Chapter Text
Travelling turned out every bit as amazing as Harry hoped it would be.
Everything from exploring the scrolls saved from ancient Grecian mages to crawling through ruins in the Romanian countryside that showed how runes structured magical architecture to exploring the melded magical styles in modern-day Prague combining non-magical religious practices with magical ritual -- All of it taught him there was so much more to magic than the Hogwarts’ curriculum or even the Dark Lord’s limited lessons. Every day of the trip he learned new applications for the knowledge he already possessed. Searching out the way that ancient Mesopotamian practices still influenced the practices of modern-day magic on the Arabian peninsula made him appreciate history more than ever. Polynesia showed him how wandless magical craft formed different types of magical societies.
It felt like each place taught him more than the last and a planned four-month trip turned into six then eight and finally nearly a year.
Eventually, the Dark Lord called him home.
§It’s time that you are brought publicly into my circle, little prince,§ Marvolo wrote one day in early spring. §You’ve come into your own as an adult. Now, come home to me.§
When Harry shared the news Severus stilled, his father’s pale face tight with sudden emotion. “We may ask for more time, if you’re not yet ready.”
But Harry wasn’t so certain that was true. With Dumbledore’s body displayed, bloodied and broken, in the main square of Diagon Alley the All Hallow’s Day after his disappearance, the Dark Mark hanging in the air above him, there was little room left for denial. The Ministry had ousted Fudge at the next election and brought in the hardline Madam Bones, who mobilised the Ministry for war. Dumbledore’s organisation -- the Order of the Phoenix -- had doubled in intensity, breaking out into the open to join the fighting.
Harry knew that he and his father could be useful there if they’d gone home; allowing the extra six months of travel and study was pure indulgence on the part of the Dark Lord.
The return to the United Kingdom felt almost shocking, with the clash of the familiar against the sensation that he didn’t quite fit into this world the way he once had.
The public clamoured for his attention, the Ministry greeting him at the International Portkey station in King’s Cross before he even caught his bearings. A gruff, lion-y looking bloke named Scrimgeour, who introduced himself as the new Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head with Bones in higher office, tried to bully Harry into becoming a figurehead for the fight against the Dark Lord when the now 20-year-old hadn’t even been back in his homeland for an hour. That fact that Scrimgeour, who didn’t know about the Time-Turner, thought he was doing this to an 18-year-old only made it worse. The press came next and Harry ended up apparating to escape the obvious ambush Scrimgeour set up given that a journalist from the Daily Prophet laid in wait to photograph them together.
By the time the evening finally ended Harry found himself absconded to a cozy, paranoidly warded personal home on the Welsh sea near Penparcau because the house on Spinner’s End offered only traps due to its registration as Harry’s official address in the Ministry.
The cottage wasn’t large but thanks to the Dursleys’ upper-middle-class aspirations, always striving to appear to have money they could brag about to others, Harry knew how to recognise luxury. He’d seen Petunia fawn and whinge over it often enough. Now it surrounded him with each of the cottage’s seven rooms lushly outfitted with the type of fine ceramics -- plush rugs -- antique furniture -- meant to last for not only your life but as heirlooms.
It felt strangely intimate compared to the larger Riddle manor that Marvolo kept for entertaining, much more lived in, and Harry could picture the man picking out the glittery blue vase filled with water and stones where it sat on top of the bookshelf or the wing-backed upholstered with a sinfully soft-looking velvet tucked into a reading nook.
“This is your home,” he said as the three of them took dinner together the first night. “Your personal home,” and Marvolo had nodded before insisting on briefing them on the state of the war.
The next morning, after brunch, he’d dictated a handful of potions he needed Severus to brew and Harry was still in the process of wondering what he might do for his day while his father brewed when the man stood. “While I appreciate the offer of refuge here, my lord, I believe I will be better equipped to brew for you in my own lab at home. Harry?”
“He stays.”
“Surely you’re too busy to attend to him currently --”
“Severus, he stays. I’m certain your own home would be better equipped for your task and so you have my leave. I expect an update on your progress a few days from now and in two weeks there is an initiation scheduled where I will be announcing Harry publicly.”
After nearly a year of close company, it felt strange to say goodbye but Harry couldn’t help but feel his stomach flutter at the idea of staying here, in this place so entirely belonging to the Dark Lord. And the anticipation of the upcoming initiation nearly drowned him in nerves so that he brushed aside his father’s sad expression as they parted. Severus worried about Harry, every bit the father he’d once sworn off being, that was all.
“What will happen? At the initiation.”
Marvolo led him towards a plush couch, laughing when Harry tilted towards him awkwardly at the unexpected level of give. But when Harry tried to pull away he was brought closer instead. “No. Settle here.” A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and tucked him against the man’s side, their connection flaring to life pleasantly with the contact. “There, much better. This initiation will involve a few of your peers as well as two new Aurors recruited by Dawlish.
