Chapter Text
---====)O(====---
If what they all say
Is true, and like cleaves to like
then let's asunder
---====) Chapter 1: In Sickness (and in Health) (====---
Harry’s scar burst open and he knew he was dead: it was pain beyond imagining, pain past endurance –
He was gone from the hall, he was locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that Harry did not know where his body ended and the creature’s began: they were fused together, bound by pain, and there was no escape –
And when the creature spoke, it used Harry’s mouth, so that in his agony he felt his jaw move.
“Kill me now, Dumbledore…”
Blinded and dying, every part of him screaming for release, Harry felt the creature use him again…
“If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy…”
Let the pain stop, thought Harry… let him kill us… end it, Dumbledore… death is nothing compared to this…
And I’ll see Sirius again…
And as Harry’s heart filled with emotion, the creature’s coils loosened. Harry, as one with the beast, felt a shiver of confusion and surprise as the tentacles withdrew. And then, at last, the pain was gone: Harry was lying face down on the floor, his glasses gone, shivering as though he lay upon ice, not wood…
What on Earth, Harry thought, thoroughly bewildered.
But then there was the Minister and the prophecy and the hospital wing and Harry’s confusion was swallowed by more pressing concerns and very quickly forgotten.
So one could imagine his confusion when, soon after laying down in his bed at number 4 Private Drive not even two weeks later, he awoke to find himself in the cupboard under the stairs.
Well, awoke was perhaps a misnomer here: it was evident at once that he was dreaming. How he knew this was a curiosity and why he should be dreaming of his cupboard at all was another. Having no desire to stay there, however, and figuring he might as well try his luck, he promptly tested the door. To his immense surprise, it opened at once.
Stooping his head under the slanted doorframe, Harry entered the room beyond. Perplexingly, the space was a bedroom –evident by the elaborate four-poster bed that took up a good chunk of the room. The bed was easily twice the size of Harry’s own and so high that the mattress came to his waist. To the bed’s immediate left was what was presumably a large window, completely covered as it was by a set of ornate curtains and buttressed by a vacant window seat.
To the right was an opulent rectangular rug and, parallel to this, a small loveseat and two armchairs, both angled towards a small, happily flickering fire.
The loveseat and one of the armchairs were empty. Voldemort occupied the other.
He looked the epitome of composed, in the midst of this bedroom larger than most living rooms. He didn’t even look up as Harry entered, occupying himself with the handling of a teapot, from which he was pouring them both a cup.
“Milk?” he asked serenely, “Sugar?”
So nonsensical was the enquiry that Harry answered automatically in the negative. Voldemort didn’t react except to set each condiment aside, as he didn’t use either to doctor his own tea. Then, (lifting a china cup so delicate that it surely cost more than all the china the Dursley’s owned altogether) he took a sip, sweeping an arm towards the empty armchair in a clear invitation.
Was this a nightmare? Harry wasn’t entirely sure. In any case, secure in the knowledge that this was a dream, Harry took the offered seat and, at a loss of anything else to do, picked up his own cup of tea. For all this unreality, it tasted remarkably true to life.
Voldemort didn’t speak again. He seemed utterly engrossed in studying Harry, as unkempt as he was in boxers and a t-shirt so large it was sliding off one shoulder and pooling in his lap. Harry wasn’t at all fazed by this attention and instead studied the Dark Lord right back.
He looked very much as he had done in the Ministry or even, for that matter, in the graveyard: pale as a corpse, with a slitted nose, razor thin lips and dressed in a simple black robe. The only thing their attire had in common was that neither of them was wearing shoes.
“I must admit,” Voldemort said at last, after they had each drained nearly half their cup without exchanging a word, “I was not expecting such… calm.”
Harry didn’t reply. It seemed nonsensical to be angry in a dream but even more so to point this out. And besides that – he had spent so much of his time lately being angry. Had felt fit to burst with it for nearly a year. After Sirius had died, it was as if all of that fury had been burnt out of him; leaving nothing but a deep sorrow and an exhaustion that went soul deep.
At Harry’s lack of reaction, Voldemort frowned. He looked utterly bewildered, as though he’d planned this out very carefully and it wasn’t going at all how he’d thought it would. That, if nothing else, gave Harry some small measure of satisfaction. He took a final sip of his tea, draining the cup and setting it down. Voldemort, playing host, promptly refilled Harry’s cup and, subsequently, his own.
“Tell me,” he entreated at last, “Do you know why I have called you here?”
Harry did not know. This, rather unfortunately, was not anything new. He was rather becoming used to not being told things. Rather than say as much, he tucked a leg underneath himself, hefted his tea back up and took another sip.
Voldemort leant forward at his silence, red eyes keen. Harry was beginning to suspect, with some unease, that this interaction was a result of more than just an overworked subconscious. Could they really be occupying this space together in real time? Sitting in a ridiculously extravegant bedroom and drinking tea?
