Hallowed lover

The wizarding world is steeped in tradition, and some things are sacred. Family Grimoires are one such thing. Magical talents and prodigies are another. Presenting your eligibility for courtship is something most purebloods and highborn take as a matter of course upon their majority. Despite this, no one expects a decidedly different Harry Potter to throw his hat in the ring. Let alone that he'd register as a consort not a lord.

Chapter One: White Knight Redux

Chapter warnings: attempted sexual assault, mild torture, references to animal cruelty.

Lavender met Harry (not Harry Potter, boy-who-lived, golden boy. Just harry) days after the announcement for the Yule ball was given, in fourth year. Initially, the idea of a ball had sent thrills through her. Like most witches, her heart felt a little flutter at the idea of being swept off her feet by an eager partner. She fantasised, briefly, about one of the pretty French boys giving her flowers and whispering things to her in his own tongue, smiling as she agreed to accompany them with only a token resistance. Even briefer-but still there-was her fantasy about the Bulgarians, maybe Krum, kissing her hard and telling her-not asking, telling-that they would be taking her, before storming off and leaving her heaving against a wall, contemplating what taking meant in this case…

And then her common sense had kicked in, and she'd shuddered at what this could mean for her. Unlike her fellow purebloods, who were either too composed to be accused of impropriety, or already betrothed, or blood traitors, she would be scrutinised horribly during the dance. She had a bubbly, flirty personality that edged the line of acceptable mannerisms for a pureblood. Her behaviour, her purity, had to be completely above reproach if she were to have any chance at finding a husband who was acceptable let alone tolerable when she came of age. And already her reputation (fabricated, slanderous, hurtful) was working against her. She was besieged with boys looking for an easy date. Muggleborns, who talked to her chest as they asked her to the dance, eyes barely meeting hers before flicking back down. Half-bloods who looked at her greedily (scornfully), wizarding enough to know her family and responsibilities, stupid enough to think her reputation was true regardless. Even the odd pureblood, who she promptly turned away on the principle that they had not sought the proper channels.

She had already decided to return home anyway, more inclined to spend time with her parents in the years she had left before she had to make a home of her own. That decision however, did nothing to dissuade boys from approaching her anyway.

On the night she met Harry she was returning from the Owlery. For once the corridors were empty of students, only the click of her heels keeping her company as she walked. The

portraits were sleeping, and in the cold, grey corridors, she could almost believe time had stopped. It was peaceful.

And then a hand was slammed over her mouth. Hot breath burnt her neck from behind, her attacker panting as he pinned her to him tightly, snapping her arms to her sides with a whisper and a surge of magic. She was shoved roughly into one of the rooms she had just passed, and tears boiled in her eyes as her face met the wall, slammed against the stone as he pressed himself against her from behind.

"What-?" she gasped, before her voice was stolen from her too.

Russian, she thought. Durmstrang. She thought of her fantasy, innocent in the safety of her bed, and felt sick.

Hands tugged at her robes, and she heard him grunt in annoyance as he struggled to work around the many heavy layers. She was terrified, mind straining to remember what advice she had been given for situations like this. Words and phrases trickled uselessly past her (walk with your wand out, portkey, core surge), but they were just as useless as her.

Hands touched the skin of her ass, and her mind went blank. She thought of her mother's dark eyes and father's worried smile when puberty hit her hard and early. She thought of the type of man who'd want her after this, and she cried.

And then a flash of red that lit up the room. Her skirts fell back down as the body behind her was jerked away, and she slumped to the floor as the spells that were on her were released. There was yelling, loud and foreign, before a quiet, answering hiss that made her shudder.

The room shook, and a cold wave of...something...passed through her. She cowered on the floor, hands shaking as she stared blankly down, mind refusing to help her. Body refusing to move. Footsteps tapped closer, and she couldn't even flinch as the person spoke.

"Lavender?"

She...did she know that voice?

"Lavender, can you look at me? Look, I'm putting my wand down, alright? Yours is by your feet, just look down and you'll see it. I'm not touching look at me alright, I need to know if I need to get Pomphrey."

"No! Not Pomphrey!"

She jerked around to face the person, blue eyes rolling, terrified. Harry Potter looked back at her calmly, smiling slightly as she recognised him.

"No staff" he soothed, nodding agreeably. "But I need to know if you're hurt."

"...no" she managed, eyes drifting to the still body on the ground just beyond her classmate, before they were drawn back to his steady gaze. "Not physically."