“Typically I require them to commit a serious crime to help weed out the uncommitted as well as spies. We are all, each of us, bound by each other’s guilt and our complicity in the act. To betray your fellows is to implicate yourself. We have prisoners at the moment: a member of Dumbledore’s Order, a few Ministry workers who will be detrimental to our political aims, and a special guest of sorts. They will work well for this purpose.” You have to kill someone or, at least, hurt them badly. Harry swallowed hard but said nothing, so Marvolo went on, “Once the task is complete the initiate is Marked, either with my explicitly known mark or, in cases where I need someone to act covertly, in a variation of the Mark.
“Your initiation will be different as is befitting your unique status in my life.”
“Different?” His chest pounded. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be singled out like this. What if the others resented it?
“You will be Marked in private before your initiation. I hardly need to see you there to know your commitment to me, to us.” Marvolo brushed a kiss on the top of his head and Harry melted a little bit against his chest. The bond thrummed harder, a torturous sort of pleasure buzzing along his skin, sinking into his nerves until his heartbeat pounded in his ears and his --
Bloody hell. Harry curled his legs up onto the couch and against his chest to hide his inappropriate reaction. He hadn’t had a poorly timed erection like this in a year!
He threw a net out to capture something that might divide his attention and help him settle down. “Will I have the explicit mark? The way that Dad does?”
“No, Little Prince. I’ll show you what I intend later. Come, now, tell me of… Let’s start with your favourite part of Prague.”
Harry settled into the cottage over the next few days, happy to shut the demanding world of wizardry Britain out for a little while longer, but eventually, as the fifth evening came to a close he knew he couldn’t put off the question any longer. No matter how nervous he was he needed to know if in a little over a week he’d be judged publicly.
“Marvolo, I was wondering… you’ve never said what my end of the exchange would be. Of course, we said that if you took care of me I’d join you but what does that mean? I think I could be a real help in fights against the Ministry and the Order and, well, now I’ve decided on the joint Runes/Potions Mastery I should someday be able to design better magical objects.”
He wanted to take a crack at making an improved Time-Turner that drew less energy from the user. Or to create a Pensieve that would reject altered memories and could broadcast the memories to a large crowd so that memory testimony could be better used in education and court. Would that really be of enough use to Marvolo to satisfy the vow, though? The man was plenty brilliant on his own and had shown Harry dozens of spell, ritual, and object inventions over the last few years.
“Of course you’ll be of aid in the fight and the Runes/Potions hybrid Mastery seems like an ideal use for your talents once the core fighting is put to bed, but simply joining me in any capacity is enough to satisfy the Vow we made. Still, more join my cause every day as Knight and Death Eater shock troops or simply allies. For you both fate and I have far greater aspirations now that the time has come to give you your Mark.
“Come with me. There’s no necessity in putting off your Mark any longer; we’ll do it tonight.”
His stomach somersaulted and the cocoa he’d had as an after stuck in his throat as he tried to swallow down those nerves. The Dark Lord led him into a back corner of the house, into the only room he’d never seen before. At the centre stood a large, curtained bed with a small nightstand next to it, outfitted in deep blue, green, and black pieces of bedding. Along the walls on every inch of available space were bookshelves broken up by only a cracked door leading to a toilet and a wardrobe that stretched along the far wall.
“Um. We’re marking me here?”
“You need to be flat on your stomach.” Warm fingers brushed over his shoulder blades, running the full breadth of his narrow frame. “This is where the Mark will go. Please disrobe from the waist up.”
I’m going to be in his bed half-naked! Never in any of his realistic hopes had he ever expected this. Sure, he’d dreamt about it -- both the naughty sort of dream and softer, lovelier ones -- and he’d desperately fancied the man back in fifth year but he knew nothing could come of it.
The Dark Lord taught him, treated him like a pupil or, at best, a protégé, and had far better choices than taking a relatively inexperienced teenager (or 20-year-old) to bed. Of course that was still true. He simply needed a flat enough, large space that he could use to do the Marking, however that process worked. That convinced Harry’s cock of exactly nothing but he managed to hide it while quickly stripping, glad Marvolo seemed too preoccupied with gathering supplies to notice the erection.
“Typically the Mark is done with a simple layered spell. It’s not a very complicated piece of work at the core of it, designed only to allow me to call my people to me, summon -- force Apparate -- them, or punish them for disobedience. Your Mark, however, will be a many-layered thing, a ritual marking.”
“Ritual? You mean using runes?”
