.

…o0o…

In Death, Standby

Chapter 9
The Unforgivable

…o0o…

The Dark Lord was a good teacher, Harry had come to realise with time. He was definitely not gentle or patient in his lessons, but there was effectiveness and purpose in every single one of this teachings that Harry had not encountered elsewhere, even after he had begun to attend Hogwarts. Voldemort's methods were questionable at best, but he was also driven unlike many of the actual professors Harry had met so far. Right from his early years Harry had memories of the Dark Lord, driving lesson after lesson into Harry's young and supple mind with vehement determination, not relenting and not giving an inch until Harry had learned whatever it was the Dark Lord wanted him to know. It was a personal mission for the man; almost as if he could never rest peacefully and could never be satisfied for as long as Harry remained incomplete and insufficient. And after every lesson that Harry learned, the Dark Lord rewarded him with that chilly, rare nod of approval. He made Harry want to learn.

They had never been gentle lessons, those that Harry could recall from his early childhood. Everything right from walking had been painful, but he had never been allowed to give up and he had never not learned. Thus, there was enough evidence that the pain worked, so who was Harry to question it. There were some memories, however, in which the pain surmounted past tolerable and lessons so tinted with agony that Harry would have been glad to forget about them.

One of those lessons had begun one afternoon when Harry was seven. The Dark Lord had asked, "Do you know what Unforgivables are?" out of the blue and Harry had looked up from the magical moving jigsaw puzzle he had been putting together and frowned.

"They are curses, right?" he had asked hesitantly.

The Dark Lord had nodded curtly, before continuing, "There are three of them."

Harry had frowned in thought. "The Killing Curse and the Cruciatus Curse," he had remembered after a while, but he hadn't been able to recall the third one.

"The third one is the Imperius Curse," the Dark Lord had given eventually and there had been some dangerous hint in his gaze that had made Harry worry. "It is a curse that allows the caster complete control over the subject. Your mind will yield to the spell and it will compel you to obey everything the caster wants you to do," the Dark Lord had explained. He had stood up then and had urged Harry to follow.

The Dark Lord had carried on speaking as they wandered through the Manor. Harry had hobbled after him, but even then he had on some level known that nothing good could follow such topics.

"For you, child, this is the most dangerous one," the Dark Lord had told, "Because you are weak and impressionable. I cannot leave such an opening in the defences."

"How do I counter it then?" Harry had asked, partly curious and partly because he had known it was expected of him.

"You cannot," the Dark Lord had said as he had opened the door that lead to the top floor balcony, "It is not a curse you can counter with another spell. You can only fight it. You have to be stronger than the spell, more determined, and have a more powerful intent than the curse."

"Oh," Harry had commented wisely, squinting against the harsh spring sunshine as they had stepped outside. The Dark Lord had placed a hand on his shoulder and had guided him to the balcony railing.

"I need you to be stronger than this curse. If you are ever cursed with the Imperius I have to be absolutely certain that you can fight it, because otherwise it could be used against me, through you," the Dark Lord had told and finally Harry had understood some of the urgency behind this. "This will be uncomfortable and quite painful, but you must realise that it is very much necessary. You must fight this curse, do not let it overcome you. Do you understand?"

Harry had nodded hesitantly, already worried that maybe he couldn't. "I understand," he had promised quietly and had mentally braced himself for whatever was to come.

"Imperio," the Dark Lord had cast with the same ease he cast all of his spells, and nothing could have prepared Harry for what was to come.

He had felt so light. It was like he had been floating above the ground, wrapped in a comfortable blanket of happiness and utter comfort. The apprehension and slight worry he had been feeling before was suddenly wiped away and he felt relaxed, so good, and calm.

Climb on the railing.

What an odd idea it had been, when it had crossed Harry's mind, but at the same time such a good one. Why wouldn't he climb on the railing? Harry did it, not entirely sure why, but he knew that it was the right thing to do.

Jump.

It had been almost like a gentle voice in his head, pushing suggestions into his mind. But then Harry had hesitated, for the briefest moment. Why? Why would he jump? He had glanced down, seeing the ground beneath him, so unwelcoming and unyielding.

Jump.

Harry had jumped.

It had been the pain of both his legs breaking that threw the curse off him. He had crumpled on the ground beneath the balcony with an agonized wail that turned quickly into pained sobs.

The Dark Lord had Apparated down next to him, unmoved and unimpressed.

"Wha—" Harry had tried to gasp through his pained tears. Why had he jumped?

"You did not fight it," the Dark Lord had pointed out, cold and cruel. "You did not even try."

"How could I. . ." Harry had tried, "How can I fight that? It was so. . . impossible. . . I can't. . ."

The Dark Lord had lifted an unimpressed brow and levelled his wand at Harry again.

"No, no, give me a—" Harry had tried begging for a moment to gather himself, but he had been quickly interrupted.

"Imperio."

The curse had hit him all the same. The pain he had been feeling had faded into a dull ache. The distress and fear had dissipated into deceptive calm and Harry had felt his convulsing muscles slowly relax.

No, no, no, he had thought feverishly, through the haze that settled in his mind.

Get up and walk.

He couldn't! He was already too broken to do either of those! Harry had tried to say as much, had tried to tell the Dark Lord that he couldn't, not right now.

Get up. And walk.

Slowly, so very slowly, Harry had gotten up until he had stood unsteadily on his broken legs. The pain had now been radiating through his entire being, but the curse had stayed strong. One agonizing step at a time, Harry had walked. He had walked through the halls and up the stairs on his broken legs, gasping for air and ranting in his mind an endless stream of "no, please, no".

Then he had been on the balcony again and the curse had soothed him gently and sweetly.

Climb on the railing.

No, no! He would not. He knew what would happen.

Climb on the railing, child.

It had been so tempting, so reassuring and gentle. Harry had slowly moved his broken body and with some great difficulty he had climbed on the railing. He had not been able to silence the frightened little sobs, but he had climbed.

"No, please," Harry had whispered aloud, "I'll try. I'll fight it."

Jump.

No. He wouldn't. He couldn't anymore.

Jump.

He didn't have to. It was not a good idea. It would hurt.

Jump. Come now, just jump.

But why wouldn't he jump? It did sound like a good—no! He wouldn't! Nothing could make him.

JUMP.

Harry had jumped.