“What did you feel,” Voldemort began again, more carefully this time, “In the ministry atrium?”
“When you possessed me,” Harry pointed out, saying straight what Voldemort was attempting to dance around.
Voldemort inclined his head.
It was Harry’s turn to frown, absentmindedly adjusting his t-shirt as he shifted in his chair. It seemed sensible not to answer but, then again, he couldn’t see what Voldemort could possibly gain from his reply. And, though uneasy, he was still quite convinced none of this could be real.
“Pain,” he answered at last, setting down his cup. Then, deciding he’d had quite enough of this interaction, he subsequently woke himself up.
Right on cue, he found himself back in his (rather uncomfortable) bed in Private Drive. It was still early, barely 4am according to the digital clock on his bedside table. Rolling onto his back, Harry blinked confusedly at the ceiling.
The dream was fresh in his mind, as vivid and as real as his room was now. “Do you know why I have called you here?” Voldemort had asked. Called implied intent which implied a summons. Though Voldemort was clearly aware of the link between them, it was strange to think of him utilising it in such a bizarre fashion – particularly after the fiasco of the Ministry. Why would he bother? Surely his purpose couldn’t have been the tea.
But there was only one other question he’d asked.
Turning back onto his side, Harry curled into a loose ball and frowned thoughtfully at his clock. He’d spent the entirety of the last two weeks mourning his godfather and, as such, many of the other details of the night had been pushed to the backburner. Even the agony of the possession, far eclipsing that of the Cruciatus Curse, hadn’t come close to the psychic pain he felt at the loss of Sirius. The immediate impact of the latter had quickly eclipsed the former.
He thought of it now and, in doing so, remembered his confusion at Voldemort’s abrupt retreat. Dumbledore had cited love as the reason, preaching that the emotion was toxic to Voldemort and had, consequently, driven him out.
Harry now called that into question.
Voldemort had been deeply entrenched. Had used Harry’s body for his own purposes. Had taunted Dumbledore, attempting to goad him towards murder. And Harry had been in complete agreement – had been quite ready to die.
Then what? What had happened next?
Harry couldn’t remember it clearly. All he knew for sure was that Voldemort hadn’t been ejected – he’d left voluntarily. He’d found something, perhaps. Something he hadn’t expected. Something that had shocked him so greatly, he’d withdrawn at once.
But what could he possibly have found?
Harry closed his eyes, trying to search his own mind and discover the answer. It was, predictably, an exercise in futility. He hadn’t spent the better part of a year attempting to learn Occlumency just to succeed at it now.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, Harry rolled himself out of bed and set about getting ready for the day. Dumbledore would be there later, freeing him from his confinement at the Dursley’s. Perhaps he might have some idea of what it had all meant?
Pausing for a moment, Harry imagined how that conversation might go. Pictured Dumbledore, in his characteristic over-the-top robes, asking him what the dream had been about. And Harry responding that the two of them had shared a pot of tea. Despite himself, he let out a muffled snort, imagining the look this statement would no doubt elicit.
Yeah, maybe not.
And so it was that when Dumbledore came to collect him at 11pm that night, he said nothing at all about the strange nightly interaction. Nor did he mention it to Ron or, the next morning, to Hermione - who was, after all, occupied in analysing all of their OWL results.
Since there were no other dreams for the next three nights, Harry managed to half-convince himself that he’d imagined the whole thing.
Then, on the 19th of July, a most surprising headline graced the front page of The Prophet:
All conversation around the table ceased. Molly, the twins and Ginny crowded around Arthur’s copy while Harry and Ron played tug-o-war with Hermione’s. In an effort to make peace, Arthur began to read the story aloud.
“In a surprising turn of events,” he began sombrely, “You-Know-Who has extended a peace overture to Minister Scrimgeour and expressed a desire to begin negotiations.
“His offer includes a number of initial demands,” the Minister said, “But none involve usurping my rightful seat or, indeed, a total surrender of our government.”
The Minister declined to specify the contents of the offer, emphasising that negotiations had only just begun.
“Should anything come to fruition,” he added, “You will, of course, be informed.”
For more on this story, turn to page 6.”
With much encouragement from around the table, Arthur did as the post script advised. The rest of the story, however, was merely baseless speculation on what the prospective treaty contained and a note that Headmaster Dumbledore had not been available for comment.
“He half destroys the Ministry Atrium and now he wants to negotiate?” Ron demanded incredulously, “Sounds fishy to me.”
“It’s Voldemort,” Harry returned, pointedly ignoring everyone’s flinch, “What did you expect?”
“A number of initial demands,” Ginny quoted, still looking over her father’s shoulder at the paper, “What do you reckon those are?”