"Good" he said. "That's very good."

She felt like she'd be crying again if she could, but her eyes were dry and itchy. She wanted a hug, but her skin crawled at the thought of someone touching her. Silently, she pulled herself up, eyes drawn once again to the body sprawled on the floor without her consent. He looked remarkably peaceful, like he'd settled down for an impromptu nap.

Harry flowed to his feet with a smoothness that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She kept still as she watched him walk to the other boy, bare feet making no sound on the castle stone.

"Is he dead?" the words tumbled out of her like something of a prayer, something like fear.

Harry pressed one golden foot to the column of the boy's throat, pressing down until the other boy began gasping for breath, air rasping wet and heavy. Useless under the weight of his unconsciousness and a single, slender foot.

"No."

"Oh-well, yes.. I-I thought...right."

Harry looked at her, green eyes dark and knowing, before his face reached down and pulled the boys tongue between his teeth, pushing his jaw upwards with a sharp snap. Blood bubbled over his chin and without a word, Harry let some of it gather in a small glass tube, before stoppering it with a tiny cork. Picking up the body with a strength that surprised her, he slipped around her and out of the room before she could blink. Rushing after him, she saw him crouched over the body with his wand out, muttering something that sounded rather like 'obliviate', but produced a peculiar yellow mist instead of the colourless shockwave she knew to expect. He looked up at her, eyes soft and strangely compelling, and she found herself smiling as she saw what was about to happen. She thought maybe she was disassociating; she felt like she'd taken a step back from reality, tired and not-quite-present.

"This is the hand he touched you with." Harry offered, pulling the other's arm out from under him and offering it up to her.

"No thank you" she said. But she didn't know what she was refusing. Didn't know why a tiny part of her told her to take the opportunity.

Harry smiled, coy and knowing, before taking the hand in his own and bending the middle finger back with a swift snap.

She jumped-heart thundering in her throat-but her feet took her closer. She had the thought that this wasn't normal. That really, the only thing she knew about Harry Potter was that he was a vaguely prodigious magical powerhouse-and not much else. But Magic wound

sinuously around her, trickling like cool water into places she hadn't realised she had, soothing wounds she'd long left to rot. Thoughts came slowly and half-formed, and vaguely, she was aware that she'd stopped crying.

Harry snapped another finger, then another, until only the ring finger was left and she was so close she was leaning hip to shoulder against him. Dazedly she reached out and took the digit in her own shaking, slender hands. Harry's own long fingers wrapped around hers, and the look she gave him as she felt the bone bend and snap under her own power was a brittle, powerful thing.

She clutched at Harry's hand like it held the answers, scared and angry and so, so tired. He touched her like she was precious, carefully pulling her away from the stairs, towards the dormitory, so gently she'd barely noticed the quick flick of his foot as he kicked the Durmstrang boy down the stairs before leaving.

She fell asleep that night safe in her dormitory, nursing the cold fear inside of her with other things she'd never imagined before then. She thought of the relief she'd felt when she saw the foreign student tip down the stairs, the surprising vindication she'd felt when she snapped his finger-the same one he might have one day had a bonding ring on, a blessing he'd nearly stolen from her. She thought of the mind-bending terror his touch had brought her, still coiled around her heart and squeezing despite the shower she'd had and the spells she'd cast (beauty spells for exfoliation, leaving her sore and raw and bleeding onto her pyjamas). She thought of what could have been taken from her, what might have happened beyond the initial assault. A ruined life. A half-life. No life at all.

She thought of Harry, the boy whose soul burnt like a dying star, wild and hungry. The contradiction with gentle hands and cruel eyes. She thought of him, and the boy at the bottom of the stairs, and more than her mother's warnings and daddy's advice had ever done, finally felt safe.

XxX

Harry smiled gently at the Muggle in front of him, crossing one long leg over the other as he leant back in his seat. The man in question - older, hard faced, used to being respected- had the same tight expression of displeasure most clients had upon meeting him.

His suit was well tailored but uninspired, made to intimidate but having the unfortunate side effect of being obvious about it. Harry doubted anyone had ever told the muggle that. He twitched a little, wanting to do just that, but didn't. Instead, he turned a rather bland expression on the only other person in the room with them, who, Harry noted with some amusement, was already sweating through his own well tailored suit.

'Mr Lombardi' he was introduced, 'this is Mr Doe'.