“Runes, yes, but also symbolic imagery and the use of active ingredients within the dyes.” The bed dipped on his left side as the Dark Lord dropped a sturdy wooden chest and opened it, bringing a scroll out first. Harry propped himself up on his elbows to see. “Would you like to view the sketch first?”
“No.” He smiled. “I’d rather see it for the first time once it’s on me.” The nerves faded a bit as the anticipation swooped in, the Marking finally, after all these years, being real. He would be Marked by the end of the night. Or at least within the next few days. “Will this take long?”
“At least an hour.” A strong hand pushed his hair back away from his face. “It will hurt. That bit is unavoidable, even for someone as precious to me as you are. For the ritual to complete this act must have a cost in exchange so I won’t be able to give you anything for the pain.”
Precious. His chest felt like it might burst in happiness, spill it all out over the silky duvet. He was precious to Marvolo. “I can handle pain, Ma… my lord.” The last he nearly whispered, tasting the words on his tongue. “My Lord,” he managed louder.
“Oh, how lovely that sounds on your lips. Now, settle down.” Warm hands took each of his, placing first one and then the other parallel to his head. “Comfortable? … Good. From this moment on be still. I will move you if you must be.”
Harry made an agreeing noise, not so much as moving his head to nod, and waited. The first touch burned like ice rubbing off a layer of his skin (disinfecting?) before the Marking began. Most of the initial burst of words meant nothing to him but when it transitioned to Old Norse, which he’d painstakingly learned as part of his Runes studies, he paid attention.
The first layer was protection. Protection from within, protection from without. Immunity to blades, to hexes, to poisons, and fire. Exclusion from self-harm and accidental self-inflicted injury.
The second layer was amplification. To make him stronger, faster, better able to breathe, quicker in reflexes. To add to his senses of hearing and sight.
The third layer was observation. This went far past allowing a calling or summoning. It established a link between Harry’s state of being and the Dark Lord’s mind and even from the first whispers he could feel the changes.
It was a tattoo, the Mark, unlike the Dark Mark, and it hurt, as promised, to have the ink placed beneath his skin. The more it touched on bone the worse it hurt and Harry caught little pained sounds behind his teeth, making himself bear it. When the ink -- the dye -- began work on the third layer the pain meant little to him as his mind, instead, grew heavy with emphasis. He could feel the Dark Lord in his head the way he sometimes came to Harry’s dreams, bridging the divides in the man’s soul. When it hurt now the bond between them buzzed stronger in response, the pleasurable, safe warmth of it dragging him under sluggishly.
“Feelss goooood.” Harry’s eyelids dragged down as he slurred.
A bright, masculine laugh answered him. “And now?” The buzz grew into a trembling vibration, a purr. He felt as sleepy and content as a cat even when the tools dug harder against his bone and he felt the breach of skin.
“Mmm.” Slow, deep breaths. “Wanna be touch all ‘e time.”
“You have my leave to do so, if you wish. The connection between us is quite pleasurable, is it not? For now, shh; I need to incant.”
Harry distanced himself from his body, a trick he’d learned with the Dursleys, when the real rune work began. Each new rune flared bright with heat, with pain, as the incantations gave them weight, and it went on and on. He must be covered with them. The distance helped him bear through it; he never asked for a break and if one was offered he didn’t notice.
Sometime later Marvolo climbed on the bed, straddling Harry’s hips and casting magic. The worst digs of pain disappeared in a breath. “There, a spell to help heal the skin. Now an ointment.” But this application was no delicate dabbing of paste on a burn wound. Instead, a liquid poured over his skin, pooling down his spine, and strong, bare hands rubbed and kneaded the ointment in. The sharp, sweet smell of arnica covered him and Harry tried to relax, to find that distant place again, but each strong stroke into his sore muscles drew a moan.
Fucking hormones. He whined at the next lovely touch. “Mar -- My Lord.”
“You may still call me Marvolo in private, darling, though I won’t deny how I enjoy the sound of you gasping ‘My Lord’.” Marvolo pulled off, sitting off to the side so suddenly it felt jarring. “Come, sit up before your limbs fall asleep.”
Harry tried, struggling with unsteadiness as his nerves woke up after being still for so long. “I’m spoiled for others now,” he said, on edge of whinge even as he tried to play it for a laugh. “You touching me on the hand is more brilliant than anyone else touching me on my --” He flushed, unwilling to finish the thought out loud. “Well, anywhere, really.”
A hand cupped his cheek. Marvolo’s eyes flashed a quick red. “That Mark is for me alone. I would not allow any… paramour you might acquire to touch your bare back again. The presumption of touching what’s mine will exact a toll.”
A burst of warmth curled up in Harry’s stomach, made itself at home in his skin, at the crack of possessiveness in the other man’s voice.