“Torture?” suggested one twin.
“Maybe just subjugation?” re-joined the other.
“I wonder what Professor Dumbledore thinks of all this?” Hermione asked curiously, “Surely he’d be a part of any negotiations?”
As though speaking his name had summoned him, there came a knock at the front door. Ginny, scampering to answer it at once, returned moments later with the man in question right on her heels.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed on seeing them all seated around the table, “I see you’ve been apprised of the situation. Harry, have you eaten? I’m afraid we’ve both been quite unexpectedly called away.”
Harry took a last bite of his sausage, snagging the toast off his plate as left the table.
“I don’t imagine we shall be long,” Dumbledore assured the Weasley’s (plus Hermione) as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
He whisked them away and Harry landed with a slight stumble, surprised to find himself in the lobby of Saint Mungo’s. He still had a hold of his toast, and, receiving a slight side-eye from a Healer walking past, quickly devoured it in a few bites.
“Ah!” exclaimed another Healer as he entered the room and saw them standing there, “You’re right on time. This way, if you please.”
Dumbledore followed him without a word. Harry, who had rather expected them to go to the Ministry, tried to shoot his Headmaster an enquiring look. Dumbledore, looking around pleasantly at the totally unadorned walls, did not seem likely to catch the hint.
Just as Harry had mustered the courage to pose a question, they entered a room. Unlike the ones Harry had seen in the past, which were filled with occupied beds, this one was entirely empty excepting for a solitary bed, a Healer in green robes, and the presence of Lucius Malfoy.
Harry started badly upon seeing the man, taken completely off guard. Dumbledore, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate a single iota, guiding Harry into the room with nary an explanation.
“Good morning, Mr Potter,” the Healer greeted, seeming determined to ignore the incongruity of the situation, “I’m Healer Hughes and I’ll be examining you today.”
“Er… hello,” Harry returned awkwardly, “I’m completely – that is, I’m not sick.”
The statement came out rather more uncertainly than he would have liked. Healer Hughes smiled kindly at him and gestured to the bed.
“Nevertheless.”
Most unwillingly, Harry complied.
“Why is Malfoy here?” Harry asked, directing the question to anyone but the man himself, “For that matter, why am I?”
“He is here to represent Lord Voldemort’s interests,” Dumbledore replied easily, “And I, your own.”
“And you,” Healer Hughes chipped in, “Are here to get a rather thorough check up. Now tell me, are you up to date on all your vaccinations?”
This was all as clear as mud.
“I think so?” Harry answered uncertainly, “I don’t think I would have been able to go to Primary otherwise.”
“Muggle vaccines,” Healer Hughes rebuked gently, “I’m enquiring about wizarding ones.”
Harry didn’t know and told her as much.
“In that case, I’ll need to draw some blood.”
Dumbledore looked a trifle disapproving at that but Harry held out an arm without fuss and allowed her to draw a few vials, which she promptly took aside and doctored with several potions she fetched from the cupboards. Sitting on the bed and swinging his legs, Harry watched with blatant curiosity.
“We’ll let that settle for a moment. Hold still, please.”
Healer Hughes then began an endless barrage of tests. Faced with Harry’s clear interest, she fell into explaining each of them as she went.
They started out pretty routine: spells to measure his height, his muscle mass, his weight, his blood pressure, his heartrate and lung capacity. Then they became more specialised: one measuring his bone density and strength, another assessing the effectiveness of his internal organs.
She tested his reflexes, his eyes, his memory – even going as far to ask him a series of rather impertinent questions about his bowel movements that he steadfastly refused to answer in front of Lucius bloody Malfoy. She ended the exam by taking another three vials of blood and Harry, thinking they were just about done, was dismayed to realise she was fiddling with his blood samples and taking so many notes that he’d surely be there another twenty years.
Dumbledore, rather conscientiously, conjured a glass of water for him. Harry drained it dry in moments.
“You’re missing some vaccinations,” Healer Hughes reported, placing four potions on the table beside him, “So bottoms up!”
Harry downed them one after the other, making a disgusted face after each. One, he was positive, tasted the way fire smelt.
He gratefully accepted another glass of water while Healer Hughes looked over the remaining vials of blood and took some final notes. Once she was done, she put her quill away and, with a tap of her wand, produced another two copies of the parchment, which she gave to Malfoy and Dumbledore respectively. Then, conjuring a stool, she took a seat before him.
“Would you like me to go over your results with you?” she asked kindly.
Harry nodded and she obligingly gave him his own copy, going through the various terms and numbers and pausing only to give clarification or answer one of his questions.
The malnutrition wasn’t exactly a surprise, but the multitude of effects it had had on his body sure was. Not only had it likely stunted his growth (totally unfair), it had damaged the integrity of his bones, which were not as strong as they should have been. Healer Hughes outlined the potions regime she was recommending to help reverse the damage before it started to seriously affect his internal organs – many of which were already starting to show signs of strain.