Harry, or Mr Doe, nodded pleasantly at Mr Lombardi, quite sure that the other had actually been arrogant enough to use his actual name. Lombardi ignored him, turning a displeased expression to the only other person he'd deemed worth talking to. Debatably.

'Is this a joke?'

Harry's middleman, the squib, looked affronted on his behalf, before his muddy eyes caught the sight Harry made sprawled half naked on the lounge, and he averted them quickly, flushing.

'Did you expect a suit or a gypsy? Because by your own admission, you've tried both and neither worked. I'm not sure what you're implying.'

Lombardi faced Harry with hard eyes, lingering on the glimpse of lean muscle between swathes of silk, the wild tangle of long hair. His lips. He waved a calloused hand at him.

'You brought a whore'.

It wasn't the first time this had happened, but it was adorable how quickly Niles became angry on his behalf. Of course he wouldn't show it, but Harry knew him well enough now to recognise the tells. A high spot of colour rose on pale cheeks, and Harry wanted to split them open with his teeth.

'If your first thought upon meeting a vouched for associate, is that he is a whore, perhaps that speaks more to your proclivities than his inadequacy?'

The tension skyrocketed alarmingly. Harry was quite aware of the small gun the muggle had smuggled in, as well as Niles' penchant for escalation. For a muggle of means and might, Lomardi really was quite touchy, especially for someone who had a previous association with the snarky squib. Harry didn't want to find another Niles, he'd already invested three years in him. He had a toothbrush at his house. His daughter called him 'unca' Haddy'.

'Perhaps,' said Harry, 'we should move to the heart of the matter.'

Sneering, Lombardi went to say something no doubt snide, when he caught sight of the doorway beyond him and visibly bit his tongue.

'Yes' he said. 'Let's'.

Harry hummed, flipping perfunctorily through the file he'd been given. He already knew what it said. Knew what the man wanted. How desperate he was. It was why he couldn't be anything but amused at the man's awful behaviour. He was an ant, biting the hand that crushed him, unaware he was already dead.

'You know my price?'

He was offered a nod and a plush envelope which he slit with a sharp nail. The cheque inside had half as much again as he'd asked for, and he smiled a little, before plucking out the real prize. Two glass slides, and between them, a red spot of colour.

'You get the other two when you're done' Lombardi said, and Harry politely ignored the suspicion he saw slink skittishly behind the man's stern frown.

He brought the glass to his face, ignoring the urge to pry between the slides with his tongue and run the flat of it against the red, and nodded, inhaling deeply.

'Your gesture of goodwill is surprising, but noted.' Harry murmured.

The man stared at him for half a second before Harry extrapolated, tapping the glass gently.

'Bold of you to slip yours in first.'

There was a flinch, small but there, and Harry wondered at the stupidity of men with egos.

'Did you bring both girls?'

He spoke before Lombardi could, and flicked his head to the door.

'Yes. I-'

'To specifications?'

'Yes-'

'Unseen?'

'Yes!'

Harry grinned, sharp and hungry, and stood suddenly, demure demeanour gone. He slid the silky robe from his shoulders, ignoring the shuddering breath Niles gave and the bug eyed look on the ant's face. Letting it pool at his feet as he moved, he slunk towards the other room.

He wondered how long it would take for the muggle to realise he couldn't move. How quickly he'd realise his folly and panic pointlessly.

Slipping soundlessly from the parlour into the back room, he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, small fat candles dotted sparsely about in corners. He laughed breathlessly as he saw the bodies on the bed, both children tucked carefully beneath the covers, sleeping peacefully. Each child had been lovingly washed and dressed, long hair gleaming in the candlelight.

The one on the right looked like a cherub, with round chubby cheeks and long curly lashes. The other, also blonde, also precious, looked a pale imitation. Pale and far too thin, brittle skin bruised and clammy. Harry prodded at the girl, pushing her chapped lips into an imitation smile, before chortling.

'Cheer up Poppet,' he said. 'Daddy loves you, you know?' He flopped her head back and forth a few times before sighing, settling down.

A quick glance over at the prettier, less sickly girl made him want to roll his eyes. The daft man had given her a teddy. He plucked it up, wondering briefly if Niles' child would like it, before setting it to the side to think on later.

Humming, he stripped the girls, folding the dresses up neatly and putting them on the bedside table. He tugged the covers completely off, ignoring the way they shivered at the damp air, and gave one last perfunctory look around the room, making sure, as always, that nothing was out of place.