At Hogwarts, Harry had done his fair share of snogging in dark corners of the common room set up with his friends. He’d done more in the retrofitted abandoned classroom he claimed -- the Map had been dead useful in finding spaces no one ever went, locations unwatched by portraits or statues or other means, and he’d taken advantage to steal privacy to experiment with what he liked. The more worked up he’d gotten over dinners with the Dark Lord, a mess of teenage hormones with the attention of an incredibly fit man, the more he’d sought out distractions, tried new people, tried new things, trying to purge himself of fancying the unobtainable.
Is it truly so impossible?
“What’s yours, hmm?” Harry chewed at his lip before turning his mouth up into a teasing smile. “Does it have ‘property of Marvolo Slytherin’ inscribed on it then?”
But the man’s eyes only flashed red again as the Dark Lord offered a wolfish smile back. “In a manner of speaking. Sit still while I fetch a camera.”
Posing for the photo took a few minutes as Harry kept fidgeting, excitedly curious about what his Mark might look like. To his surprise his entire left shoulder blade was taken up by a raven made of black and a deep blue, its wings spread widely behind it as if it were breaking a dive. It reminded him a bit of how he used his arms to balance after a Wronski Feint and he traced his fingers over the photograph slowly. “Why this? It can’t be just because I’m a Ravenclaw.”
“No.” Marvolo snorted. “No, nothing to do with that at all. Ravens are messengers, travellers, who act as psychopomps in dreams and in movement between this world and… beyond. If there is a beyond. They’re omens of prophecy. You, my sweet Raven, have been touched by death and yet you prove yourself shockingly immune to it, don’t you?” Harry fell quiet somberly but he couldn’t deny the accusation; it was Marvolo who knew, for a fact, that Harry had survived the Killing Curse. “The serpent draped over your right shoulder is mine, of course.”
He smiled. “Of course.” He recognised this serpent immediately as a bush viper from the textured, vibrant scales. Highly venomous but deceptively beautiful -- yes, that felt about right. This one was a lovely mixture of dark green and soft yellows, contrasting nicely with the raven, and the image might have looked almost adversarial if not for the golden runes winding around each animal, forming a tight and twisty ring of words into a chain that linked the two.
It was poetry. Ritual poetry about him, about what he’d borne and survived, about the Dark Lord’s hopes for him personally and promises to him intentionally. Flowery and gentle Harry found himself blinking away tears. It felt like a love poem.
Deep black Parselwrit completed the Mark, filling in spaces not taken up by the raven or the serpent or the Futhorc poetry, though it took him a moment to realise it wasn’t English. The vow set with these carefully chosen words that his Lord bestowed upon him and with the addition the Mark covered the entirety of Harry’s shoulder blades on both sides.
“Thank you, my Lord. It’s beautiful.”
“Thus fitting. When you’ve completed your first kill I will add a small mark at the top of your spine.” Marvolo’s warm hand ran possessively over the Mark he’d placed on Harry’s body. “You should rest.”
“I --” Want to stay. “Alright. I am strangely sleepy.”
“The Mark pulled upon your magic. Rest well, my psychopomp.”
Over the next week Harry healed, the ointment reapplied nightly to keep the swelling down and help the magic settle into his skin. Every moment he fought to adjust to the physical changes the Mark and the ritual behind it brought, growing stronger and gaining stamina to go with the faster reflexes. It helped him move closer to matching Marvolo hex for hex, trick for trick, in their duels practice and he grinned when, on the seventh day, he got in a hit he would never have managed before.
’Are there more rituals I can do to improve myself?’
‘In time. Your body must grow into them. It took me five years to complete the set I designed for myself when I was your age.’
He couldn’t wait.
As the night of the initiation grew closer Harry’s nerves grew too. Until now no one besides his father, not even his closest friends with families loyal to the Dark Lord like Theo Nott and Morag MacDougal, knew about his loyalties. On Saturday night that would all change. Theo had been hinting around an obligation he had in their exchanged letters for weeks now, almost as a warning (without incriminating himself so blatantly in black ink), and Harry asked that Marvolo confirm it Friday night.
They were sat on the couch again, Harry leaning up against Marvolo’s side, his stomach thrumming with the low fizzy pleasure, boxed in by his lord’s strong touch. “Yes, he’ll be there. Ms. MacDougal will be as well. Both had extremely promising NEWTs results and I’m hoping to seed Ms. MacDougal into the Unspeakables.”
“Oh. What about Theo? He turned down an Arithmancy apprenticeship but hasn’t said what he plans to do.”
“He’ll take up his role in his family’s illegitimate business trade within Knockturn Alley. Thaddius Nott’s family were not well off when we were in school but then he fell in love with a witch who was heir of a prospering Knockturn family.” Theo’s mum had died when he was only two, though he’d always been tight lipped about how. “As her only child Theodore is expected to assume her position when he finishes school.”
