Recap:
“Granted,” Voldemort finally hissed. “But I can take care of Mortfidèle’s betrayal myself.”
“As a crippled thing less than a spirit, forced to attach yourself like a parasite on other creatures? I don’t think so. Give me your oath to teach me the mysteries of horcrux and soul magic and I will give you your heart’s greatest desire.” Harry let a wicked grin show on his face as he saw Voldemort’s pseudo face twist in fury.
“What? What is it you offer you insolent worm?”
“A healthy body of your own, Lord Voldemort.”
Harry smirked at the black slits dilating in Voldemort’s eyes in greed.
I have him.
Chapter 9
Dear Professor Voldemort
It was a broom closet Harry hid in, and as such it was one of the favorite spots for Ministry workers to hold quick strategy sessions against whichever poor sod they were going to pull the bureaucratic rug from under. He had shrunk the brooms, buckets, and other cleaning materials and put them in a corner to make room for his bottle of whiskey and copies of the Daily Prophet.
It was painfully difficult to get away with a drink as an eleven year old when the entire Auror Office was his babysitter. Still the Faustian deal he had cut with Voldemort and stumbling on Daily Prophet reports about his time travelling sister had necessitated a bit of alcohol and brooding, Auror babysitters notwithstanding. A candle lit the large picture of Harry wielding a cudgel and carrying his sister bridal style which the Daily Prophet had printed over the story of the Greengrass attack on the girl-who-lived. As awkward as he looked holding the weapon and his wounded sister, the picture still managed to make him look heroic.
“I’m a righ’ vengeful lookin’ bastard,” he slurred to himself, kissing the top of bottle to take a pleasantly burning gulp. “Stupid bint, screwin’…screwin’…bollocksing it up!” he yelled looking at the other headlines.
Girl Who Lived Murders Beloved Pet in Cold Blood Ministry employee Wesley and family distraught after a night time kidnapping and killing of the family’s adorable pet rat named Scabbers. Allegedly Miss Potter attempted to use Muggle disguises and make-up to hide her identity but was soon found out when captured by the eldest Wesley son returning home at an unexpected time of night. The Girl Who Lived claims the pet rat was a Death Eater animagus hiding in plain view with a Light sided family. The Ministry is investigating claims.
Girl Who Lived Cries Death Eater Again! After the very recent fiasco in which Miss Potter was indicted on charges of theft, destruction of property, and misuse of magical emergency services, she is crying wolf again. This time the much respected Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was accused by the Girl-Who-Lived for harboring a Death Eater in his home said to be kept under an invisibility cloak. Does Miss Potter’s wanton desire for more fame know no end? Needless to report that such irresponsible accusations were not entertained by the Ministry of Magic.
Harry scoffed at the headlines and the monumental disaster Bianca Potter had caused. He slurred some more obscenities at his absent twin wondering why on Earth he had landed in this mess. The broom closet suddenly opened and a couple slammed into the door in throes of passion. Harry cursed himself for forgetting to put a locking charm on the closet and then swore heavily at the vigorous dry humping. His disgusted exclamations caught the couple’s attention.
“Yeah, occupied, piss off.” Harry waved a hand. When they stood there mortified staring at him, he spoke more gently trying not to be a drunken belligerent, “Look, there’s an alcove right before the third corridor on the left behind the mail room, just go there.”
“You’re drinking.” The man was astonished.
Harry mock gasped. “And you’re sleeping on the job.”
The witch gave him a nasty look. “What a rude boy!”
“Have a listen, sweetheart, you’re cheating on your husband. I’m going to be rude because sluts like you don’t deserve better. Now what would little Romilda think if she knew someone other than darling daddy was drilling mummy when she went to see him at work, hmm?” Harry viciously enjoyed seeing the color drain from the witch’s face.
“You know my daughter?” she sounded choked.