The door had melded seamlessly into the wall, and when he checked, the appropriate rune clusters were alight.

Centering himself, pushing away the anticipation that always took him when he did this, he pressed the tip of one sharpened thumbnail to each chest just below the sternum, pushing through the skin with a sharp pop. Almost immediately, blood welled up, and he wasted no time in dragging his nail down an approximate inch, pulling through skin and muscle with a small grunt.

Trembling a little, he raised one hand to his own sternum, digging under the skin there with a nail tip. Exhaling shakily, he brought his magic to bear, letting it simmer just beneath his skin. Black bloomed from the furthermost tips of his fingers, pooling together in the palm of each hand, before shooting down his arms and over his chest in a thick black band that throbbed riotously in time with his heart beat. Without pausing, he drew his nail along the band, which split less like skin and more like paper, all the way from the very centre of his chest to the very tip of his middle finger. He swapped hands and did the same to the other side, swallowing hard as the air bloomed sweet and coppery. He slid wet fingers back into the cuts he'd made on the girls, fidgeting a little until completely sure his blood was as intermingled with theirs as possible, before taking one last fortifying breath...and...pulling.

He was aware, vaguely, as he always was, what he looked like in that moment. Head thrown back, gasping, eyes glazed and unseeing as he shuddered violently in pain so deeply rooted in his very blood he wanted to faint from the absolute agony of it. His own blood, acting as a channel, lit up like white plasma, burning him to the bone.

Slowly, so slowly he felt the earth die a thousand deaths around them, a small line of red crawled from the chest of the girl on the right, inching across his own body one rebellious second at a time, before finally, finally, sinking into the chest of the girl on the left.

There was no pause. No weighted second where the room felt still or heavy. Without the fanfare owed it, the healthy girl began to wizen and shrivel, mouth open in what would have been a scream could corpses scream. To his other side, the other girl grew healthy. Cheeks fattened, bruises faded. What had been a wet rattle became the deep breaths of sweet dreams and childhood.

He had the presence of mind to break the connection before he collapsed, face forward on the mattress. The bedding- charmed impervious- collected the blood in a puddle where he lay. It was warm still, slick and somehow tacky all at one, and Harry wanted to paint himself with it. He giggled tiredly, wiggling one finger in a pool of it, dragging his arm painstakingly up and over to the homeless girl Lombardi had chosen as the sacrifice. He drew a wobbly smile over the leathery cheeks, before his trembling arm cramped and fell. Tired, cold and colder still as the blood dried and shock crept in, he could only smile as he saw the outline of a door appear on the far wall.

Niles stuck his head in, a blur of black against a white light, and Harry called him closer.

"Gi' me twenty. 'en Pepper up." he slurred. 'Cauldron o' coffee. Cauldron. I sw' to Mer-'

And then he knew no more.

XxX

Harry ran his thumb from belly to chin, ensuring the tiny row of hooks keeping his under robe fastened sat flat and unseen on the fabric. Stark white and fitted, the robe covered him from ankle to jaw, leaving only his face and hands bare. Shrugging on a long green cloak, he pulled it closed so that only the barest hint of white showed at his extremities, before tucking his wand in his holster and turning to stare at the gloves he knew he should wear. Opaleye leather and pearly white, he knew they were as soft as butter. He'd spent a fair few galleons on the dragonskin instead of the far more common calf or snake, making a point to start spoiling himself with his frankly ludicrous fortune.

But, he thought exasperatedly, I don't think I can actually bring myself to wear them.

It was a little odd, he knew, to be so particular about his own hands. For sure, they were nothing exceptional to look at. Fine boned like the rest of him. Calloused. Scarred. The only slightly peculiar thing of note was the length and colour of his nails, which while unusual for a boy, was nothing unusual in itself.

That he liked his hands was not the point. That he could use them like other wizards used wands was.

He'd been nine when he'd learnt that blood had power. Especially interested in evolution and biology, he'd been sure that there was something more to him than the people who surrounded him. Not ignorant to his peculiarities like the Durselys would have him be, he knew he was different. By that age, he'd managed to draw a little on the energy that filled him; had managed to actively use it to help him, just a little, in surviving whatever life threw at him.

But it was exhausting.