Harry knew his friend’s family was involved in some shady business dealings but this sounded more organised. “A Knockturn family?”
“Mm, the Rolf firm. They run gambling and prostitution, primarily, though there’s some money in illegal Potion trade. I imagine he doesn’t speak of it? Darker families with inborn wealth such as the Malfoys look down upon their methods and Lighter families, such as the Longbottoms, wish to close down Knockturn’s illicit markets.”
“He’s part of an organised crime firm? He’s never said any --” It hurt a bit to think his friend didn’t trust him but, then, look at Harry. “I haven’t a stone to throw, do I? I never told him my loyalties to you.” At least now we can be more honest with each other. “I can’t… It almost doesn’t seem real that tomorrow I’ll be officially out as a Death Eater.”
“No. Not a Death Eater, my psychopomp,” Marvolo said firmly. “A Knight of Walpurgis. The world may conflate the two but I do not, not any longer.” It was still a rough subject to speak about the time leading up to his attack on the Potters, when his mind was compromised by the creation of too many Horcrux objects.
What Harry understood now was that the Horcruxes took more than young Tom Riddle had expected, that it happened so gradually his insanity only became apparent in the late 70s as he became more and more obsessed with his own propaganda, and that exposure to the Elixir of Life had forcibly reset him mind, body, and soul. The Horcruxes that did still exist -- namely Harry and the missing Slytherin Locket -- weren’t enough to destabilise that careful restoration and Marvolo was mostly embarrassed by his increasingly irrational actions as his mind had splintered.
What Harry mostly cared about was that, as the Pensieve memories of key moments had shone, Marvolo hadn’t been sane when he attacked the Potters and attempted to kill a baby.
“A Knight, then, but one that goes to war with you. You’re not going to leave me off the battlefield because I’m a Horcrux, right?”
The other man’s mouth pulled up at one side, in a slightly off smile. “As I don’t wish to need punish you when you inevitably disobey, no.” He glanced at the clock as the cuckoo began to call eleven. “Come, off to bed with you so that you’re well-rested for tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry said, frowning as the Dark Lord brought him through a glittering drawing room, full of lush portraits and a lovely wing-back chair, past a locked door and down onto the steep, narrow steps leading to the cellar of Malfoy Manor.
A heavy door clicked open and a bright witch-light flared on, revealing a musty, dank room beyond where several piteous figures huddled, hugging themselves as they shied away from the area near the door. One looked strangely familiar, with a heart shaped face and focused brown eyes, but it wasn’t until her hair cycled to a shocked white blonde that Harry recognised her.
“Tonks?”
“Harry, what are --” Her eyes went hard as she watched the Dark Lord and she opened her mouth, a sneer on her lips, to no doubt say something upsetting. She probably thought he was a prisoner too. He slapped her section of the small room with a silencing spell before she could make things worse.
“She’s my cousin,” he said quickly, addressing Marvolo instead of her. “I met her when I went to visit Sirius each summer. She’s an Auror and has always been nice to me.”
“She’s a member of the Order of the Phoenix,” the Dark Lord agreed, his chin lifted regally, his voice cleanly authoritative in the manner that always made Harry’s nerves light up with awareness.
“Oh. That’s a shame. She’s such a rare talent and it’s not as if that’s being passed on from Sirius. The rest of the Blacks are older, too.” Harry frowned. He’d only spent a few weeks around Tonks but he’d liked her, liked her more than he liked Sirius (who refused to see the problem with the Marauders’ bullying no matter what) even. He’d really rather she not die but that wasn’t a good enough reason to ask his Lord to spare an Order member and he knew it, so he cast around for another thought. “If she were willing to have a baby couldn’t she be spared? The talent is so rare. It mightn’t recover if it dies out now.”
A dark brow raised in answer. Oh, yes, Marvolo knew exactly what Harry was really after. “And you think she’d agree to that if it meant raising the child under guidance or not at all?”
She’d paled drastically, her hair cycling wildly, for her part and Harry went over, crouching before her. “The Order will lose. You must know that. There’s no winning for your side here; I was a fluke that saved Dumbledore and the corrupt Ministry last time and this time I stand with the Dark Lord. I do that because I’ve learned it’s not as simple as the propaganda would make it seem. You probably don’t believe that.” Her glare said she definitely didn’t believe that. “But if you agree to have a child today you can find out for yourself. If I’m lying or wrong then you can always kill yourself, right? If I’m right then things will be better. Isn’t it worth trying? You’re no good to anyone dead.”
