Chapter Text
Lord Voldemort was in an exceptionally bad mood, that much was crystal clear to the members of the inner circle present in the meeting room. Draco Malfoy shrunk in on himself even more than he usually did, ignoring the glare of his father who was trying to sit up right, his body trembling.
The other Death Eaters simply sat in their usual seats, with the occasional twitching of Bellatrix. The Lestrange brothers' facial expressions were completely neutral, not giving away anything even if perhaps they were scared out of their minds. An angry Dark Lord usually meant a lot of Cruciatus curses thrown left and right, however this time Lord Voldemort seemed to be seething silently, which was even more deadly. They hoped not.
Snape was the first one who got bored of the silence as he drawled, "My Lord, is there anything wrong?"
"Shut up, Severus," the wizard snapped, his fingers running in his hair in a frustrated manner.
"I can relieve you of some of your stress, my Lord, if you allow me," Bellatrix mewled lewdly, flinching immediately at Voldemort's murderous glare.
"Bellatrix, I suggest you shut your trap if you want to walk out of this room on your own legs," he snapped, twirling his wand between his fingers. "I have become aware of some disturbing news today," he started eventually with an uncharacteristic heavy sigh.
"What news, my Lord?" Snape gulped. His hand automatically tightened around the fabric of his robe. He put up his Occlumency shields as soon as the Dark Lord gazed into his eyes, pushing forward memories that would not give him away and place the Order in danger.
"That information is none of your business, Severus," he hissed gravely. "I merely conducted this meeting in hopes of some of you offering your help tonight… I must go and take care of something effective immediately," he said, raking his eyes over his followers.
"Draco would be glad to assist you, my Lord," Lucius sprung up suddenly. The younger Malfoy's head jerked up incredulously, but hung his head low again as soon as his eyes connected with Voldemort's. The Dark Lord smiled indulgently, ignoring the hissing chuckle of Nagini on his right.
"Brilliant idea, Lucius. Young Draco will be most helpful in this situation, I'm sure…" he drawled. "Rabastan, Rodolphus— You two are coming as well. The rest of you may go, I will notify you if your presence is needed in the next few days," he waved his hand dismissively.
Draco sat on his chair trembling slightly. He felt his mother squeeze his arm gently once before she and her father hurried out of the meeting room. The others left without much complication too — except maybe the grumbling coming from Bellatrix — and it wasn't long before he was alone with only the Lestranges and Voldemort for company. He gulped audibly, ignoring the snicker of Rodolphus as he lifted his head, scared of seeming disrespectful. He really didn't want to be subjected to the Cruciatus curse that evening.
"Gentlemen, tonight's mission is a fragile one. I must ask you to wear your masks and do not let yourself be identified by anyone. We will cause as little mayhem as possible — I want this to happen as peacefully as it can," he hissed with a glare, fingering the tip of his dark yew wand. "Understood?"
"Of course, my Lord," Rabastan nodded, his brother following along a heartbeat later. Draco copied their actions before taking the liberty of conjuring his mask, holding it in his hand carefully.
"My Lord, may I ask a question?" he inquired quietly, afraid of raising his voice lest it start to tremble.
"Speak up, boy!" Voldemort snapped impatiently. "What is it?"
"Where, exactly, are we going, my Lord?" he asked cautiously.
"We are going to retrieve the Potter boy from his despicable muggle relatives before Dumbledore does."
Harry Potter sat on his tiny bed in his slightly bigger than tiny room, twirling a random pen he'd found earlier between his fingers. He was restless, his scar still somewhat aching even after the pain potion he'd taken from his stash under the loosened floorboard earlier. He rubbed at it absently, sighing as it didn't seem to want to subdue in the slightest.
It was just his luck, really. He didn't even know why it hurt, although it was considerably better than at the graveyard. He shuddered thinking about the excruciating pain he felt when Voldemort's cold, clammy fingers had pressed against his forehead. Disgusting.