Opening his cupboard lock so he could sneak out and pilfer whatever wouldn't be missed at night had become a fast necessity. The Dursleys, used to eating to extremes, had no idea what to actually feed a normal nine year old. Not especially invested in keeping him healthy, let alone happy, their approach to feeding him hadn't changed since he was four.

His only set meal was lunch, where he was given a muesli bar and an apple. He ate whatever was left over for Breakfast and Dinner, which was usually crust from the toast Dudley refused to eat in the morning, and the vegetable skins he'd slice off while cooking in the evening.

He'd cook so much it must have seemed reasonable to Petunia that scraps were sufficiently filling, but in a family like the Durselys, there were usually none left.

His fear of a slow death by starvation had driven him to finally access his magic, but he couldn't eat enough food to replenish it properly. Using it made him hungrier. Sluggish.

He would use his magic to run faster, avoiding Dudley and his friends, but would be caught by his own magical exhaustion in the end. Unconscious before the boys even caught him.

He'd will his clothing warmer, but couldn't keep it up for long before his stomach ate itself in agony.

He'd numb his skin as Vernon's belt came down, as his fists beat him, as his hand was pressed to the cold-heat of the stove top coils, but he'd send himself into a sleep so deep he'd miss the next few days of school. Angering Vernon, and setting off the cycle again.

His life was a haze of dizzy hunger, but he couldn't stop. He could feel his abilities improving, just a little, every time he used them. If he ever wanted to do anything noteworthy, he couldn't stop. He couldn't go back to being nothing. To being a freak of designation not design.

But it left the issue of how to stop from dying before he made it that far. Which is why, one day when he was nine, he stole the neighbour's dog.

Small enough to smuggle away to his uncle's shed, trained enough to keep from yapping, he'd sat staring at the animal for what felt like hours, stomach howling at him. The tiny thing had curled up in his lap, nose pressed trustingly against his ribs as it snuffled fitfully in sleep. The poor thing was covered in cuts and scabs, fluffy fur stuck wetly to the back of one bony leg. He felt his own body ache in sympathy, back burning, bruises throbbing, and had the thought that perhaps the Dursleys were actually quite normal in this sort of neighbourhood after all.

He had the hysterical thought that perhaps he'd be doing the thing a favour, killing it. But then it wiggled a little, tail thumping softly, and he knew he couldn't do it. He'd plucked and gutted fowl before, and on one memorable occasion, a rabbit, but what he thought would be just another animal to handle...wasn't.

Crying quietly, he ran shaking fingers through the animal's gnarled coat, picking away at the sticks and old blood he found as he went. Sometimes, as he tugged at a newer scab or touched a section of skin that made the dog whine, he felt something warm fizzle through him. Ignoring it, sure his body was playing tricks, he kept grooming.

Eventually his fingers brushed the wet edge of it's newer wound, and he shuddered, suddenly more alert than he'd been in weeks. Alarmed he pulled his hand away, and the fog crept back in, sinking into his limbs with heavy ease. A wet nose pushed against him, hard and insistent, and he looked back down to see brown eyes staring back at him with adoration.

Slowly, a little scared, he lowered the tips of his fingers to the blood again, and both he and the little dog let out a tiny sigh. Warmth trickled through him. He pushed his hand against the sticky fur, and barely noticed the blood slowly disappearing. Barely noticed the tingling of the grazes on his hand as he swiped over the wound gently. Barely noticed the edges knitting back together, the skin cleaning, the leg relaxing. For the first time in a long time, he could think beyond the ache of his stomach.

The dog on his lap licked his knee, quiet as Harry ran gentle hands over it. He was thoughtful, considering, letting his mind form tests and hypotheses while it still had the edge to. Eventually, young and drained, he drifted off to sleep, curled over his fluffy breakthrough in the corner of the shed.

It had taken two more incidents with the neighbour's dog before Harry had solidified a working hypothesis, and a terrifying incident with another neighbour's son before Harry had begun to dare imagine the possibilities open to him.

And now here he was, staring pursed-lipped at a pair of gloves that cost more than young him could ever have imagined having, let alone disdaining. Rolling his eyes, he tugged them on in a vague sort of homage to child-Harry, deciding to- just this once- allow himself a little weakness.

...before wrinkling his nose and pulling them off again.

He wasn't one for sentiment.

XxX

Next Chapter: Harry meets up with two unlikely friends in Diagon Alley, takes his first public steps towards breaking away from Dumbledore, and Sees a vision of his perfect courtier.