This time Harry had screamed. He had been able to feel his bones bending and snapping like twigs. This time it had not been just his legs either, but the pain seemed to explode all over. He hadn't stopped screaming for quite some time.

The Dark Lord had been patiently waiting for him there, just underneath the balcony like he had known that Harry could not resist the curse. He had waited and his bored, unimpressed expression hadn't so much as twitched when Harry collapsed at his feet in pain yet again.

"I will die," Harry had told the man in short, broken words that tore through his chest.

"Ah, but you see," the Dark Lord had said, leaning closer and offering a narrow, cruel smile. "I will not let you die. We will do this as long as it takes."

Harry had shaken his head weakly. "I can't."

The Dark Lord had reached out and realigned Harry's right arm that had broken in several places, before pointing out almost softly, "It looks like you have no choice. Imperio."

It had taken longer that time. The pain had been too great for even the curse's gentle trance to overcome, and Harry's mind had stayed sharper than the times before that. He had fought; he had tried so very hard. But in the end he had tried to walk and when it had turned out that he physically couldn't walk any longer, the curse had told him to crawl. Against every refusal that Harry had screamed, against every pained sob and silent ugly word that had slipped his lips, the curse had dragged Harry's broken body back up to the balcony until he sat on the railing again.

Jump, the Imperius had whispered gently in his mind and Harry had said 'no' more times than he could recall later.

But in the end he had also jumped.

When Harry crashed into the ground that time with a sickening crunch, everything went very quiet. He hadn't screamed, all he had been capable of was a short gasp that had banished the remaining breath from his body. He had collapsed there, broken, unmoving and floating in something soft and hazy. He had thought that the curse had not lifted this time, despite the fall, but realised slowly that that had not been it.

"So, this is what dying is like," he had thought or said or screamed, perhaps merely remembered. Everything had been very soft, and distant, and kind of white around the edges.

Then magic had reached for him, had taken hold of him and hauled him away from that calm distant place, almost as if dragging him through a layer of ice. Suddenly he had been right back there on the Manor yard, gasping for breath with lungs pierced by his ribs and very much alive.

Tears had stung at his eyes as he stared up at the Dark Lord. "Why can't you just let me die?" he had asked with broken, messy words that had bled out along with blood from his tongue.

The Dark Lord had looked down at him and he had merely shaken his head wordlessly. Then he had lifted the yew wand once more and Harry had begun to cry.

"Imperio."

Get up and walk.

Harry had heard it in his mind as clear as the first time, just as gentle and coaxing.

No, I won't, he had thought with strange clarity.

Get up and walk.

No. He would much rather just stay here and die than do either of those things, Harry had realised, and the thought had given him odd peace.

Get up.

He quite liked it here, in fact, Harry had thought then. It had been a very comfortable spot.

Get up NOW.

"I'm not going to," Harry had realised then, almost startled and slightly astonished.

"What did you say?" the Dark Lord had asked.

Get up. Get up and walk.

"No, I'm not going to anymore," Harry had repeated and relief, unlike anything he had ever felt, had flooded into him. "I'm not going to get up. And I'm definitely not going to walk or jump."

Sing, the curse suggested then, tempting and comforting.

No. "I'm rubbish at singing," Harry had said with a broken laughter that sent a bubble of blood running down from the corner of his mouth.

There had been a moment of absolute stillness before the Dark Lord had sighed a little and had pocketed his wand.

"Good," he had said, "For a moment there I was quite sure this would kill you."

Harry hadn't had the power to glare, but sweet darkness had claimed him then, sending him into unconsciousness.

He had woken up later in his own bed when the Dark Lord had enervated him for long enough to swallow down a few potions for pain and a healthy dose of Skele-Gro. He had been aware that he'd be black and blue tomorrow, probably for weeks to come, and he hadn't really known when he'd be able to walk again but he was oddly at peace with that.

"Thank you," he had mumbled softly when the Dark Lord had taken the emptied potion bottles from him. Now that Harry had known what the Imperius Curse was and what it did, it had filled Harry with quiet dread that someone else might have been able to wield such power over him and he wouldn't have even realised what it was. The Dark Lord had cured him of a terrible weakness and Harry hadn't been able to put into words how much he appreciated that lesson.

The Dark Lord hadn't asked the reason for Harry's gratefulness, because he had very well known what Harry had meant.

"Get some sleep," the man had said and had started towards the door.

Before his exit, however, Harry had called after him, "I forgive you."

The Dark Lord had turned to look, one eyebrow raised in a curious expression. "What?" he had asked, sounding almost confused.

Harry had offered a feeble smile. "They are Unforgivables. But I forgive you. I forgive you every single time."

It had been impossible to tell what the Dark Lord had thought of that, because his expression had melted into strange blankness. He had soon exited without a word, but Harry hadn't minded. He had forgiven the man for bigger things than his untalkative moods and strangeness.

…o0o…

After the poisoning incident, Voldemort stopped sleeping entirely. Nor did Harry ever see him eat or even so much as sit down and rest. The morning routine of tea disappeared, killed by the very poison that had nearly taken the Dark Lord himself. Not even Death Eaters were allowed to pass into the Manor and Voldemort never left himself. He seemed to have entered some kind of a strange frenzy where the only thing that kept him going was pure, white-hot anger.

Harry didn't say anything, but withdrew into the shadows of the Manor and waited.

He watched from a safe distance how Voldemort furiously scribbled an endless stream of letters. He listened silently while the Dark Lord paced in his study, and yelled obscenities at the fireplace and the poor whoevers he was talking to. Destructive spells were carelessly tossed around until shattered and shredded items littered the floor in every room of the Manor, and Harry was there to clean up the mess every time.

Harry waited ten days in vain for this dark cloud of anger and resentment to dissipate and for the rational, logical Dark Lord to return. Each day Voldemort's aimless search for clues seemed to become less and less organised and more frantic. Harry was patient, even understanding. He didn't complain when he realised that the lack of house elves meant that he had to feed himself. He didn't say anything when Voldemort, in a violent burst of fury, tossed a nonchalant cruciatus curse at him for asking if Voldemort could please fix the hallway windows because the draft had gotten quite chilly during night time. He didn't comment when Voldemort started to consume unhealthy amounts of Pepper Up and Wakeful potions just to keep going from day to day.