He sighed as Cedric's seemingly lifeless body flashed before his eyes. Apparently, Voldemort's heart hadn't really been all that into killing the brunet, seeing as he was currently recovering in St. Mungo's. Last Harry heard, Cedric was coming along nicely in his recovery with the help of the Healers and his support from his family and Cho.
Harry was glad Cedric was alright, it eased his guilt quite a substantial amount.
Right now though, he was going crazy. He hadn't heard from anyone else other than Sirius since the summer holidays began, and it was almost his birthday. The Dursleys were just as bad as they had been before and not even the threats of 'the murderer' — namely one Sirius Black — seemed to work. The chores were somehow worse now and Vernon had actually raised his hand at him once again, splitting his lip. Of course he told Sirius about it, however his godfather wasn't able to do anything— Dumbledore's orders, he'd said. And Harry understood, really, he did. But at the same time he didn't.
He knew about the blood wards, which were supposed to keep Voldemort away and required him to stay at the Dursley residence, but that had been little comfort when he'd had to clean the blood from his face.
Vernon's gruff voice tore him out of his musings.
"Come downstairs, boy!" he barked.
Harry let out yet another sigh and threw the pen onto the desk before making his way down the stairs warily. He peeked into the living room and sure enough there he found Vernon, sitting on the sofa like a big plop of fat. Harry had to physically restrain himself from frowning in disgust. How aunt Petunia managed to go to bed with the pig every night was truly beyond him.
"Yes, uncle Vernon?" he gritted out, trying and failing to sound polite.
"Don't get that tone with me, boy!" barked the large man, glaring daggers at his nephew. "We are going to have guests tomorrow. My boss and his wife are coming over for dinner, and you are going to cook it. Then, you will disappear into your room and only breathe when you really have to; make yourself as invisible as you can. I won't have you embarrassing me in front of them," he said, sputtering spit almost everywhere with the intensity of his accent.
"Yes, uncle Vernon," he said in a defeated voice. It was just a dinner. He would cook it and then make himself scarce; maybe then he'd get a little bit of the leftovers.
"Now, get into th—"
Uncle Vernon was promptly cut off by the front door slamming open with a bang.
Harry's hand instinctively flew to the place his wand was supposed to be and promptly let out a string of curses. This really was not the greatest time for his wand to be locked away into the cupboard underneath the stairs. He made his way to the hall hurriedly anyway, sucking in a deep breath upon noticing the Death Eaters in the doorway. Their faces were covered by their masks, the hoods of their midnight black robes covering half of the masks anyway.
He looked at the one who stood in front of the other three and his scar immediately started to hurt. He groaned, hand flying to his forehead instinctively. What happened to the bloody wards Dumbledore had been talking about ever since the end of fourth year?
"How the hell did you manage to get in here?" he hissed, voice laced with anger. He heard Petunia shriek behind him before running back into the living room and he hoped to Merlin they would just stay there until he took care of the situation. But how could he? There were three Death Eaters and fucking Voldemort right in front of him and he was wandless. He had a hunch that no amount of wandless magic could be useful against the Dark Lord.
"Why, I just walked right up, Harry Potter," a velvety voice answered. Gone was the hoarse hiss, Harry noted, and gone were the claws as well. Come think of it, Voldemort's skin didn't look that sickly gray color anymore. He couldn't help but be curious about what had happened earlier that summer to make this possible.
"What do you want?" he asked icily.
"You, of course, Harry," came the answer calmly. "But first, I'm afraid I have a bit of business that I have to take care of which involves your muggles." Harry could practically hear the sneer, he didn't need to see it; he was at a loss. His hand shook as he raked his thoughts for something that would work, however, he didn't seem to stand a chance. "Petrificus Totalus! My apologies, Potter," Voldemort drawled as he stepped next to Harry's petrified body. He couldn't see the man, but he was sure he had gone in the living room.
Harry watched warily as one of the Death Eaters stood above him and pointed his wand at him. So, this is how I go, he thought sourly, at the hands of a Death Eater.