“And your husband. You know what? I can’t have sex till I go through puberty again and convince a real woman to make a man out of me so no one else gets to have sex either!” Harry suddenly jabbed his wand at the wizard and witch sending yellow circles of light at their stomachs. “Congratulations, you have erectile dysfunction and you have a sandpaper vagina.” With that Harry upended the whiskey bottle in his mouth and shoved past the stunned pair.
He stayed close to the walls but turning one corner stumbled right into Nymphadora Tonks. She made an oof! sound as she went down under Harry.
“Wocther Nymphie!” Harry greeted happily.
“Harry? You’re drinking again!” Tonks took the bottle away from the child. “C’mon I better get you cleaned up before someone sees you.”
“I want my bottle!” Harry swiped at Tonks’ hand holding his whiskey, and then jumped for it when she raised it. “You’re cruel and spiteful, Tonks. You used to be fun, what happened?” he reproached still more buzzed than he thought he was.
“Merlin, you’re a weepy drunk. You’ll never grow bigger if you keep drinking. Alcohol is bad for kids!” she admonished, dragging him to a restroom.
“God, I just need a woman and a drink right now! Nymphie you’re both!” Harry happily pointed out.
“Harry!” Tonks hissed, unable to believe what was coming out of the eleven-year-old’s mouth.
“Fine, fine. I’ll stop. Wait a second,” he said, grabbing Nymphadora’s robes. She stopped and gave him a worried look. From inside his pocket Harry drew a small red gourd.
“How did you get that?” Tonks hissed, moving to stand so that she hid him from others’ view.
“Blackmailed Gladys into it,” Harry answered without concern, drinking the unfairly outlawed wit-sharpening potion. It was used by many Aurors to counter the effects of alcohol on a late night shift when they weren’t supposed to be drinking.
“What are you doing to yourself?” Tonks asked, sounding very upset.
Harry looked at her forgetting to put up the façade of a cheerful child. He had let her see the frustration and weariness of a man of forty-seven years with more power and grief than was his fair share. Tonks very carefully kept herself from recoiling at his strangeness. She had seen him like this before. It was how he became when he trained her; a little secret of theirs since he had saved her life. She didn’t ask how he knew so much about magic, and in return he taught her disciplines she couldn’t find a single book on. He frightened her when he was like this, but she had made a wordless promise to the witch with red hair to be Harry’s friend, so she stayed true to him.
“Let’s get you ready. We should head out for the funeral,” she said, avoiding his face. He nodded and followed her out, begrudging the duty expected of him.
The day was inappropriately sunny and the flowers seemed to burst vibrantly in defiance of the mood of those gathered for the Dursley funeral. Three graves sat open mouthed with three caskets set to be lowered. Marge Dursley, with a gentleman neighbor of hers for support, stood as far from Harry as possible. She had already screamed and harangued him for being the cause of their deaths.
“You have no right to be alive, filthy stain of – “ Marge Dursley had suddenly been forced to stop as Nymphadora stepped in front of a silent Harry to protect him from his relative’s vitriol. It was a lucky thing that Marge Dursley’s neighbor took her by the arm to lead her away.
Harry stood as stone with his fingers laced in Tonks’ hand. She had been there when the Unspeakable’s Demon Investigation and Containment Squad gave him the release forms for his relatives’ bodies. Quietly she had assured him she’ll be there with him, and he was glad for her company. Although seeing her dressed in somber blacks with her hair in an imitation of his own bothered him – he would rather she had kept her pink locks.
It was a small service; those there mainly for the sake of keeping appearances. Harry had arranged a modest reception, knowing Marge Dursley did not have the sense to do it. As the service ended their neighbors from Privet drive and Vernon’s work colleagues offered their condolences to Marge and with seemingly real pity to Harry who they thought had no place to go. Harry graciously accepted their muttered comments and squeezes of the shoulder. Tonks stayed loyally by his side shaking hands and offering ‘thank you for coming’ for his sake. He felt a burst of affection for her and promised himself to do the best by her he could.
Finally any who wanted to pay respects left, directed to a reception room on the grounds by ushers Harry had hired. He decided to stay a while watching the earth be shoveled over Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley.
