Butterfly 39 - LM/HP
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I don’t want to write anymore. Mostly, cause my first day back off holidays was a Sunday and happened to be MY Sunday on rotation, so a 13 hour shift = not fun after two weeks off. I stayed up till 4am reading a book, and then got woken by my boss by three different phone calls about unnecessary shit. Tired!!!
But… I got Ralph Fiennes autograph last Friday! Mwahahaaa < 3
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Words: 4,915
Chapter 39
August 3rd 1994. Little Hangleton.
Harry knew he had to be dreaming, there was no other explanation for it. He was in a building that he didn’t recognize, the hallways cast in shadows with every surface covered by a layer of dust and dirt. The whole place stank of damp, and Harry got the feeling that the building had been empty for a long time now. But while he had never seen the house before, there were things that jumped out at him, strange things that Harry wished he could put down to being a part of a strange dream. But a large snake, slithering along at his feet dispelled that hope.
She hissed at him, writhing on the floors, coils twisting and turning as she pushed herself along in front of him. “Master, nearly there Master. Tell servant to hurry, hurry servant, hurry. Master, almost there.”
Against his will, Harry found his mouth opening and the words escaped him even as he tried to bite down on his tongue and stop them. He wasn’t her master, he didn’t know whose snake she was but she wasn’t his, and yet, he addressed her as his familiar. “Hush, Nagini. Bartemius is going as fast as he can. We must make allowances for those who are not as adept as ourselves.”
Harry frowned, trying to think if he had ever heard of those names before. They didn’t ring any bells, and before he could waste any more time wondering over it, Harry found his head turning against his will, twisting to the side and tilting backwards so that he was easily able to gaze up at the horrifically tall, blond man behind him. No. No that wasn’t right, Harry realized with a mental frown. The man was only an average height. The problem, the weirdest part of the whole situation, was that Harry was uncommonly small. He glanced at his hands (or rather the child glanced at his hands, and Harry followed suit unconsciously). They were small, child-sized hands, uncalloused and pale, almost grey in colour. His child-sized feet dangled more than a foot above the ground as ‘Bartemius’ carried him along on his hip. His robes were plain black, but Harry could make out the child-like pattern of snitches along the bottom hem.
They came to a stop in an undecorated room. There was a mirror on one wall, and Harry glimpsed the deformed face that stared back at him, grey and slit-nosed, its tiny mouth pursed into an almost lipless frown. He was slowly, carefully placed down into the over large chair in the centre of the room: the only piece of furniture bar the mirror.
Bartemius stood before him for a moment, before gracefully dropping to his knees. He kept his head bowed, even as he whispered, “my Lord” with more reverence than Harry had heard anyone use ever.
And he knew it was no dream. It couldn’t be. Somehow, someway, he was in the current body of Lord Voldemort. How he had attained such a body was of no consequence for surely he would not remain in this one forever. Rather, Harry wondered if this was a consequence of his being a Horcrux, or perhaps if this had something to do with his connection with Tom Riddle from his second year, the other Horcrux?
When he woke, he wondered if Evan would know. So, Harry wrote him and asked.
XXX
August 14th 1994.
Sirius watched his godson, a half-smile on his face. He knew what the boy was doing; he had been young once himself and it wasn’t as if his parents had approved of his dalliances either. Not that Sirius didn’t approve, mind you, but he’d have rather Harry be a little more open about this secret lover of his. The bite marks on his neck were proof enough in their own right, but the soppy smiles that escaped Harry whenever he received letters from one owl in particular was another gigantic clue. Not to mention the fact that since his birthday party Harry was constantly sneaking out whenever he thought no one would notice him gone, then coming back looking satisfied and relaxed, happier than most people had the right to be.
As long as he was being careful, Sirius thought, watching the door close behind the Ravenclaw teenager. He was far too young and sexy to be a grandparent, thank you very much.1
Harry didn’t notice his godfather at all. He was too excited by his upcoming date that nothing but Lucius existed in the world. There was no Remus, with his rules and disappointment. No Sirius, who meant well but needed to learn to think for himself. No Draco, whose father Harry was having regular oral sex with. No Narcissa, Lucius’ wife. He had no friends, none, because they weren’t involved in this relationship. For the moment, it was only Lucius and Harry, and Evan’s lack of response and his continued dreams starring at Lord Voldemort weren’t even enough to knock him out of his good mood.