"Finite incantatem," he murmured, and Harry immediately felt the control back in his limbs. Although not for very long, seeing as almost instantly he felt thick ropes curve themselves around his wrists and ankles. "You mustn't run, I'm sure you understand, Potter," the Death Eater said, levitating a struggling Harry onto the stairs where he was ceremoniously dropped onto his butt. His voice was eerily familiar and it took Harry a few minutes to be able to put his finger on it. He knew he'd heard that voice before, the snobby accent quite hard to miss.
"Malfoy?!" he gaped. "You foul, slimy, absolutely barmy fucking git— You're one of his minions?"
"How very eloquent of you, Potter," he stated flatly. "I was inducted shortly after the term ended, if you must know," he drawled, twirling his wand between his fingers.
"Let me go, Malfoy," Harry snapped, tugging at the ropes hugging his ankles and wrists. He heard Dudley let out a scream filled with pain and his blood froze in his veins. He started tugging more frantically, albeit to no avail. The ropes were obviously magical, seeing as despite them not hurting him at all, they still weren't easing up at all.
"Not likely," Malfoy stated calmly, as if he were just talking about the weather outside. The other two were just lounging around the hall, inspecting the pictures on the walls. It was a rather comic sight, and Harry was sure he would have laughed, had Voldemort not been in the process of murdering his relatives in the next room.
Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. Opening them, he focused on Malfoy's wand which he was still twirling between his fingers and tried to wandlessly summon it. Of course, it didn't work seeing as he only managed to master wordless magic last school year, not wandless one as well. Malfoy snorted, but tucked away his wand for good measure.
Another gut-wrenching scream came from the living room and Harry flinched. He closed his eyes tightly, pressing his head between his knees. His scar really hurt properly now, sharp white pain coursing through it as he gave a groan. It felt as if Voldemort's anger was splitting his head in a million little pieces. He lifted his head and rubbed his bound arms against his forehead in hopes of alleviating some of it, alas in vain.
"What's wrong with him?" asked one of the Death Eaters whose voice he didn't recognize. Malfoy glanced at him and shrugged in response. "Potter, what's wrong?" he turned to the raven-haired boy. Harry stared at him incredulously, as if he didn't believe it was a genuine question; but he supposed that was only natural. He was trapped in his own home with his archenemy and his minions; his relatives screaming and shouting and begging for mercy that would not come.
"I can't imagine anything that could even be remotely bad. Not a thing," he hissed, gritting his teeth together. Fuck, how he wished Voldemort would just calm the fuck down and stop giving him such horrible, indestructible migraines that ate his brain from the inside.
The Death Eaters ignored him from then onwards. They didn't have to wait for long, though, seeing as Voldemort walked into the hallway a few minutes later. He looked pristine—his golden mask intact and in place, nothing out of the ordinary. Not a drop of blood, which could mean the best or the worst at the same time.
"Brilliant relatives you have there, I must say, Potter," he drawled, his wand in hand. "How you survived all these years amazes me, to be quite honest."
"I'm sure you know I'm supposed to be the Boy-Who-Won't-Fucking-Die. That doesn't only apply to situations you are a part of," Harry muttered. The sharp pain in his scar eased into a dull, much more tolerable throbbing.
"Such crude language," Voldemort tutted as if he were a father scolding his only child. Harry grimaced at the thought and even gagged a bit. "As charming as conversing with you is, Potter, I'm afraid we have to get going now."
"What did you do to them?" Harry demanded, once again trying to free his wrists from the rope's prison.
"You needn't worry about that," Voldemort replied, the dismissal clear in his voice.
"Did you kill them?"
"Of course I didn't kill them, you foolish boy. What do you think I am, an idiot?" the Dark Lord sneered, looking around the hall in obvious disdain. The frown on his face only deepened as he took notice of the numerous picture of Dudley's gigantic self. "Where are your things, boy?" Voldemort turned to him suddenly, and Harry felt the pain intensify once again. He gritted his teeth together and scrunched his nose up, raising his chin defiantly as if it could make the pain go away.
"Why don't you just Accio them, if you're such a mighty powerful wizard?" he spat, albeit with far less bite than he intended to, probably due to the splitting headache he was sporting seeing as he refused to give Voldemort the pleasure of seeing him cower in front of him.