He hated funerals; when he had much to say it felt that it was cheapening to put his emotion in words, and when he had nothing to say it seemed disrespectful to say nothing at all. With a sigh which elicited an automatic hand squeeze from Nymphadora he stepped forward and squatted by their graves.
“I am sorry. I wish we’d never seen each other, in any life. I’m sorry,” he said to the gravestones and got up with a disgusted grimace. What a thing to say, he chastised himself and found himself being wrapped in Tonks’ arms.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said with deep conviction. Harry smiled in her embrace. Her simple faith warmed him.
“Thank you.” He broke away from her when he felt he was being watched; the hair on the back of his neck rose.
He looked around but saw no one; that only heightened his apprehension. Disillusionment or invisibility cloaks immediately crossed his mind. I can’t do anything without giving myself away in broad daylight.
It would have been proper for him to play host at the reception but Harry felt he had done enough for the Dursleys and walked towards the car provided by the Ministry and the single Auror escort. It wouldn’t do to wait and tempt whoever or whatever was spying on him. Probably not Mortfidèle, his style is more direct and destructive. I expect this from Voldemort’s Death Eaters or…the Order.
The last thought didn’t sit too well with him and he itched to confront Dumbledore. He had loved his old teacher, truly, but the one keeping Bianca from him felt like a cheap copy. Harry motioned Tonks to enter ahead of him, so if some invisible enemy was going to take a shot she wouldn’t be caught in the way.
Soon the magically adjusted old Morris was on the way back to the Ministry and he calmed as the feeling of being watched dissipated. I am the bloody Grand Sorcerer. What am I doing running and hiding from Dumbledore and every other wand carrying fool?
It wasn’t the first time his age and situation grated on him. The dismissive looks because he was a child instead of one’s of respect he was used to, the absence of a whole retinue of subordinates ready to carry out his orders, and most of all the fact that he couldn’t act boldly as himself wore him down. He had never thought he was wed to his position but having fallen from it was difficult to accept.
Back at the Ministry they made their way to the Auror offices that doubled for Harry’s home. His guardianship had lapsed into limbo, any interested parties were waiting for Jamie Potter to claim him or unequivocally disown him. It was fine by Harry; he had Lucius Malfoy ready with papers and lawyers to fight for guardianship of him if necessary. Ludo Bagman had made throw-away comments about having him in the Ministry as a permanent fixture.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” she said hitching a fake smile on her face.
He nodded and fell in step with her. Their walk took a familiar path through the Ministry. The vast building had many stretches of quiet hallways and beautifully adorned places to serve as retreats. She hoped the silence between them was helping Harry like other times but his face was blank of any true emotion. He had a fixed small smile one his face that she had learned was a face he kept when he didn’t want to be bothered with questions. She draped her arm over his shoulders and gave him an encouraging smile. He returned it with wrapping his arm around her waist. It was awkward walking like that but Tonks was happy he responded to her.
“Nymphie, I’m going to leave the Ministry soon. I don’t want you to worry,” Harry broke his silence.
“Where are you going to go? Can I come?” she asked cheerfully, knowing full well that telling Harry ‘no’ was a stupid answer. Besides it wasn’t her nature to be bossy, she’d rather be part of mischief.
“I’m going to look for my sister. I forget sometimes who I am, you know, acting like a child is so easy; playing pretend. But I’m not going to be separated from my family any more,” he said with deep resolve sending a shiver up Tonk’s spine. “And no, you can’t come.”
“Someday you will have to tell me what you mean when you say things like that,” she said hoping she wouldn’t make him lock up.
“I know. I will. I promise you that.” He squeezed her waist a little to affirm his promise. “Everyone knows I trust you, everyone is watching you. I don’t want them to break you just to get to me, if they think you don’t really know anything, no one will hurt you.”
“Harry…” Tonks began tiredly. “I don’t think anyone is following me. I’m pretty careful.”