Harry waited until he eventually realised that waiting was not working at all. It was time for interference, even at the cost of Harry's own immediate well-being.

"You cannot keep doing this forever," he finally told Voldemort one evening in the study, and crossed his arms across his chest in the best scolding gesture he could muster.

Voldemort didn't even glance at him or in any way indicate that he had heard. He paced back and forth in the study with a thunderous look on his face and flipped through a book about obscure potion ingredients. He had done it several times during the last few days, and as far as Harry knew it was because the poison was still having some after effects. Every now and then during the past days Harry had seen flashes of pain cross over Voldemort's face when he moved too quickly and those flashes had appeared more frequently lately.

"Would you just sit down," Harry ordered sharply when he realised that Voldemort hadn't even heard him. He had never before used that tone with the Dark Lord and apparently the shock of it now worked to his benefit. Voldemort stopped in the middle of his frenzied pacing and stared at Harry.

Harry drew a breath. At least he now had the man's attention, maybe he'd even listen to reason.

"All this pacing is making me dizzy. So, you are going to sit down for a while," Harry told firmly, "While I go and make you a cup of tea. I will not take my eyes off the cup, I will not get Imperius'd, and you will not almost die, I promise. You can't survive on just stubbornness forever."

It was enough evidence of the state Voldemort was in when he sat down in the nearest chair, Harry's armchair, and didn't even shoot a casual curse at Harry first for insolence.

"I cannot rest," Voldemort said, sounding deceptively calm, "Not before this message is sent loud and clear to the entire world."

"And you will send it," Harry agreed. "But as immune to death as you like to think you are, your body at least is still very much human. If you keep going like this, it will give up on you when it counts the most."

Voldemort seemed to waver for a moment before he nodded curtly. "Tea will suffice."

'Suffice' wasn't quite what Harry had had in mind, but he agreed with a mild, "Yeah, that's what I thought. Wait here."

Harry made his way to the kitchens quickly, but it took him a good while to find a teapot and actual tea. After a few disastrous attempts at making sandwiches, he had given up on the whole cooking thing and had lived the few past weeks on crackers and biscuits. Perhaps not the most filling or healthiest of diets, but he had been too busy worrying about the Dark Lord to waste time wondering about where to find food. However, he should probably bring it up sometime, because they were quickly running out of biscuits, too, and Harry had come to realise that he didn't even know where people got the food to fill their kitchens. So far the house elves had taken care of everything, but since that was no longer an option and because Voldemort seemed less than inclined to do anything about it, it would most likely fall to Harry to solve such minor problems.

Harry waited for the water to boil and loaded cups onto a tray before he ventured through the halls back to the study. To his mild relief he found Voldemort right where he had left him, seated in the armchair with a spectacularly deep frown on his face and deep in thought.

"Here," Harry mumbled as he offered a steaming tea cup to Voldemort.

The Dark Lord eyed the cup suspiciously, so Harry took a tiny sip from it and raised his eyebrows in a clear 'See, it's safe' gesture. Voldemort accepted the tea almost reluctantly but looked oddly relieved at the same time.

"I'm not going to be around here forever making you tea," Harry pointed out and hopped to sit on the desk in the study. "So, you'll probably have to learn to do it yourself now that you got rid of all the house elves."

Voldemort shot him an annoyed look. "I know perfectly well how to make a cup of tea. Better than you at least. This is an atrocious excuse of a brew."

Harry had to hide a smile at that because despite the complaint, the permanent crease between Voldemort's brows seemed to be fading slightly as he worked his way through the cup of the warm beverage.

"Well, it's the first cup I've ever actually made," Harry commented and offered a small, wry smile.

A few moments passed in peaceful silence before Harry carefully cleared his throat and began to speak.

"You need a battle plan," Harry pointed out carefully. Voldemort shot him a sharp look but didn't comment before he had finished the last drops of the tea.

"I always have one," Voldemort replied.

"Well, this one is not very good, is it?" Harry said, deciding to risk a little pain for the sake of honesty. "You're too angry to go about this rationally."

"Angry does not even begin to cover it," Voldemort growled, his eyes gazing through empty space at some invisible target looming nearby.

Harry replied with a vague hum, wasted a moment pondering over his next words.

"Do you think. . ." Harry begun, cleared his throat and tried again, "Do you think it might have been Mrs. Zabini? I mean she didn't. . . She was quite. . ." Harry floundered for the words that would not come. It was hard to put Mrs. Zabini in words that did her justice.

"She wouldn't dare," Voldemort answered immediately, certainly, "Not after what I did to her first husband."

Harry very pointedly and loudly didn't ask about that one, but instead remarked carefully, "Well, you did threaten her only son."

Voldemort sat there for exactly three heartbeats before he slowly stood up. Harry had seen a great scale of murderous emotions on that face, but nothing before had come even close to this one.

"Wait! I didn't say get up and go after her now!" Harry hurried to interrupt the approaching doom, sprang to his feet and caught the sleeve of the Dark Lord's robes before he made it to the door. "What if it wasn't her? Harassing her now will only ruin whatever deal you made with her."

"There is only one way to be certain," Voldemort remarked and the tip of the yew wand pressed against Harry's forehead. "Let go and you might live to see another day."

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "There are other ways to find out for sure. You have eyes everywhere, someone would surely have known if she was plotting to murder you. Do not endanger the deal with her just because you are angry now. It might not have been her."

Voldemort seemed to waver for a moment longer before he sighed ever so slightly and turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow.

"Where is that famous Gryffindor rashness, now? It is not like you at all to think ahead and consider consequences," Voldemort remarked, clearly recalling the hundreds upon hundreds of occasions in the past when Harry had done exactly that.

Harry decided it unwise to tell the truth in this case. After all, the Dark Lord would not have reacted well if Harry had admitted that the only reason for his hesitation and opposition was that he didn't believe that Voldemort was mentally or physically in any state to take on Mrs. Zabini. Harry had met the woman and he knew well enough to fear her. Of course, Voldemort could probably crush her like a fly with magic if it got down to that point, but if Mrs. Zabini was their mysterious assassin, by now she would know that she had failed. She would be prepared and waiting for the Dark Lord to search her out. While she might not be as powerful as Voldemort, it was certain that she was at least just as merciless and very smart in her own right. Harry could not let Voldemort go after her before he had at least slept and perhaps had something to eat as well.