August was turning into the best month of this year, Harry thought to himself as he flagged down a black cab. Lucius was waiting for him in Muggle London, though considering the time Lucius was probably already in the restaurant. Harry had gotten a little behind himself, not by long, just a few minutes late, but he had some serious problems deciding what to wear. He’d never had dinner in a fancy restaurant before as part of a date. Sure Evan had taken him out a couple of times before Hogwarts, but they had gotten dressed together so Harry knew that he was wearing acceptable clothes. He didn’t want to turn up and embarrass Lucius by being underdressed or overdressed, or late for that matter, and so he shook himself out of his thoughts and addressed the driver.
His stomach rolled as the cab pulled away from the curb. It wasn’t a bad feeling, Harry considered, even as he rubbed circles on his stomach. In fact, it felt as if there were hundreds of butterflies inside of him, each of them breaking free from their cocoons simultaneously and fluttering around excitedly. He had felt it before, of course, but he had never much considered what it meant. Excitement, desire, nervousness, anxiety; all emotions that Harry had experienced at one point on each of his dates with Lucius. But each date turned out brilliantly, enjoyable and memorable, and they always finished with tender kisses and hesitant touches on Harry’s part while Lucius was confident enough in himself to just take what he wanted within reason. And Harry loved it, loved him, and he grinned widely as they pulled up outside of the restaurant and Lucius met him at the cab, pulling open the door for him and payer the driver before Harry could even reach into his pocket for money.
“Good afternoon, beloved,” Lucius greeted his lips soft and demanding as they pressed against Harry’s own.
“I love you,” Harry replied softly once they broke apart, smiling from ear to ear, the way people in love usually do.
XXX
August 23rd 1994. Grimmauld Place.
Harry thrashed in his bed. There was sweat on his forehead, and along the sides of his neck, and his eyes were screwed tightly closed as he fought with his sheets, kicking and flailing. He cried out, green light flashing behind his eyes, and though he couldn’t make himself wake up, though he continued to live through it, he knew it wasn’t real. It was just a dream, one of many he had since his birthday, but this time he wasn’t Lord Voldemort. This time, he was standing helplessly behind an old Muggle man, who stood terrified and still with a large ring of jangling keys in one hand and a torch in the other as Bartemius, Nagini and Voldemort looked on at him as the green light hit.
Harry gasped his way to waking, crying out softly through panted breathes, his eyes unfocused and wide. Hands clutched at the bed sheets, fingers trembling. And then he cried out again as two figures leant over him, smiling widely as their mouths opened, one after the other.
“Harry, mate!” Ron greeted, reaching forward to smack him on the shoulder. Harry flinched, still disorientated, half expecting Voldemort to level his wand at him next, to finish him off for spying or snooping or whatever these dreams amounted to.
“We came to invite you to the Quidditch World Cup! Dad got tickets in work off Ludo Bagman!” Ginny told him excitedly, moving swiftly to sit beside him on the bed.
Harry glanced warily at her, and then Ron, and then back before his eyes darted around the room scanning every shadow for the child-shaped homunculus that housed the Dark Lord. He found nothing though and turned back in time to see Ron’s mouth finish moving (though Harry hadn’t heard anything he said, his ears still full of the scream of “Avada Kedavra” and the cry as green light hit) and of Ginny leaning closer and closer, smiling hopefully. They had obviously asked him something and taken his silence as consent, because as he recoiled from her attempted kiss Ron shouted something and Ginny looked devastated, and Harry wanted to be anywhere but there. How did they get into his room anyway?
He needed to get away…
Ron pointed at him, his face red, with accusations on his lips. But Harry only saw the raised arm, not noticing the lack of wand in its grip, and panicked. Instead of waiting for the two words that would end his life, he sprang from the bed, cowardly and confused and young, but instead of bolting for the door he found himself sprawled face down in a cemetery. His head ached, his vision swam, and his eyes only seemed to focus on one thing. The statue of an angel in front of him, the grave stone, stood upon a base that was engraved with the words “Tom Riddle”. Harry didn’t need to turn and see the house, or the snake, or the Death Eater that slowly approached him to know where he was. He had accidentally apparated to Voldemort’s side, or as close as he could get with the wards in place.
The Death Eater stopped beside him, staring down at Harry’s trembling form through the eye holes in his mask, before the peeled the object from his face. “What are you doing here, caterpillar?” Evan Rosier asked his voice low and familiar and Harry gave a soft whimper at the sound of it.