There were also a few fractures that hadn’t healed properly: one small hairline fracture (curtesy of his Aunt Petunia and her frypan), two ribs (probably from Dudley) and five or so bones in his right hand (from Uncle Vernon slamming it into a car door). For these, she recommended a dose of Skele-Gro.
In addition to all of this, he was also slightly anaemic (more potions to add to the aforementioned regime) and his glasses were a few prescriptions off. At her prompting, he handed them over and she fixed them for him on the spot.
“How come Madam Pomfrey didn’t find any of this?” Harry asked curiously.
“Likely she was too busy treating your more immediate injuries,” Healer Hughes replied, “I imagine, when compared to magical exhaustion and Basilisk venom, a little anaemia was the least of her worries.”
None of his previous adventures had left any long-term effects, she reported, apart from some rather visible scaring. For this, there was no remedy.
“Magical scars are more difficult to treat,” she said apologetically, “I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to live with them.”
Harry shrugged, not at all bothered. Apart from his lightning bolt scar, none of them had ever given him any trouble. Truthfully, he was much more occupied thinking over the rest of the results and being quietly relieved they were nearing the end of the parchment.
“Little low on Vitamin D,” Healer Hughes continued, pointing out the corresponding numbers, “I’ve added it to my recommended potions. You’ve also tested positive for the Carrier gene.”
“What?”
Harry flinched, almost flailing right off the hospital bed in his surprise. He’d completely forgotten that Malfoy was there, unashamedly listening in on every detail. Eyeing the other man, Harry was able to catch his look of utter incredulity before he carefully blanked his expression.
“What does that mean?” Harry asked Healer Hughes cautiously, now not expecting anything good.
“Some wizards are born with the ability to carry children,” she explained, very matter-of-factly, “They’re usually checked as infants but, perhaps understandably, your parents never had you tested.”
“Why was he so surprised then?” Harry demanded suspiciously, jerking a thumb towards Malfoy. Dumbledore, who had somehow acquired a copy of The Quibbler, didn’t even look up.
“It is rather rare,” she admitted, “But it shouldn’t affect your day-to-day life. Merely something to be aware of if you choose to enter into a relationship with another wizard. In that eventuality, you’ll need to practice safe sex in order to avoid an unwanted pregnancy. I’ll give you some reading materials.”
Harry made a face but nodded agreeably. Healer Hughes rolled up the results and gave him his own copy, which Harry pocketed. Then she handed him a lollypop.
“Great job,” she congratulated him when he took it, “You did really well today. I will expect you in twelve months for a check-up.”
Since Harry hadn’t organised this first assessment, he didn’t make any promises. Instead, he unwrapped his treat. The lollypop shifted colours and, watching carefully, Harry took a careful suck when it turned pink. It tasted like fairy floss.
“Wonderful,” Dumbledore decreed, stowing his paper with a subtle flick of his hand, “In that case, we’ll get going. Lucius, a pleasure as always.”
Malfoy made a constipated face, restraining himself to a simple nod as Dumbledore ushered Harry out of the room. Harry, attention back on the lollypop, tried it again as it turned green. Apples this time.
He amused himself in this fashion as they walked along the corridor and back to the Hospital reception area. Here, Dumbledore took hold of his shoulder and swept them away. To Harry’s immense confusion they landed not in the Burrow living room but in the copse of trees on the hill where the Weasley children often played Quidditch.
“I assume you have questions,” Dumbledore prompted, conjuring them each an armchair.
“Just one,” Harry returned easily, taking a seat and trying his now black lollypop. Liquorice. He made a face and waited until it turned purple. This time he was luckier – it was grape.
“I rather flatter myself that I can guess it’s scope,” Dumbledore said ruefully. Then he paused, clearly choosing his next words with care.
“You will have read, I am sure, the multitude of speculations surrounding Voldemort’s proposed treaty,” he began and, though it wasn’t a question, Harry nodded. “None of these guesses, some of which are quite well-reasoned, come anywhere close to the truth. As of this moment, Voldemort only had one request we needed to fulfil before he would consent to beginning his negotiations. And we have just spent the better part of the day complying.”
Harry paused, withdrawing the lollypop and trying to wrap his head around that.
“But why?” he asked at last, “Why would he want me to undergo a medical exam?”
“Well now, that is rather the question, isn’t it?” Dumbledore agreed peacefully, “One that, I am sorry to say, only Voldemort himself can answer with any degree of accuracy.”
Harry frowned, sucking again on his treat. Orange, this time.
“We can do nothing for the moment,” Dumbledore counselled him, “What we can do, we have just done. Now, the next move is Voldemort’s. I dare say it will serve to be an interesting one.”