Harry smiled at her naïveté. He knew full well her mother wouldn’t let her spend so much time at this age day and night at the Ministry surrounded by Aurors and in the presence of a boy who attracted Death Eater attacks. That is, unless someone like Albus Dumbledore, the head of the Order of the Phoenix, asked her to let her daughter get close to the boy who was a squib.
“Not until you can transfigure yourself to mess up your vocal chords enough to make veritaserum unusable on you, and learn Occlumency. Till then you will just have to not know. Good motivation, I know how curious you are.” Harry smiled at her.
There were short cuts that would ensure she wouldn’t be compromised but he wasn’t ready to use that magic on her. If she one day trusted him completely then he would happily let her become one of his avatars and have the ability to use some of his power.
Tonks cussed. “You’re evil. I’ll have the transfiguration down soon but Occlumency, eugh, I hate it.”
“You’re a powerful witch, Nymphie. It’s rare for anyone to do fine self-transfiguration like that,” Harry complimented; truly impressed that she could be on her way to achieving that skill at only sixteen.
“Being a Metamorpmagus rocks!” Tonks grinned. “And…I am still coming with you.”
“I’m going to upset a lot of people. I don’t have anything to lose, you do,” Harry said, pointing to the emblem of M.o.M Auror Office stitched on her trainee robes. He didn’t need to tell her that being recruited after OWL year was nearly unprecedented. She was an exceptional witch and her association with him had already made her some enemies in the Ministry.
“Yup, you just have your life to lose, o’ boy-who-lived,” she said cheerfully, pinching the soft flesh on his shoulder. Harry yowled and slapped her hand away.
“Damned teenage girls!” he swore, rubbing his shoulder.
“Harry?” Tonks said to gain his attention.
“Hmm?”
“I heard you refused my parent’s offer to take you in.” She kept her tone level so Harry couldn’t tell how she was feeling but the implied question was loud and clear.
“I don’t want to bury your parents too, Nymph. You’re my friend; I don’t want to do that to you.” He kept his tone as even as her. He knew she had frozen in her steps but didn’t wait for her. She would deny that her family would be in danger because of him, she might even believe it. She’s so young and fragile, he thought sadly while loving her dearly for her sweet heart.
“Ready to train?” Tonks asked catching up with him.
“You’re going to make me pay for saying that, aren’t you?” Harry grinned at the girl by him.
“You’ve filled your quota for heroic things this year, kid. Anything more and you have to pay the toll,” Tonks adopted an ominous tone.
“Is it a kissing toll booth?” Harry winked at her. She flicked him on the nose running away from him to the training room they used when the other Aurors were keeping office hours.
Happy to have an excuse to blow steam and forget about the Dursleys, Harry followed her. She had already known he had special knowledge of defense against the dark arts from when he had guided her to help Aurors at his home in wake of Mortfidèle’s attack. So he hadn’t held back when they started training for fun.
She’d asked him only once, “Harry, will you tell me how you know all this?”
And he’d promised her, “I will tell you when you can hide the secret. Now get off your arse and fight me like a man.”
Since then he had reverted to his role of an Auror master whenever training, and had been teaching her the practical side of dueling. She knew enough theory, but the fact that she had opened with a verbal disarming charm against Mortfidèle told him she had no real experience or training.
The impromptu training session that Harry knew Tonks had suggested to get his mind off running away only made it easier for him to sneak out. After some hard lessons Tonks was left exhausted and snoring in the witches’ changing rooms with a little bewitchment by Harry.
Harry slipped away for another lecture from Lord Voldemort on soul magic. This lesson turned out to be as bizarre as the past seven had been.
“Resonance,” the ill voice whispered in parseltongue. Harry grimaced, trying to ignore his loathing for the Dark Lord. “Abandon your ego, divorce your heart, crush your thoughts…and then listen.”
“You’re unexpectedly Zen, Professor Voldemort,” Harry said in English, “in a twisted militant Zen way, of course. No offense meant.” Harry opened one eye to see Quirrell tremble and sweat.
“Silence,” Voldemort’s voice creaked. “If you can not find resonance you will fail at soul magic. You will never have your revenge, my pitiful pupil.”