“I was afraid.” He admitted in a whisper.
“So you ran to the Dark Lord?” Evan added with a chuckle.
“I ran,” the boy said simply, his destination wasn’t important, only the escape mattered. Evan nodded lightly, purposely not pointing out the fact that Harry had actually apparated, the last time he had done it had been the day Harry ended up on the roof of his primary school, so they both knew it was possible, but pointing out the obvious was a bit redundant Evan thought. “I’m his Horcrux.”
“You are,” Evan agreed, but there was a hint of question in his words.
“Is that why I dream of him?” He looked suddenly like the child he was, wide green eyes full of fear and confusion, with his fringe hanging in the way, creating that look of innocence about him, as trembling fingers brushed it back out of the way and his bottom lip wobbled. “You never wrote back.”
“The wards here do not accept owl post. We can write you, but you cannot send a reply. The owls are unharmed, but the letter incinerates once it crossed the ward line. Come, inside with you, my son. The time has come… to talk of many things.”2
Harry allowed himself a small smile, as he followed his father into Riddle manor, past the blond Death Eater he had dreamed about too often, and towards the room with the mirror and the chair where Lord Voldemort was waiting. But before they entered the room, Harry couldn’t resist finishing the quote. He had been far too long since he and Evan had last quoted at each other. “Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax,
of cabbages, and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.”2
“Indeed,” Evan said with a smile of his own, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards for a moment.
But then the door opened fully, and a scaled head peeked around the edge, tongue flicking out and scenting the air as Harry watched her. Lord Voldemort called to him, voice high pitched and curious, a child-sized hand extended towards his guests and Harry came forward slowly, reaching out to clasp the offered hand, and instead of bowing over it he pressed a soft kiss to the back of the hand, the way Lucius always did to him. Harry had always liked the way he felt when Lucius did that, as if he were important and special, cherished: Lord Voldemort was far more important, and special, and Bartemius obviously cherished him from the reverence the man spoke to him with. Evan thought highly of him too. Lucius also. And so Harry saw nothing wrong with making Voldemort feel as good about himself, as Lucius did Harry, the kiss conveying what he hoped was his loyalty and respect.
Evan coughed, and Voldemort arched an eyebrow at him, as Bartemius watched from the hallway with his mouth hanging open.
“Welcome,” Lord Voldemort said, pulling his hand back and gesturing around the room, “to my home.”
“Merry met.” Harry greeted, trying not to look and sound as nervous as he felt. The butterflies were awake again, restless in his stomach, but not in the way they had been before his date with Lucius. They were wilder now, uneasy, and Harry clenched his hands at his side, digging his nails into his palms. No one commented on it though, or his unexpected presence, or the way he had greeted the Dark Lord, even though Harry suddenly had the feeling that it had been somewhat wrong.
When Lord Voldemort offered him a seat, there was an unusual expression on the grey face, and Harry had nowhere to sit in the unfurnished room except on the floor by the Dark Lord’s feet.
XXX
August 25th 1994.3 Somewhere in England.
It was the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, and Tennyson Alfred had apparently won ten tickets at a Ministry of Magic raffle. Apparently, Ludo Bagman had donated them as a prize in exchange for the Ministry paying off one of his many substantial debts. It seemed fair enough, considering no body in their right mind would buy ten tickets to the Minister’s Box, it would be scandalously expensive, and most people only needed three or four tickets anyway! It was also all rather last minute and the majority of families who could afford the tickets already had purchased some of their own. It was a good deal for Ludo Bagman and for Evan Rosier, but apparently not so good for the Weasley family.
As Lucius steered the six of them passed the Muggles who owned the campsite, they glimpsed Arthur Weasley arguing futilely with two of the Aurors who were supposed to be collecting tickets. Harry frowned at them, the gathered family of redheads, and the two blonds who stood beside them, with the group but not really included at the same time.
“What’s going on?” Draco asked, straining his neck in the most Pureblooded way he could manage to see over the crowd. Narcissa tsked at him, her nose scrunched up in distaste as she glanced around at the insane amount of people gathered together, packed into the campsite like sardines in a tin.