Voldemort grunted, then flicked his wand wordlessly in an intricate manner Harry had never seen before. The door of the tiny cupboard under the stairs slammed open at once, his things floating out of it fastly, but still delicately. His heart rate sped up upon seeing his wand, the wood calling to him like no other. Harry's throat tightened as he saw the single Gryffindor necktie curled around the handle of the trunk— It had been his father's once, a long time ago. Sirius had given it to him the last time he'd seen him just before the term ended. He then pursed his lips together, set on not letting the wizard standing in front of him and his minions see him weak.
"Ah, I wondered why you hadn't knocked my Death Eaters out yet," he drawled upon seeing the wand. He grabbed it and tucked it away — Harry winced — before shrinking the trunk and passing it to one of his followers. "Right, I believe we are all set. If you wish to take something else, do tell me," he said calmly, glancing at the still bound form of Harry.
"Hedwig," Harry muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"My owl. She's upstairs," he said curtly, his eyes leaving Voldemort's mask-covered face for the first time.
"Alright," Voldemort relented then turned to one of the Death Eaters. "Go upstairs and free the owl. Tell it to go straight to the manor," he instructed him, and the man went without a word. Harry was a bit worried— Hedwig wasn't very good with new people, especially murderers. Although, he thought, it certainly wouldn't be a bad thing if she nipped at his hand a bit harsher than usually.
"My Lord," Malfoy spoke up. "What are we going to do about the Muggles?" There was a worried edge to his voice which Harry found quite strange.
"We aren't going to do anything about them," he drawled. "I already took care of it, of course. Unless you don't trust me, young one?" he asked and Harry could practically touch the threat with his fingertips. The tension was high for a few seconds before Malfoy bowed his head a bit.
"Of course I trust you, My Lord."
"Good," Voldemort nodded as the Death Eater returned from upstairs. Sadly, Harry couldn't see anything out of place on him which essentially meant that Hedwig hadn't attacked him. He frowned, mentally making a note of telling Hedwig later who to nip at harder. He wondered whether they'd let him write a letter but then immediately realized it was a stupid concept. The fact that he hadn't been majorly harmed yet meant nothing, as he was still being kidnapped; a fact he needn't forget.
Oh, how he wished he had Ron's obliviously unbothered personality.
Voldemort closed the gap between Harry and himself, placing his cold hand on his shoulder. It took everything in Harry not to flinch at the contact as he swallowed the bike that had risen in his throat. Merlin's saggy left ball, Voldemort was touching him and Harry didn't even have a wand— not that it would have helped him much, seeing as he was just every bit as tied up as he had been minutes prior.
"You three know where to go," he drawled. "Go on and inform Lucius we're arriving."
With two pops, the three cloaked figures Disapparated, one of them firmly clasping the other's elbow.
"Don't touch me," Harry sneered, trying to get farther from the monster he knew was under the midnight black robes. He heard an icy chuckle and shivered; he hoped death came soon.
The Dark Lord simply tightened his hold on the bony shoulder as an answer and pointed his wand upwards.
"Such a little Gryffindor." Harry heard his raspy, deep voice murmur before he was sucked into the sick swirl of Apparition.
The room they landed in was spacious and alive with light despite it being dark outside. Harry supposed the windows were charmed to make the inhabitant think it was natural light coming through them. No matter, Harry loved the fact that the space was so bright.
His wrists and ankles were free after the woosh of a wand— namely one Tom Riddle's wand. The wizard had donned the golden mask and was now standing in the middle of the room clad only in the black hooded robes. Harry couldn't help but stare; the figure standing in front of him was so far from the snake-like thing that had come out of the cauldron at the end of his fourth year that it actually amazed Harry. The man in front of him resembled the Tom Riddle he had seen in the Chamber of Secrets in his second year, only he was a bit paler, looked a little older and had glowing, crimson eyes.
Harry felt extremely uncomfortable.
"We're at Malfoy Manor," the pale wizard spoke up suddenly. "I figured you would like having someone your age around, wouldn't you?"