But this was not something Harry was going to tell the Dark Lord directly.

Instead, he offered a smile and simply said, "The Sorting Hat told me that I'd make a good Ravenclaw, too."

Voldemort scoffed very uncharacteristically as if the mere idea of Harry in Ravenclaw was ridiculous, before he ran a weary hand across his face and with a heavy sigh collapsed back onto the armchair.

"I just can't focus," Voldemort spat out and threw a quick, neat blasting curse that shattered the only bookshelf in the room, almost as if to test if his focus was still enough to manage that.

"That's probably because you haven't slept in about a month," Harry pointed out, perhaps unwisely because the next curse was aimed at him. Fifteen seconds of the intense, excruciating pain had him on his knees on the floor. Even after Voldemort lifted the curse, Harry stayed down there for a full minute, gasping for quick pained breathes. It was most bizarre, that curse, one would think it would get easier to bear with time but that just never seemed to happen.

Harry lifted his eyes defiantly at the Dark Lord. "You can curse me all you want and it will not help the situation any."

"Is that so?" Voldemort mocked. "I've noticed quite the opposite; it usually makes me feel remarkably better every time."

Harry didn't dignify that with a response but carried on, "You need sleep. Honest to Morpheus, pillows and duvets type of sleep—"

Before he made it to the end Voldemort interrupted. "I cannot sleep. Not now."

While all of the previous weak arguments against sleep had stemmed from Voldemort's obsessive need to find and punish the assassin, something else seemed to blossom just beneath this admission. Harry let his eyes roam searchingly across Voldemort's face and to his astonishment he caught something, something weird and out of place, something very much like fear.

Harry cleared his throat carefully before he spoke, "The wards are still closed. The house elves are dead. Nagini and every other living thing in this house are gone at the moment," Harry listed slowly, counting with his fingers. Then he looked up at the Dark Lord and offered a thin smile, "And I have made it clear that I very much prefer you alive. I'm sure the world can spare you one night of rest."

It was quite strange, but slowly and startlingly clearly it had begun to dawn on Harry that, as seemingly untouched by the poisoning incident as Voldemort was, somewhere underneath the carefully maintained façade he was terrified of death.

"Just. . . take a few hours off from all this Dark Lord business," Harry insisted with a small helpless shrug.

Voldemort shot him a narrow glare and said warningly, "If I recall, you promised that no nannying would occur."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I should charge money for this; it's almost a full time job by now," he commented dryly before he stopped to think and added, "Maybe I really should do that. I don't actually have any money of my own, do I?"

Voldemort made a vague, frustrated sound and twirled the yew wand around his fingers, "You have a trust fund, actually," he remarked in passing, clearly so deeply in thought that he missed the reaction Harry had to that little tidbit of information.

"A trust fund?" Harry repeated, staring at the Dark Lord with his jaw hanging open. "Why would you set up a trust fund for me?"

Voldemort's glare was pure acid. "Of course I didn't, you imbecile."

Harry blinked slowly. "My parents left me a trust fund?"

For some odd reason this seemed to only irritate Voldemort even more.

"Perhaps they realised that they wouldn't live long enough to actually pay for your schooling themselves," Voldemort commented. He seemed to frown disapprovingly at some faded memories that only he could access before he eventually carried on unprompted, "They were absolutely loathsome people. No one was surprised that they wound up dead."

By now, Harry was quite openly staring at the Dark Lord in shock, but the man didn't appear to notice or care. This was only the second time during the very long years they had lived under the same roof that Voldemort mentioned Harry's late family.

Harry decided to try his luck and carefully carried on with the topic, "If they left me a trust fund, does that mean they left me an actual vault, too? They were one of the old families, weren't they?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed at him slowly, suspicious. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

"The trophy room and some lucky guessing," Harry shrugged, pretending it wasn't an important thing at all to him.

Voldemort huffed drily. "The trophy room, of course. It is a surprisingly enlightening place occasionally."

"So I've heard," Harry replied vaguely, while he tried not to make it obvious that he had heard something very similar before from one Tom Riddle.

"They left you a vault, yes, and a shack they liked to call a house in Godric's Hollow," Voldemort told and offered Harry a narrow mockery of a smile. "I burnt the house down and spent the money, so you may as well forget about all that."

Harry stared for a moment, while he tried to process this surprising, new information before he decided that Voldemort was right. It wasn't that important, a thing of the past and better left forgotten. The present was a way more pressing matter right now.

"Do you see what's happening here?" Harry asked hesitantly. "The more tired you get, the more you talk. You've never before told me any of these things."

"The only reason why I am telling you any of this is that you are just always here," Voldemort grumbled, sounding absolutely disgusted by the mere fact. "It has become almost like talking to myself, except you keep insisting on offering your much unwanted opinions."

Harry tried to suppress the grin that tugged at twisting his lips, but failed. "Thank you for proving my point."

Voldemort shot him a sharp look before he seemed to disappear into his thoughts for a moment. Then he stood up slowly and cast a quick Tempus charm. It was a bit after midnight.

"Very well," the man sighed, before he carried on with "I expect you to be ready at 9 sharp."

Harry nodded reflexively before the meaning of the words registered. "Ready for what?" he asked with surprise, and hopped onto his feet from his armchair when Voldemort started towards the door.

"For Diagon Alley," Voldemort said. "You are right about one thing. My methods so far haven't been efficient enough, so it is high time to attempt a more. . . personal approach. You might as well buy your books for next year at the same time."

"Yeah, sure," Harry agreed with a shrug. "Does this mean you'll sleep?"

Voldemort didn't deem it necessary to reply, and he was gone before Harry had enough time to wish him good night. Harry spent an extra ten minutes cleaning up the mess that had taken over the study during Voldemort's restless quest for destruction, before he snuffed out the last flames in the fireplace.

When he cast one last look around the room, a calm satisfaction settled in his chest. It had been an impossible quest to begin with, but now that he had actually gotten through to the Dark Lord and had convinced him to at least sleep, Harry couldn't deny that he felt irrationally happy with himself. It felt. . . good that after so many years of Voldemort taking care of him, he could repay somehow, even if it was in such small ways.

…o0o…

Dear Hermione,

I know this is a bit sudden, but I will be at Diagon Alley tomorrow morning. I would be more than happy to meet up with you, if you are still interested. Your reply probably won't catch me in time, but I will be at Flourish and Blotts around 10 tomorrow, so if you have the time I could meet you there.