Theodore shrugged. He had invited Terrance, but apparently the boy’s foster family had already bought tickets and Terrance was going to stay with them since they had asked him first. Theo was a little annoyed by his attitude because Evan had only told them they were going yesterday morning, so it wasn’t like he could have invited his brother any sooner. Hermione had declined the invitation as well, he knew, because she and her parents had gone to Italy for the last week of the summer. Narcissa, Lucius and Evan were the accompanying adults, and Draco, Theo and Harry were more than happy enough to be accompanied to the Quidditch World Cup, because after all it was the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, the first to be held in England for over thirty years!
But with the six of them and their invitations being declined, they had ended up with four spare tickets, which for some reason Evan had refused to sell.
Evan had been half tempted to invite Barty Jr. but after the trouble it took him to sneak the man out from under Crouch Sr’s suspicious watch, the Death Eater wasn’t too keen for the blond to be captured and placed under house arrest again. But he wasn’t going to give away the four tickets, just in case the working members of the Weasley family could somehow afford them. The two youngest had scared the hell out of his son, so much so that he had unconsciously apparated to the Dark Lord, someone who he should have been afraid of. The hell they got to enjoy the World Cup after pulling a stunt like that. Lucius had been in complete agreement with him, of course, because Harry was theirs and neither of them enjoyed it when people meddled with theirs.
“Ludo Bagman gave them tickets.” Harry pointed out softly, thinking back on the morning he woken to find the youngest Weasleys leaning over him. “Didn’t you say Bagman donated those tickets to the raffle?” Evan merely grinned back at him, his face different beneath Tennyson’s glamour, but Harry recognized him enough to know that he was feeling amused and vicious.
“Oh, Mr Bagman says he can’t remember now,” a soft voice intoned from beside them. They turned to stare at the young girl who watched them serenely. “Daddy and I don’t mind of course. We were going to come a week early, and camp, just the other people with the cheap tickets, but Mr Weasley insisted we take the spare ones. We’re neighbours you see, but I’m not friends with any of his children.”
“Aren’t you upset that you’ll miss the world cup?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at her. It wasn’t that he liked Quidditch, but that this was the first game in England for years, something monumental and memorable. Anyone who was anyone had clamoured over themselves to get tickets for this event!
“Not really. I got to see you, so I’m happy.” Lucius narrowed his eyes at her, stepped closer to Harry possessively, but the teenager just smiled softly at him. “You don’t remember me do you, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes widened. He did remember her, but it had taken him a minute. This was the girl who had watched him in the common room as she held her book upside down and he had sneaked out under his invisibility cloak. This was the girl who had come up to him and told him they were going to be good friends. “I don’t believe I ever got your name.” He held a hand out, and she placed hers gently into his grip. Harry kissed her wrist lightly and released her.
“Luna Lovegood, and that’s my daddy Xenophilius Lovegood.”
“The editor of the Quibbler?” Theo asked, jumping into their conversation.
“And owner, yes.” She reached into her pocket with the hand Harry had kissed and pulled out a rolled up newspaper, “would you like today’s edition?”
“Would you like to see the world cup?” Harry asked, before Theodore could open his mouth to respond. The brunette looked up at his father, who looked down at him with a raised eyebrow before nodding slowly. “Go get your father, we have spare tickets.”
They watched Luna do exactly that. “Is there anyone you’d like to invite?” Lucius asked, turning away from the young Ravenclaw to look at his own son. “Theo?” Both boys shook their heads, no. Everyone they spoke to already had tickets. “Very well, Harry? Anyone else?”
Harry reached over to squeeze Lucius’ arms lightly, thanking him for the offer, before turning to Evan. “If you promise not to change your mind after I’ve asked them, then yes please?”
“I’m not going to like this, I can tell. But go ahead.” Harry nodded gratefully at him, half tempted to hug him but knowing he shouldn’t in front of such a large crowd of strangers. It wasn’t proper.
“Fred! George!” Harry shouted, ignoring propriety in this instance however. “It’s your lucky day, get over here!” He noticed Ron and Ginny giving each other horrified looks before glaring jealousy at the twins’ backs. Fred and George were by his side almost immediately, throwing their arms around Harry’s shoulders before sinking to their knees, their arms drawing down to lock around his waist instead.
“Oh merciful Lord!”
“Oh wondrous leader.”
“Such a kind,”
“Wonderful,”
“Merciful,”
“Lovely,”
“Evil, Lord.” The twins whispered into his stomach and hip, speaking one after the other in between nuzzling at him. “How can we ever repay you?”