Marvolo stepped up behind him, rubbing two fingers over the top of Harry’s spine as he stared down at both of them. “I’ll allow the offer. What do you say Ms. Tonks? If you decline you will die today, mere hours from now, in a great deal of pain. A simple nod will do.”
It took… well, longer than Harry would have expected from someone being offered a generous lifeline but finally Tonks nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. He smiled up at his Lord and straightened. “Thank you!”
“She isn’t why I brought you down here.” Marvolo pointed to a trembling figure wedged deeply into the far corner. When it -- he -- noticed the Dark Lord’s attention he launched himself forward, bowing deeply, his mouth running with words before he realised he was under the Silencing Spell Harry had thrown towards Tonks. “Come forward.”
The saggy figure had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a lot of weight in a short time and a large bald-patch on the top of his bowed head as he shuffled forward on his hands and knees to the empty part of the cellar, near the still cracked door. The Dark Lord struck out with a spell and immediately squeaky little whimpers sounded from the man at their feet. “My Lord, My Lord, please, what have I d-done to d-displease you, M-Master?"
“Displease me? Mm.” Marvolo looked over at Harry, his dark eyes filled with emotion. “This is Peter Pettigrew, Harry. Wormtail, as he would have been known to your father. As cowardly and traitorous as he is, he has been of use to me on occasion.”
Harry went cold, his attention fully on the sniveling man bowing before him. “I try, Master. I serve you.”
“I thought I would offer him to you.” Wormtail went shock still, his muscles seizing up with terror. Harry could hear the rat’s painfully pounding heart. “After all, it was not only his best friend and your parents he betrayed; he betrayed you. He would have seen you dead to protect his own skin. §Unlike myself, he had no justification of madness and he was their friend. They trusted him.§.” Marvolo gently stroked the back of Harry’s hair before resting his base of the neck, a warm and comforting presence. “I thought it best to do your initiation here rather than up in the ballroom for the meeting.”
In case I reacted badly.
Harry nodded and, after a moment’s thought, said, “Stand up.” Wormtail cowered so Harry kicked him gently to get his attention. “Pettigrew, stand up.”
“Please, Harry, little Harry, you look so much like your father,” he said between whimpers, pushing himself up to a stand. He was slightly shorter than Harry and his bowed shoulders made him appear even shorter still. “... but… you see… like I saw, you see the Dark Lord is powerful beyond imagining, that there is no reason to fight him… please… you see what I saw! You must or you wouldn’t be here!”
And Harry did. He’d made a not dissimilar decision to throw his lot in with the Dark Lord nearly half his life ago because he saw that the man could help him and it wasn’t worth the pain to spite him for the sake of vengeance over parents he had never known.
Still, there was a key difference between himself and Wormtail. “I never betrayed my friends to do it. I protect my friends.” He had, gaining the Dark Lord’s indulgent agreement to spare Neville Longbottom, the Lightest of Harry’s mates. “I would never give them up, not even to my Lord, without a fight.”
“I had to! He would have killed us all! He was taking over everywhere! What was there to gain by opposing him?”
Harry’s lip curled. “I don’t know,” he drawled. “The life of a child your best friend trusted you with? Instead you were a coward. A traitor. A baby killer too pathetic to even do it with your own hands. And… where were you, all this time? You were supposed to be dead.” Sirius had told Harry that Pettigrew wasn’t dead but the story had sounded nonsensical at the time; he’d assumed that the distortion was an effect of the Dementors.
“He hid as a rat.”
“Oh, christ. With the Weasley family, that prat Ron and his prank-loving brothers -- I thought Sirius was mad.” He turned to Pettigrew. “You lived as a rat for years?”
“I needed to stay close, to watch for the Dark Lord’s return. When he called I returned to him, I did. I’ve served you loyally, Master, I have.”
Marvolo raised an eyebrow. “Service out of fear for your own meager existence. It bought you a score of years but cowards and traitors are always such given the right incentive. Harry, darling, he’s yours to do with as you wish,” he said quietly, his shoulders tense and his tone quite dangerous. “He is nothing compared to you.”
For a long drag of minutes, as the other prisoners in the cellar did their best to draw no attention to themselves -- save Tonks, who stared at Harry quite determinedly, as if trying to communicate something non-verbally (perhaps merely disapproval given how upset she appeared) -- Harry considered that. ‘Do with as you wish’ had more alternatives than simply killing the man despite the role Pettigrew was clearly meant to serve in Harry’s initiation.