Harry ignored the insult, too old to let something like that irritate him. “It would help if you told me what I am looking for? Why are we sitting here in public doing this?” he asked, barely controlling his frustration with the Dark Lord’s teaching method. All around them wizards and witches were happily shopping. It was Hogwarts season, and Diagon Alley was packed with students trying to get supplies.
“I overestimated your talent. I expected you would have advanced enough to take the resonance of others. That is why we are here, for you to practice,” Lord Voldemort quieted, and Harry waited. Quirrell continued to eat his ice cream from Fortescue with a nervous sweat. He was afraid of someone finding out his secret. “Cast the spells I have taught you, pupil, look for a stained resonance. Palpate it, and tell me how dark it is. Pick someone, anyone.”
Harry looked around him and saw a few children sitting not too far from his table at Fortescue’s. He ignored them in favor of a group of late teen girls standing across the street. Making sure to keep eye contact he began whispering the enchantments crafted by Lord Voldemort himself.
“Pray tell, why not target the children three feet from us?” Lord Voldemort broke into Harry’s concentration with his sick voice.
Harry frowned, knowing he had to provide an answer suitable for a dark wizard. “They are children. I doubt their souls are stained.”
“And I imagine the vapid, shallow, witches whose busts have enamored you are more stained?” the Dark Lord solicited, sounding like a terminally ill devil. “Fool! Do not dismiss souls merely because they are children. Darkness touches all, it is the ultimate truth. Look at the cherubic one there, blue eyes, and apple cheeks,” he said this as if they were epithets, “listen to her resonance.”
Apprehensively Harry began casting the magic he had been practicing on himself on the seven year old child. He felt ill at the thought of what he was doing, but following Voldemort’s teachings tried to silence his thoughts and emotions. The state was not hard to reach; he had learned to separate himself from his own fears and thoughts long ago when studying higher magic. But “resonance” eluded him. He went deeper, cut himself further from the world, until he could taste the spell he was casting on his tongue. Noise and colors of his surrounding fell away, as if whitewashed. He heard the sound of a music box, sweet and a little tinny. He smiled at the pleasant tune. But then he heard the first hiccup in the notes, then another. The same song repeated and twisted into dissonance at the same place again and again. The longer he listened the more he abhorred the broken sounds, the more he felt dirty.
He couldn’t hold it anymore and drew a breath, feeling as if he had been holding it underwater. Color and noise rushed. The blond child was staring at him with wide fearful blue eyes. He gave her a weak smile and tore himself away from her gaze.
His mouth was dry and sweat shone on his head, but he didn’t move to relieve himself of either discomfort. It would not do to reveal to Lord Voldemort how disturbed he was.
“And so you take your first stuttering steps, bravo,” the Dark Lord’s voice wheezed from underneath Quirrell’s turban. “Soon, you will know by instinct if it was her who was dulled by darkness, or if she did it of her own will. What do you think?”
“I believe evil touched her, she did not seek it out,” Harry answered somberly, feeling every one of his forty-seven years. “But she has done something since…something to sully herself.”
A hiss of pleasure from the parasitic spirit crawled under Harry’s skin. “You are wiser than you have acted so far. Yes, she used the darkness left on her to make it her own, drawing power from it. This is true bravery. One day she will be one of mine.”
Harry’s blood curdled at the tone of affection in the corrupt spirit’s voice. No, he swore, she won’t be yours. He memorized the timid child’s face, and her fearful eyes with the knowledge he had seen into her. He promised himself he would save her. Somehow.
The vibrant summer day with its sounds of cheerful commerce suddenly seemed to press Harry on all sides. Somehow it was all too oppressive. Stop projecting, idiot. This is no time for depression. Still, the fact that wizards and witches of all ages were happily enjoying Diagon Alley when a wizard whose name they feared to utter was among them worried him. How many children have had Lord Voldemort look into them?
“The secret,” Voldemort whispered in parseltongue, “is to find the resonance of the horcrux and the host. When you know which is which you can destroy the one you want to expel.”