Sorry about the short notice.

Regards,
Harry

…o0o…

The next morning, the restless fury that Voldemort had emitted for weeks was gone and it had been replaced by dark determination. Harry offered him a small satisfied nod when he joined him in the entry hall promptly at nine as they had agreed upon. It was obvious that the Dark Lord had gotten at least a wink of sleep, because he seemed more focused and calm than the night before or any night before that. Voldemort didn't respond in kind, merely grasped Harry's arm and pulls him towards the fireplace.

"We're flooing?" Harry asked curiously. It was oddly comforting to know that Voldemort had re-established his footing enough to be comfortable opening the floo network that connected the house to the outside world.

"Borgin and Burkes," Voldemort said simply. "Pronounce it clearly and don't disappear before I get there, too." Then he pushed Harry into the fireplace, among all the ash and threw a handful of floo powder after him, without so much as a warning.

As the flames roared, Harry quickly quipped out the name of the shop and before the words had faded from his lips, he was falling out of another fireplace and landed disgracefully on his face on the wooden floorboards.

"Why does this keep happening?" he grumbled angrily to himself, as he stood up and wiped dust and ash from his robes. Then he took a curious look around the dimly lit shop.

It wasn't anything like he had seen around Diagon Alley before, as it was much more dusty and shady than any of the shops he had visited a year ago. The items that scattered the shop were not books or potions or anything of the like, but much odder. In a glass case sat something that looked suspiciously like a dried up, mummified hand, and a collection of glass eyes on one of the shelves had swirled to stare at Harry the moment he had stumbled out of the fireplace.

"Lovely," Harry mumbled and reached a curious hand out to touch a grimacing mask on the wall. At his touch the grimace on the mask's ugly, rough face deepened.

"Hoy! This ain't no place for little kids!" came a gruff voice somewhere nearby and when Harry looked up an equally gruff man was staring at him from behind the front desk of the shop. It must have been the shopkeeper himself.

"Well, I'm not leaving," Harry told the man and he had barely finished his sentence when the fireplace behind him roared back to life and the Dark Lord stepped through, looking just as neat and pressed as he had back at the Manor.

"How do you do that?" Harry wondered aloud, casting a disgruntled look at his own, mucked up robes.

Voldemort didn't pay him any attention but cast his cold stare at the man behind the desk. "Borgin," he greeted, and all colour disappeared from the shopkeeper's face. He let out a strange strangled sound, a sound as if someone had stepped on a puffskein, and then the man wheezed out something incomprehensible and fearful that might have been a greeting.

Voldemort cast a disgusted look at the man before he looked at Harry. "Go buy your books. I will find you when I'm done," he said curtly before he seemed to forget Harry's very existence and made his way towards the front desk.

"Yeah, don't mind me," Harry huffed, "I'll just go out there and get completely lost."

Despite his protests, he made his way to the door and stepped outside into the narrow alley crammed between looming buildings on both sides. Harry glanced both ways before he stuck his head back into the shop with a sour look on his face.

"Which way am I supposed to go?" he quipped out.

Voldemort shot him an irritated look and just pointed one way before he turned back to Borgin and began to discuss something with the shopkeeper in low tones.

"Right," Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes and stepping out again.

He got lost a couple of times in the maze of narrow alleys, and gained more suspicious and scrutinising stares than he would have liked. It wasn't hard to guess that he was not in the most reputable part of the Wizarding district, so he kept his hand curled at his wand the entire time. He wasn't afraid, per se, but still uncomfortable and out of place. Despite himself he sent a few nasty thoughts towards Voldemort for leaving him to fend for himself like this. The wizard could have at least done the decent thing and dropped Harry off somewhere he wouldn't have had to worry about getting snatched and chopped into potion ingredients.

Then he finally stepped out from the shade of the buildings into the wider, buzzing Diagon Alley and exhaled a sigh of relief. It took him some more time to actually find Flourish and Blotts, and when he stepped inside he was astonished at the amount of people in there. Didn't people have better things to do on a nice sunny summer day than to hang out at the bookshop? He was quick to find the reason for the busy business day when he spotted a wizard clad in golden robes at the back of the bookstore, smiling unnaturally widely and signing piles of books.

Harry tried to find Hermione in the crowd, but the masses of people made it impossible to get a good look around. He slinked to the side, between high bookshelves and pretended to study a book about the best magical pranks. There were way too many people for his liking and he was starting to feel really uncomfortable. He could only hope that Hermione would appear quickly and he could get out of here.

He made a quick purchase of his books and had them stuffed in a bag. He decided to go wait by the door, in hopes of catching his friend eventually.

"Harry!" a familiar delighted voice called somewhere nearby when Harry had barely made a move from the check-out line, and Harry turned with a grin already taking over his face. And just in time, because the next moment Hermione had her arms wrapped around his neck.

"I still need to breathe, Hermione," Harry gasped when he was starting to feel lightheaded with the lack of oxygen. "But it's nice to see you, too."

Hermione let go of him and took a step back to take a good look at his face. She had barely started when a frown pulled her brows down into a displeased frown.

"Oh, you look horrible!" she exclaimed and fussed a bit, brushing hair off his forehead and straightening the collar of his shirt.

"Why, thank you," Harry replied dryly and subtly backed out of reach from her hands. "That's the best compliment I've heard in ages."

Hermione scoffed amusedly, "That's not what I mean, and you know it. You look like you've barely slept!"

"Yeah, well. . ." Harry mumbled and shrugged. Technically, he hadn't slept much, because he had spent most of the night trying to hear the familiar steps of pacing, even if they hadn't come all night. Keeping a watchful eye, or ear as the case may be, on Voldemort had seemed more important at the time. "It has been a busy summer," Harry explained vaguely and shrugged a little.

Hermione made a strange expression then, something close to sly guilt crossing her face, "I know exactly what you mean. There's lots of catching up to do."

Harry waved a hand towards the buzzing Diagon Alley behind the shop windows and told her, "There's an ice cream parlour just down there. I wouldn't be opposed to trying it out."

Hermione offered him a bright smile. "Perfect," she said, before admitted, "I've missed you, you know."

