. Never mind, they would have to make do. He would have a chat with Potter, and perhaps they would be willing to come to some sort of truce. He was hardly going to kill the boy, after all. Once they had an agreement between them, he would arrange for the reading of those oh-so-interesting books.
Harry woke up three days later. Severus sat next to the bed, while Narcissa was doing rounds of those recovering from Azkaban. “‘Fessor?” Came the mumbled inquiry.
“Potter,” Snape drawled. He handed over a glass of water. “Slow sips. You’ve nothing but potions in your stomach at the moment. If you drink it quickly, you’ll vomit.”
Harry shifted on the bed, trying to sit up, but it was exhausting. The water tasted sweet and cool and soothed the worst of his sore throat. “Wha’happened?” He croaked.
“That is a very long story,” Snape set the glass back on the side table and turned in his chair to face Harry directly. “The short of it is that the dementor attack in Surrey had many repercussions. The most direct to you, of course, was the attempted murder your relatives committed against your person. I must apologize, Potter. I never knew you were settled with Petunia, or that your home situation was so unacceptable. We were told you had been educated, trained. In particular, Dumbledore asked me to, in his words, keep you humble. Nevertheless, there is no excuse for my bullying of an abused child—any child, really. I am sorry for my actions.” Severus shook his head. If he was going to escape this situation with his vow and his life intact, he would require the cooperation of this boy. He only hoped that something of a relationship could be salvaged from the mess that Dumbledore had created.
“S’okay, P’fessor.” Harry had a coughing fit, and Severus again lifted the glass to his lips. He pretended not to notice the assessing glance the boy gave him. Potter might be shrewd, he might wear masks, but Severus was not about to be out-Slytherined by a teenager. Not even this one. The boy must have come to some kind of conclusion because he sighed and closed his eyes. “Dumbledore’s a ruthless bastard who smiles at you one moment while signing your death warrant the next. He doesn’t want friends, he wants tools.”
Severus’ eyes widened. He didn’t know what he had expected from Potter, but that hadn’t been it. “Why do you say that?”
“If the man cared about people, he wouldn’t keep sending me back into hell every summer. If he cared about people, he’d have let you leave Hogwarts at some point. I know you hate it. He keeps you like a dog on a lead.” Potter opened his eyes, and then reached to pat Severus’ arm as though worried about the pain his words may have caused. “Better a dog though than a puppet on a string. At least you have a chance to break the chain someday.”
“You consider yourself a puppet?” Severus looked down at the boy in the bed with new eyes.
“Hah,” Harry shook his head. “Nope, but McGonagall, Hagrid, some of the Weasleys, they dance when he pulls the strings. A few of the other teachers as well, but they’re not as essential to his plots. Me? I’m the bomb he plans on throwing at Mr. Demort.”
“Mr. Demort?” Severus’ voice had gone drier than toast.
Harry shrugged, then winced. “Know you don’t like hearing the other name, he’s not my lord and never will be, and I refuse to call him anything that requires a hyphen or sounds like a knock-knock joke.”
“I see.” Severus suppressed a smile. “It might interest you to know that you are currently enjoying the hospitality of Mr. Demort, then.”
“What?” That got a reaction from the boy. He had never noticed the sarcastic streak Harry had, but it had made its appearance now.
“After the Ministry expelled you, one of the Dark Lord’s followers found your address in the files.” He began.
“Malfoy,” Harry muttered, looking cross. “Surprised it didn’t happen before second year.”
“Indeed.” Severus nodded. “The Dark Lord wished that Malfoy and I retrieve you from the muggles and bring you here. None of us had any idea of the condition we would find you in. I believe the Dark Lord wants something from you. He has promised your safety under the Olde Laws of Hospitality, and provided you the medical care you needed.”
“What are the Olde Laws of Hospitality?” Harry’s nose was scrunched up.
“It means, young Potter,” a voice came from the doorway. Severus turned and then stood to bow low before the Dark Lord. He was wearing the snake-man glamour as a way to make sure that Potter knew it was him. Severus stepped back once the Dark Lord had waved him back upright. He watched, fascinated as the scales began to melt away and the man’s true face took over. Eventually, Voldemort sat on the edge of Potter’s bed and smiled pleasantly before continuing, “That not only will I not harm you, I will actively defend you from harm, provide for your needs and wants to the best of my ability, and serve as your shield for as long as you reside in my home. You are, of course, expected not to offer violence or betrayal while a guest here, either. You are free to leave, and I am free to ask you to leave at any point, but while you are here, we are guest and host. We cannot harm one another. The Olde Laws of Hospitality are what kept warring factions from killing one another while negotiating truces or treaties. Magic enforces the rules and creates the punishments for those who break these laws. There are stories about transgressors, none of which are pretty. The most famous is, of course, the story of Macbeth.”
“Why—why would you do that?” Harry looked askance at the Dark Lord. “You’ve been trying to kill me for—forever.” Harry shrugged. He looked uncomfortable with the Dark Lord’s new face. Severus smirked. He suspected he knew why, but it wasn’t his place to say anything. Besides, he had tormented the child enough over the years.
“They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.” The Dark Lord looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I thought it high time to try something else. Besides, I have recently come into possession of some very interesting books, and I insist upon us both reading them.”
“You want me to read a book?” The boy sounded skeptical. Severus didn’t blame him.
“No, no. I want you to be present, along with several others, as we all read a book. Together!” The man sounded uncharacteristically cheerful about that. “Naturally, we will wait until you have recovered more fully. Probably in two or three days. Meanwhile, if there is anything you need that Narcissa or Severus cannot provide, please feel free to ask for me. I shall see what I can do.” The man grinned at the frantic and slightly overwrought look he had created in Potter’s face before standing and turning away from the bed. “Severus.” He nodded in the man’s direction before sweeping from the room.
“Professor?” A high-pitched and disbelieving voice came from the bed.
“Hush, Potter.” Severus nearly smiled at the boy, but figured that he’d had enough shocks for the time being. “You are as safe as possible at the moment and for the foreseeable future. You still need rest to recover, and the man is inclined to give you that time. I suggest you stop thinking about it so much.”
And so, with a heavy sigh, the boy settled back into his pillows. As he drifted on a potions induced fog, his last conscious thought was to linger on the relatively nice smile the Dark Lord had.