“And how do you do that?” Harry asked.
He could almost hear the smile in Voldemort’s answer, “Why by using your own resonance as the knife edge. Be cautious, if the horcrux soul’s power is greater than yours, you will fail. You will break your own spirit.”
Harry could imagine that Voldemort expected just that to happen to him when he tried to exorcise Mortfidèle’s part from Sirius’ soul. “This is not very direct, it is almost metaphysical nonsense. What’s the spell, the incantation, potion, ritual, what?!” Harry demanded, letting his anger bleed freely.
“Do not presume to speak to me in that tongue,” Voldemort spoke coldly. “It is old magic.”
That was the last thing Harry expected to hear from Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore’s assertion that Voldemort fell to him when he was a child because he did not know of the ‘old magic’ Lily used had assured Harry that his nemesis was incapable of anything from the forgotten lore.
“So you cannot teach me,” Harry accused.
“You asked for what cannot be taught but learned only if sought by those who have courage to sacrifice in the quest of it,” Voldemort retorted.
“Of all people, you would pull Dumbledore level wise man crap?” Harry asked in shock, forgetting to speak in parseltongue. Quirrel shot him a panicked look, and nodded to other patrons of Fortescue’s not especially far from them.
“One day you will regret your words,” the Dark Lord promised. “It is the way of old magic; it can not be taught. Understand this.”
“But you are the master of soul magic. You created the living horcrux, and so it is you who knows how to kill it not old magic,” Harry said, reverting back to a whisper in parseltongue.
“True, I am the master, and you should be grateful for my teachings.”
“You took an oath, Riddle. An oath to do everything in your power to teach me this discipline.” Harry turned to look at Quirrell with shrewd eyes. “I don’t think you have. Shall I declare the oath broken and let magic decide which one of us has been honest?” he left the question hanging for a moment, watching Quirrel’s face pale.
The oath he had bound himself and the Dark Lord in was obscure and of true power. It would reduce the one who broke it into something worse than even the dark lord’s incorporeal form.
Harry heard a faint, almost inaudible, keen. He looked around in alarm only to come back to Quirrel and his turban; it was the Dark Lord. A wicked smile curled Harry’s polyjuiced face. Even the threat of declaring that oath broken would wound the guilty party. It was for the very fickle and exacting nature of the oath that it had fallen into obscurity in the first place.
“Master?” Quirrell called; his voice aquiver.
“Give it to him. Curse you,” Voldemort ordered weakly.
Quirrell plunged his hand within his robes and brought out three thick scrolls. They were bound in leather strips. Each was heavy enough to qualify doubling as a weapon. Quirrell’s face showed loathsome hate when Harry took the thick scrolls.
“The master’s journals. He has kept his word, will you keep yours?” Quirrell asked, surprisingly confidently. But Harry had remembered how Quirrell’s demeanor changed when he revealed himself so long ago in his real childhood.
“Don’t fret. At the summer solstice he will have a new body, if I have learned the magic he promised to teach me by then. That was our deal,” Harry said getting up.
Quirrell gave him a vapid smile with a thoroughly servile bow, no doubt for the benefit of wizards and witches rubbernecking to look at the tense pair. Harry nodded genially and left, turning his back on Quirrell.
Old magic, Harry cursed. It just had to be!
It was the first time, Harry realized, that Voldemort was actually being honest with him. If the kind of things he needed to do with the soul were truly old magic, then there was not much Voldemort could teach Harry. Being the Master of Death, and the custodian of the mysterious power in Department of Mysteries, Harry understood all too well of the elusive nature of anything that had the dubious distinction of being called ‘old magic.’ It said something that he had never tried to truly understand what being the master of all the hallows meant, and was still not completely a master of the prophesied magic.
“Well,” he said to himself out loud. “Time to go steal my sister and spit in Dumbledore’s eye.”
A.N. Now edited by Jeram and Militis, much thanks to both. I know it's short, but it's been a long time since I posted something, so just a little something for your patience.