Something warmed oddly in Harry's chest at that and he couldn't quite help the smile that insisted on appearing onto his face. Perhaps this was how it felt like to have a real friend, Harry thought, as he replied with, "I'm really happy to see you, too."

The ice cream parlour was rather busy thanks to the warm and sunny weather, but they managed to secure a table. After struggling for a moment to decide from the most imaginative selection of flavours, and after ordering inhumanly large portions of most of them, they settled down.

It took some small talk and a polite exchange of 'how you're doing's, before it became apparent that there was something pressing on Hermione's mind. She shifted restlessly in her seat and kept shooting Harry apprehensive looks when she thought he wouldn't notice.

Poorly hiding a smile, Harry decided to have mercy on her after a minute or two, "There's clearly something you'd like to talk about more than the weather."

Hermione hummed a little, but didn't try to deny it. "I was really glad when I got your letter, but to be entirely honest, it wasn't just because I had missed your company," she said and smiled a little.

"I think my feelings can take it," Harry promised, "What is it then?"

"So, uh, I'm not sure how to start really," Hermione began hesitantly and poked her raspberry ice cream with her spoon, stealing some time to organize her thoughts.

"The beginning is usually a good place," Harry told her and offered a calming smile. It was obvious that for some reason Hermione was getting quite nervous, which in turn was making Harry a bit worried. What if she had found out about Voldemort? While being the Dark Lord's protégé—or whatever he was—wasn't something Harry was exactly ashamed of, he still knew that, if the truth came out, it would change, and most likely make worse, many things.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Usually, yes, but I think this time it's best to start with facts," she said before she drew a deep breath and basically blurted out, "Harry, you're dead."

Harry stared at her for a while and waited for the punch line. Nothing followed, so he blinked slowly before he stated carefully, "Um, I feel pretty alive."

Hermione shook her head. "That's not what I mean. Of course you are alive. I've never heard of dead people who can talk and consume worrying amounts of chocolate ice cream—"

"Hey, I happen to like chocolate!" Harry tried to protest, but she ignored him entirely.

"—but according to every official database you died over a decade ago," she finished and stopped there, seemingly waiting for Harry to respond.

Harry mulled it over slowly, staring down at his ice cream and putting facts together slowly and methodically.

"Well, that kind of makes sense then," he nodded finally.

An incredulous expression took over Hermione's face, "Makes sense? Harry, I'm not sure if you actually heard what I said, but you are dead as far as—"

"Oh no, that's not what I meant" Harry hurried to interrupt before she could carry on. "I cast a bit of warding magic over the holiday, you see, and I've been expecting a letter from the Ministry because of the underage magic laws and all, but they never sent me one. It just makes sense now why they didn't, since they think I'm dead apparently."

Hermione's expression turned curious. "Warding magic? Now, that's inter—no! No, we are not talking about that right now. Remind me later," she hurried to interrupt herself and cast a stern look at Harry. "Does this not alarm you?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really. It seems pretty handy so far," he replied before he realised to ask something else. "But how and why do you know about this?"

It was Hermione's turn to make a little shrug. "I was curious. You said you knew nothing about your family, so I wanted to do some research." As she spoke she reached for her bag and dug out a folder of papers. She passed it over the table to Harry who reached for it curiously.

"What's this then?" he asked as he flipped it open.

"Family trees, birth certificates, magical merits and occupations," Hermione listed. "Essentially all the information I could find on your family."

Harry blinked at her. "What?"

She seemed a bit flustered. "It has been a very boring summer, alright? Besides, the Potter family is apparently very old and quite respected, so there was lots of information to be found. On your father's side, that is. Apparently your mother came from a muggle family, so the Ministry archives didn't have much on her, but I managed to find bits and pieces about her, too."

Harry flipped through the pages slowly. "I. . . Well, I can't say that I don't appreciate your efforts, but this wasn't really necessary. They have been dead for a very long time."

Hermione made a frustrated sound. "Just because they're dead doesn't mean you should forget about them entirely! They are your family, part of your history. I thought you might find it interesting."

Harry did, in fact, find it quite fascinating, but he couldn't help but wonder if Voldemort would appreciate it as much as Harry did.

Harry looked up to assure Hermione that he understood and appreciated her efforts, but the expression on her face caught the words in his throat before he could voice his thoughts. Hermione was staring at him with concern and her lips were pressed into a tight line of sadness.

"What?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Harry," she began, but had to stop to clear her throat, "When you said your parents have been dead for a long time. . . You mean that you know when they died."

"Well, yes," Harry confirmed, not entirely sure what she was after.

"And you didn't seem all that surprised that the Ministry thinks you're dead, too," Hermione added. She was staring intently at her quickly melting ice cream as if it had greatly offended her somehow. She looked up after a moment to ask, "You know about the attack then?"

Harry blinked slowly. "The attack?"

"Your parents didn't just die!" Hermione pointed out, sounding agitated for some reason. "There was a Death Eater attack and both of them were killed. I read the articles and it wasn't just some random attack either, they were after your family."

"It wasn't Death Ea—" Harry started, but swallowed the rest of his sentence before he could finish. While Voldemort had told Harry that it was him who murdered the Potters, apparently the rest of the world didn't know that. For whatever reason the attack was written off as a Death Eater attack and if that was the way the Dark Lord preferred it, then who was Harry to change it.

Hermione didn't seem to pay attention to his wavering, but looked up at him and carried on, "You disappeared that night, after the attack." She stopped long enough to draw a deep breath, almost as if to brace herself before she asked, "Where have you been?"

Harry stared back, blinked and cleared his throat uncertainly, before he wondered, "What do you mean 'where have I been'? I've been. . . home? You know with. . ." Harry didn't know how to finish so he raised a hand and waved it vaguely towards some direction behind him.

His display didn't seem to settle Hermione any. She only appeared more concerned and something like pity seemed to twist her mouth downwards. She reached over the table and grasped his hand with strength that turned her knuckles white and made his bones grind together almost painfully.

"You have no idea how much I'd like to be wrong, but Harry, you have been missing for over ten years," Hermione said. "You disappeared the night your parents were murdered by Death Eaters. Did they. . . Were you with them? Have you been with your parents' murderers this entire time?"

Yes, Harry supposed he could see how that was enough to make her worry. It did sound rather unusual when you put it like that.

"Hermione, I'm fine," he reassured slowly, "I have been fine and I will be fine and I'm very much not dead."