"Malfoy and I don't get along really well," he gritted out through his teeth.
"Well, that's not really any of my concern now, is it?"
Merlin, but the man was infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin— looked Voldemort dead in the eyes and waited for the sharp pain to start.
It didn't.
He scrunched up his nose, but let it go, grateful that he didn't feel the migraine anymore. He watched, eyes like a hawk, as the midnight-haired man elegantly reached under his robe and took out Harry's wand. The teenager's breath hitched— He almost expected Voldemort to simply snap his wand in two. But, that didn't happen.
Instead, the wizard took a few steps closer and extended the wooden stick towards him. Harry stared at it for a few seconds before slowly reaching out his hand and curling his finger around the wand as it hummed happily at being in his owner's hands once again.
Harry should have known there was a catch, really.
Voldemort suddenly whipped out his own wand, pressing it against Harry's throat as he gripped the fingers curled around the brother of his wand. He sneered down at the raven-haired boy, as there was a significant height difference between them, and bore his eyes into the emerald orbs.
"If you so much as try any magic, I won't hesitate to have you thrown into a cellar," he hissed out, the threat crystal clear in his voice.
"We'll see," Harry spat, not being able to stop himself and glared at the Dark Lord towering over him. "I will not take orders from you!"
"We'll see," replied Voldemort, his face settling into a dangerous smirk. "Do enjoy your stay here, Mr Potter. I believe it will be lengthy."
Then, he Apparated straight out of the room, leaving Harry confused, with his hand still glued to his wand.
A few hours later, the room was still bright and Harry was sitting on the edge of the enormous bed, Hedwig on his shoulder and his wand between his fingers. His palm itched to do some magic, however, he knew he couldn't risk it. He didn't want to be sacked from Hogwarts for violating rules, and so he ignored the itchy feeling and sat on the same spot for hours.
He wondered what his friends were doing. They hadn't been able to write to each other compared to the other summer holidays, what with the Dursleys being worse than usual and Hermione going abroad for vacations. Ron had spent most of his summer with Charlie, his older brother, in Romania at the Dragon Reserve. He sent his occasional letter to keep them updated about the dragons — which he was positively enchanted with —, though, so Harry supposed he really couldn't complain. Except, you know, being kidnapped by bloody Malfoy and the Dark Lord.
He really should have been suspicious of how well his fifth year had went, without any major hitches, only a few Death Eater raids.
A house elf had popped by earlier to deposit his things in his new room, although he hadn't touched his trunk yet. He sighed, looking at the big magical clock on the wall which told him it was just after two in the morning. He supposed everyone had to be asleep, so… A stroll could hardly hurt, now, could it?
He tiptoed to his trunk, keeping quiet in his rooms even though he knew no one could possibly hear him and tugged the Invisibility Cloak out of one of the secret pockets. He circled it around his shoulders and gently tugged the gigantic door open.
He was about to step outside on the corridor when his foot bumped into something. He frowned and looked down— It was a silver tray packed with heaps of Wizarding sweets. There were a dozen chocolate frogs as well as a few packets of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans, Fudge Flies and Peppermint Toads. He chuckled; it was a bit silly to leave all of this for him seeing as the sweets were more meant for younger kids, however somewhere deep down it warmed his heart and he wondered which house elf had left it there for him.
He bent down to pick up the tray when he noticed a big, leather-bound book next to it. He picked it up instead and sucked in a breath upon seeing the silver lettering against the dark cover, which read: The Darkest of the Dark Arts and How to Master Them.
He picked them both up, promptly forgetting his intention to go explore the manor and hurried back to the bed where he dumped the sweets onto the mattress.
He twirled the book around for a bit, pondering whether or not to open it, seeing as it was clear who had given it to him along with the sweets. That was another thing he couldn't figure out the reasoning behind as he gnawed on his lower lip but decided to worry about it later.
He noticed a little, colored piece of parchment — he didn't even know those existed — peek out from the middle-ish of the monstrous book. Curiosity taking over him, he gulped as he opened it where it had been marked beforehand.
He read the title of the chapter and frowned,
Horcruxes?