§'What if I don’t want to kill him? What if I want to make him into a servant instead?’§
A warm hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. §’His life is in your hands. As I told you when I gave you this Mark,’§ Marvolo said, pressing his palm harder against Harry’s shoulder blade, where the raven representing himself was etched into his skin, §’I needn’t anything to prove your commitment to me, my pretty psychopomp. If you wish to make him a servant, do so. Do whatever you wish to him.’§
Harry knew the Dark Lord would consider Wormtail his responsibility if he spared him. He’s a coward and a traitor. Do I really want that in my household? And, really, what was he supposed to do? Present Wormtail to Sirius and wave off how he’d gotten a hold of the man?
§’I want his body publicly displayed. I can’t drop it at Sirius’s feet directly but this way he’ll know his blood-brother’s been avenged.’§
“Of course, I’ll make certain it’s done.” A spell lashed out, locking Pettigrew in place without freezing him. He squirmed against his invisible bonds as Harry put a bracing hand on the man’s quaking shoulder.
Conjuring a knife took only a small amount of concentration and soon Harry held a large, serrated blade in his steady hand. He could have used magic directly to kill Pettigrew -- the illusionary peace of the Killing Curse or the more visceral violence of a Severing Charm across the neck -- but if this was to be his first kill Harry wouldn’t shy away from it. He would do it with his own hands, not allow himself the false sense of distance.
“Please, Harry, little Harry, please, I can serve you, you needn’t kill me, please Master, let me serve him,” the words fell out of Wormtail at rapid pace, turning into a rumbling of sound more than specific pleas.
Harry shushed him softly. “It’ll be over in a minute.” He placed the tip of the knife between the ribs and pushed up. It slid in with rough, meaty resistance, fighting him as he twisted the blade. The thump vibration of the heart beyond it, struggling to beat, felt strange and he yanked the knife back. “Fuck.” Blood gushed from the wound, spurting violently over his hands, sticking to his fingers, thick and dark and so hot it almost burned.
He dropped the knife.
Pettigrew died on his knees, red pouring from his chest, blood and bubbles dripping off of his lips, and Harry began shaking a moment later. Somehow they got out of the cellar, through the manor house into a pristine, white marble bathroom, the golden sink filling with water. Marvolo dipped a cloth in the steaming water and wrapped it around Harry’s right hand gently.
“Shh, shh.”
Harry realised he was panting, a whine coming from within, and cut off the sound. He couldn’t speak when he tried. The blood had been so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be so hot. Marvolo settled him down, sitting him on the edge of the tub and kneeling before him, their eyes level with each other. A spell cleaned the blood stains off the front of Harry’s robe. Oh, he’d been drenched in it.
“A spell would have been less messy,” Marvolo chided gently but he didn’t sound upset. “Mmm, red is a good look on you.” His long, slender fingers pressed carefully where they held Harry’s wrist. “Your pulse is steadying.”
When Harry still said nothing another hand cupped his cheek, a warm thumb stroking over the soft skin and the slight brush of stubble. “I --” hadn’t expected the blood to be so hot. “I didn’t want to use a spell. I killed him. Me, personally, not as a consequence of something else I did like with you and the Dursleys. I should feel that.” He blinked back a strange gleam of tears, hoping that the other man didn’t think less of him for being so upset. “Maybe I should have used a spell.”
“It would have been easier,” Marvolo agreed. Then he chuckled. “When have you ever done the easier way, however. No, I’m not surprised you made this harder on yourself.” A rush of heat hit Harry’s cheeks and he looked away, but that only received a cluck and a soft touch to his chin, pushing it to lift. “It wasn’t a critique, darling, but a sign of your maturity that you understand that decisions should have costs. Any leader who believes or acts as otherwise is a poor leader who will lead his people to ruin.”
It helped him focus, this talk, by creating friction for him to argue with. “I’m not a leader. I follow. I follow you.”
“Oh, Harry. Haven’t I told you over and over that you’re unique to me, little Prince?” Marvolo traced a thumb over Harry’s lips. “I’ve waited for you to be ready to step up to your appropriate place at my side. I never wanted you to kneel to me. You are to be knelt to.”
They were so close suddenly, the Dark Lord drawing Harry up to his feet, their bodies pressed close. Then he felt the movement of the other man bending down, bringing their mouths close together, held in the moment of anticipation before a kiss. Harry pushed himself on his toes to complete it. Surprisingly soft lips brushed against his before a gentle, teasing nip to his bottom lip dragged Harry back into his body, away from the memory of meaty flesh and hot blood. This moment of pure, pulsing pleasure replaced it and he opened his mouth to the kiss, moaning when a strong tongue began to explore his own, whimpering when the hand on his cheek slid behind his neck and gripped tightly, holding him in place.
All too soon the other man pulled back, chuckling when Harry tried to follow. “No. I’ve waited long enough that I’m unwilling to rush this; when I finally claim you I will take my time to strip away all your defences until only you, my pretty psychopomp, and your desperation for me remains. Time for that is, unfortunately, currently in short supply.”