Instead of calming down, like Harry had hoped she would, she huffed an agitated breath and let go of his hand to push her curls off of her face irritably.

"That is not what I mean!" she exclaimed, "You have to. . . We have to. . . You can't stay with them! There has to be someone who can help you. If someone knew, someone at the Ministry or even at Hogwarts or. . ."

"Dumbledore knows," Harry tells her in a vain attempt to calm her down. Then he gave it a bit of thought and added, "And Snape, too."

It did seem to work since she stopped in the middle of her rant and stared at Harry with a frown on her face. "What do you mean Dumbledore knows?" she asked and let her wildly gesturing hands return to the table.

"I mean that he knows where I am. Where I have been," Harry explained, encouraged by the way she seemed to be calming down. "So, it's perfectly fine! I'm not being held hostage or anything."

"You mean to say that Dumbledore knows and hasn't done anything," she recapped and Harry was about to confirm, but her flat tone made him hesitate.

Instead he just offered a weak smile and began to stand up. He said cheerily, "Yep, um, we should go get the rest of our stuff. Did you have time to drop by at the apothecary? I'll probably get a new cauldron, too, because of that stupid lab accident at the end of last year."

"Harry, sit down or I swear to Helga that I will hex you, even if the Ministry sends me a hundred letters for it!" Hermione said in a tone that left very little room for argument. Harry obediently sat back down, but carefully didn't let his smile slip.

"Seriously, it's all fine! You don't have to worry about it," Harry tried feebly.

"Well, obviously I do!" Hermione argued. "No one else seems to be worrying about it. If you won't do something about this, then I will. You are my friend, Harry, I can't just stand here and watch…" She stopped to draw in a breath that turned out alarmingly weak and shaky. For one heart-stoppingly terrifying moment Harry was sure she'd cry.

"No, no, please, no, don't," he hurried to say and comfortingly patted her hands that still rested limply on the table.

Harry had no idea what to do or how to make it better. He had abandoned that track of ideas already and was only desperately wondering about how to escape the entire situation now. If he hadn't been so fond of her, he would have bolted long ago, but even more pressingly, he had no clue what she might do if he did leave before he had sorted this out somehow.

"Hermione," he started with the calmest and most comforting tone he could manage. "Do not worry about this, about me. Despite what you might think, it is fine. If you are so insistent about it, I already told you, Dumbledore knows and even he can't do anything, so you'd better believe there's absolutely no reason for you to worry. There's nothing you could do. There's nothing I'd want you to do. I'm perfectly fine right where I am."

Harry was quite proud of himself for that little piece, but some of the pride dissipated when her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"You said it differently now," Hermione pointed out slowly.

"Said what?" Harry wondered, quickly recalling what he had said but still finding nothing out of place.

"You said Dumbledore can't do anything," she repeated. "Why can't he? No, no, that doesn't matter. Even if he can't, there has to be someone who could! We will just have to find them and—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted and this time he was louder and sharper. "Leave it."

"I can't! This is not something I can just leave be as it is!"

Harry closed his eyes momentarily before he said slowly and clearly, trying his very best to make her understand, "You are my friend, too. I understand that you worry. But you have to drop this. He will kill you, Hermione, if he thinks you are a bother."

This seemed to startle Hermione out of her fervent state and she froze for a moment, almost startled.

"Who? Who will kill me?" she asked then, carefully. "Tell me, Harry."

"I won't," Harry told her simply as he stood up to pick up his bag of recently purchased books. "I won't tell you anything I think might end up killing you. And trust me, this will. I appreciate your concern, but I appreciate it even more when you're alive."

There was finality in his tone and some level of desperation that she must have read, because after a long moment of hesitation she nodded slowly. She stood up too, and seemed to waver for another moment before she stepped closer and pulled Harry into a bone-crushing hug.

"I don't like this. I don't like this one bit," she mumbled before letting go of him reluctantly, "But I will not insist, if you are sure. Just remember that if you ever. . .need help or need to talk or anything, I'm here." She shuffled awkwardly, but nodded with determination when she had finished speaking.

Harry offered her a smile. "I know. And thank you for it. But I'm honestly fine."

She didn't seem all that convinced, but to Harry's great relief she seemed to be letting it go for now. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't stupid enough to think he had heard the last of it, but at least he had somehow bought himself more time to figure out what to say.

Besides, he didn't really even understand why she fussed so much. Yes, it might have been odd that he was thought dead, but surely she could see it for herself that he was as alright as he claimed. Perhaps he'd find the right words to assure her, once he had a moment to think about it. It would have made it easier if he could tell her about his life at the Manor and about how much he really cared for Voldemort and Nagini, but somehow he didn't think that was what she wanted to hear right now.

Instead, Harry offered her a smile and was rewarded with one of hers in return.

"Come on then," he prompted, "I really do need that cauldron. It wasn't just a distraction technique."

She huffed a weak laugh. "And what a rubbish distraction technique it was at that."

Harry didn't bother to hide the real smile that took over his face then. He was all too relieved that things seemed to be fine with them, despite the uncomfortable conversation they just had.

They made their way through a couple more shops, buying the things they needed for the upcoming year. While the silences between them were a bit uncomfortable, they both made a brave attempt at filling them with inane chatter about their summers and the future studies they'd be doing that year. Harry found himself slowly relaxing and realising that he had really missed this at the Manor, talking with someone who actually listened to what he had to say instead of always listening to someone who talked at him.

And just when it was all going swimmingly and Harry had all but forgotten about Voldemort wandering somewhere loose, it all went to hell once again.

Hermione was explaining excitedly about the pretentious peacock of a wizard Harry had spotted in the Flourish and Blotts. Apparently he was a famous writer and more importantly their future Professor in Defence Against Dark Arts.

When Harry had unthinkingly scoffed, "I doubt that ponce has ever defended against any real Dark Arts," he had accidentally sent Hermione off on one of her rants. She was in the middle of a detailed description of the grand adventures of one Gilderoy Lockhart when sudden yelling somewhere nearby interrupted her mid-sentence. They both looked up towards the noise curiously and saw half a dozen Aurors rushing towards them and calling out to people.

"Leave now! Get back home right now," one of them yelled at the people gathered in the Alley. "There's another attack."

The exclamation was followed by a series of scared cries and loud pops of Disapparation as people began to hurry away in fear.

"What is—" Hermione began to ask, but Harry barely heard. He whirled around, looking searchingly around, trying to catch the cause of the commotion. And there! He could hear distant terrified screams and something that sounded a lot like the roar of fire, somewhere south of where they were standing. Looking up, Harry caught the familiar greenish glow of Fiendfyre, drawing up against the sky.

Well, then.

He turned back towards Hermione and grasped her shoulders.

"You need to leave," he told her firmly. "You need to leave right now. Head back towards the Leaky Cauldron, there should be people there and you should be safe with them."

"But what—"

Harry shook her a bit. "Hermione! Remember that talk about things that could kill you? This is one of them. Do as I told you."

Then he let go of her abruptly and turned towards the fire. He barely made it three steps when a hand took hold of his elbow and pulled him back.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, sounding half worried and half angry. "You're coming with me! You heard them, it's not safe here."

Harry shook his head. "I can't."

Her expression was the very image of stubbornness, and frustration began to grow in Harry's mind. He didn't have time for this. It was obvious that whatever had happened was caused by Voldemort and a bunch of Aurors were on their way there. Harry had to make sure that he was fine, that everything was alright.

"Don't be stupid," she bit out. "It's dangerous! Even if you're a self-proclaimed supporter of the Dark or something crazy like that, it doesn't mean they can't kill you, too!"

Harry drew in a breath, anger rising, but before he could voice his thoughts he remembered. He was already dead, wasn't he? So, there was very little he couldn't do when it came down to it. No one could exactly persecute a dead school kid with crimes he might or might not have committed.

Harry's conscience uttered a weak protest which he was quick to squash mercilessly. This was an emergency and she was nothing if not stubborn.

"Hermione, I have no words to tell you how sorry I am, but you leave me no choice," he said and drew his wand from his robe pocket.

Hermione's eyes widened and something sharp and painful cut at Harry's chest when he saw the startled fear there, but he didn't hesitate when he cast the spell. It wasn't like he'd actually harm her.

"Imperio."

He had never done it before. He had never needed to do it before. He had never thought that he could, never believed that he'd have the determination and the strength to command in such a way. But necessity and urgency are good teachers. He cast it carefully and precisely.

Her eyes went unfocused and her expression oddly distant, which made Harry believe that it had worked, so he pocketed his wand. He stared at her vacant face for a heartbeat, feeling a strange terror rising in him. He had done this. He remembered what it was like, to be ensnared in the Imperius Curse, and he had still done this almost without hesitation.

Harry swallowed thickly.

"You need to leave the Alley, Hermione, quickly," he told her as calmly as he could manage. "Go home, go straight home. Everything is fine, I promise. I'll see you when school starts. I am sorry."

He turned on his heels again and began to walk, but he turned a bit further down to look behind. He watched her back as Hermione hurried towards the opposite direction, towards safety, and something like regret tried to claw itself out of him. He pushed it down firmly.

Harry made his way quickly towards the raging Fiendfyre, skipped past buildings and dodged into alleyways to avoid the rushing people and watchful eyes. It took him a few minutes, but the dead bodies of Aurors that littered the street were a good indication of when he was getting close.

Of course he found Voldemort there, engaged in a lazy duel with another Auror. Harry skidded to a halt nearby, just when the Dark Lord finished the poor wizard with a quick and effortless Killing Curse. Harry must have uttered some kind of noise, because then Voldemort was swirling towards him and the spell was sent flying before the man had clearly given it even a conscious thought. Luckily, Harry was prepared and ducked out of the way before damage could occur. He scraped his knees on the harsh cobblestones, but ignored it as he jumped back onto his feet and turned to raise an eyebrow at Voldemort.

"And here I was, coming to check on you," Harry said and hoisted his book bag higher on his shoulder.

"Of course it would be you," Voldemort crumbled, but despite the words he sounded oddly calm and satisfied, considering the situation. He turned to look at the nearby buildings that were being consumed by the green, magical fire. Harry followed his gaze and frowned at the complete destruction before he cast a look around at the dead Aurors. There was blood splattered around the cobbled alley and the nearby walls, which suggested that even though the last Auror had had a clean death, the others were not so lucky.

"This must be why you don't come here often," Harry joked weakly and stumbled across the distance that still separated them. He stopped next to Voldemort and felt the unnatural heat of Fiendfyre scorch through his clothes even this far away. "I hope you at least got what you came here for," Harry then said and looked up curiously at Voldemort.

"It wasn't her," the man told him simply and swirled his yew wand lazily through his fingers as he cast a look around at his own handiwork.

"Who wasn't what?" Harry asked dumbly, as he followed the look before he quickly looked away again. Despite everything, there was something about the mindless death and the utter destruction that made Harry's stomach churn.

"Zabini. It wasn't her," the Dark Lord explained curtly.

Harry blinked, suddenly realising what they were talking about. "Oh," he mumbled, honestly quite surprised by the new information. "Did you get a name then?"

A slow dangerous smile stretched across Voldemort's face, clear satisfaction in it. "I did," he admitted and sounded like all the good things in the world had just been handed to him.

Harry raised an arm to protect his face against the intense heat of the Fiendfyre before he turned to look at Voldemort and asked curiously, "Who was it?"

"Never heard of her before," Voldemort shrugged, and seemed oddly nonchalant about it. Although, Harry had to admit, it wasn't probably all that unusual to have unexpected enemies popping up left and right when you were a Dark Lord.

"Well, at least this is a start," Harry commented, took a look around at the crumbled buildings, shattered stone and wood, and the miserable sight that was a notable length of Diagon Alley. "Pity about the Alley, though. Thanks for at least waiting until I was done with buying my school stuff."

"Hmm," Voldemort responded vaguely, but something on his face seemed odd and out of place.

Harry took one guess, "You completely forgot I was even here, didn't you?"

Voldemort shot him a look from the corner of his eye and assured, "I most definitely did not."

Harry didn't believe it. "And if one of these damn houses had collapsed on me, then what would have you done?"

"Gone home and carried on as per usual," Voldemort shot back, turned on his heel and took firm hold of Harry's shoulder.

"And then who would have been there to make you tea when—" Harry started, but the rest of his sentence was swallowed as the Side-Along Apparation tore him away from Diagon Alley and the chaos left behind.

…o0o…

-tbc-

…o0o…