“Waited?”
“I knew what I wanted of you the moment that you stepped up behind Quirrell and fought to make a bargain with me, the boogeyman of the magical community’s nightmares. Every interaction since then has only confirmed that decision.” The hand still gripped the back of his neck, holding him firmly, and he melted into the authoritative touch. “Tonight I will present you to our people as my fated equal, the only survivor of the Killing Curse, the light to my dark. Tonight you will begin to learn what it means to lead.”
His stomach twisted in sudden revolt but he swallowed down his panicked nerves. His father’s voice came to him, the memory vivid in his focus.
’Harry, you must be careful. Your bargain with the Dark Lord will come due, soon, and you need -- I need you to be prepared for what he might ask of you.’
‘Do you know something?’
‘No, nothing for certain and I wouldn’t care to speculate.’
But Severus had figured it out, hadn’t he? He hadn’t wanted to panic Harry with the knowledge, clearly, but he’d seen it himself. I wish he’d told me. Because Harry wasn’t panicked at the idea that the Dark Lord wanted him, that he was special to Marvolo. He was elated.
“I thought it was hopeless,” Harry said, laughing, as he leaned up for another kiss. “I thought I was just a stupid child to you.”
“You are my prophesised equal. You protect a portion of my soul. You were never a stupid child to me, even when you were a child. After all, that child stood strong and full of cunning in front of the Mirror of Erised and me without flinching. Every challenge since then you’ve met with poise and intelligence, proving inevitably that you are worth the title of prince that I bestowed upon you.” Warm hands shifted, gripping his jaw on either side and Marvolo met him gaze for gaze, certainty all but flowing from him. “You agree to be mine, then?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Good. Come along, then. The meeting is about to start and I have a consort to present to my Knights.” The loss of touch made him mourn the moment, wishing they could stay here like this or, better yet, go back home to a bedroom. Instead the Dark Lord lifted up the voluminous hood on Harry’s dress robe, shrouding his face in shadow.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, seeing the dried and drying streaks of blood still on his wrist and his cheek. “Let me do a quick cleaning spell.”
“No. Let them see you like this, let them know that you do not shy away,” Marvolo ordered.
Oh. Oh! Harry thought his chest might burst from pleasure at the knowledge he was precisely what his Lord -- his partner! -- wanted in an equal. He was to be presented to the Death Eaters as the Dark Lord’s... but not only as a follower, not only as a useful fighter for the cause of a changed society, but as a partner.
He took one more deep breath before they reached the ballroom where the Knights of Walpurgis and Death Eater gathered for an initiation of fellow fighters into their ranks. Inside the vast, glittery cavern of the ballroom many bodies milled around each other with expectation, far more than the inner circle that he knew the most about. He noticed a nervous looking Morag and a steady Theo, both standing off to the edge of the crowd with three others, awaiting their initiation. The ivory masks of the Death Eaters hid the face of the men and women best known for sowing chaos and many others had simpler masks of the more common Knights.
Weaving between the bodies as they flowed out of the way for their Lord, Harry followed along, climbing onto a small dais at the end of the ballroom. When nerves nearly overtook him he felt Marvolo pushing at the edges of that conscious thought, the Mark on Harry’s back magnifying the soul-anchored bond. That reassurance hummed louder and surer until the other man’s certainty blocked out even the buzz of conversation echoing in the ballroom.
In a sudden hush, all conversation fell silent as Marvolo pulled Harry close to him. “My Knights! Welcome to another glorious welcoming of new fellows. Tonight we shall gain five new members, assuming all survive their initiation. Before that, I have good news to share with you all.”
This was it. There was no turning away from the attention now. This was the start of the public life for him as Harry Prince, a life better than the Boy-Who-Lived’s life had ever been. The crowd gasped as he pushed the hood down, showing his face to this world, letting his magic pulse away from him in a way he’d never intentionally done before.
§’You’re shining.’§
Harry bit the corner of his lip and clutched Marvolo’s hand. §’I’m happy.’§
Marvolo squeezed it lightly back, then raised his voice to speak. “Harry Potter is dead. Welcome now Harry Prince to our fold as your new Consort. He has proven his loyalty to me in the deliverance of Albus Dumbledore and now he shall be at my side, proving his loyalty to our cause to you and all of magical Britain!” He raised their joined hands above their heads and soon a roar of sound began to build, whispers turning to statements and finally to shouts of surprise and excitement.
Harry cleared his throat. “To the resurrection of magical Britain for magical folks.”
The crowd answered. ‘To magical Britain!’ ‘To our victory!’ ‘To us!’ until it became a wave of noise, a roar of approval. Today was only the beginning. There was so much to look forward to.