“Get off your knees, at once,” Harry insisted, his cheeks flushing, “you’re causing a scene!”
“But, you like us on our knees!” George insisting, grinning widely up at Harry.
“Or would you prefer someone else, someone like… hmm…” Fred trailed off as Harry’s hand clamped down hard over his mouth, but everyone already knew what he was going to say because both twins were staring straight at Lucius Malfoy.
Harry was mortified, flushed and wide-eyed, but Lucius leant forward calmly and pried the boys away from his lover with a soft, “indeed.” He took Harry’s hand in his own, unconcerned about people seeing because now they were all too interested in the spectacle the youngest Weasleys were making of themselves in their jealousy, and Arthur’s frantic mutterings that Molly wouldn’t be happy about this at all once she found out. They slipped past the crowd, heading towards the centre of the campsite that their tickets instructed was their area to pitch their tent, and as a house elf did the work for them, the ten unlikely associated got ready to enjoy the Quidditch World Cup.
XXX
That night.
He could distantly hear the sounds of running feet and shouting, but Harry frowned in his sleep, burrowing further against his pillow and tried to block it all out. But when someone settled over him, Harry’s eyes snapped open, and adrenaline kicked him into wakefulness.
A Death Eater hovered above him, their lower bodies touching, but strong arms keeping Harry from being crushed. A half mask covered the man, but the grey eyes and the tendrils of pale hair that escaped his hood gave the man away.
“They’ll know who you are if they see that,” Harry told him, pushing the locks of hair back behind Lucius’ ear.
“I’ll tie it up in a moment.” Lucius continued to just watch him, cloaked in a long black robe and wearing his Death Eater mask, with the sleeve of his left arm pushed up so that Harry could clearly see the Dark Mark. Harry had known it was there, had seen it and kissed it, and dug his nails into it in the throes of his orgasm often enough. But Lucius was waiting for something, dressed like this, and it took Harry a moment to work out what it was.
This man above him was dangerous and powerful, cruel and cold and capable of inhumane things. Most people were afraid of him, in awe of him, or plain hated him. Not that many people loved him though, with the exception of Draco and Harry, and he had few real friends. And Harry realised that Lucius was waiting for some form of rejection, for Harry to take this all in, the robe, the mask, the Mark, and find him wanting or detestable and come to his senses and run a mile. Lucius waited patiently, calmly, though Harry could feel his heart pounding madly in his chest when he reached up to touch Lucius. It was as if Harry’s leave were inevitable, the only possible conclusion, because why would someone as kind and thoughtful as Harry (for all that he was Evan Rosier’s son) want a Death Eater like Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort’s second at that?
But Harry did want him. Harry loved him, like he had never thought he could love anyone. It was as, when Lucius was near him, life was a fairy tale and he had his prince and his happily ever after, and no matter what happened he would be alright if Lucius loved him. Sometimes, he thought mutinously, he would have been better suited for Hufflepuff.
But it was more than that, he thought as he continued to mull over everything. This summer had brought a lot of changes, a lot of time to think things over. He had had a taste of the light side, and he had seen Voldemort several times in his dreams and once in person, heard some of the plans, seen some of his thoughts, and felt the emotions as Voldemort felt them. There was more to the man than what the world had seen, and Harry felt honoured to know that, to be trusted with that knowledge because surely Voldemort could find a way to keep Harry out of his head know that he knew, but he hadn’t. Whether he meant to or not, the Dark Lord had showed a trust in Harry that had to be returned. And Harry did trust him, sitting by the man’s feet as Voldemort carded fingers through his hair and spoke to him as if they were equals. There was still a lingering fear, a worry of the man and his abilities, but now at least Harry trusted that Lord Voldemort wouldn’t change his mind and dispose of him upon his return. Voldemort wanted him, as a servant, a friend maybe, for keeps. And Harry would be proud to call the man his Lord.
How, he wondered, could he serve his Lord and be ashamed to love someone who likewise followed Voldemort. He couldn’t he knew, but Lucius didn’t know of his epiphany, and he continued to wait, face hidden by his mask, but Harry could see the way his lips pressed together tightly in worry. So Harry did, not what Lucius had been waiting for, but something that answered his question nonetheless.
He pulled the Death Eater down for a kiss, spreading his legs beneath the sheets so that Lucius could press closer to him, slotting himself against Harry’s body like two puzzle pieces. “I love you.” Harry told him, simple and straightforward.
“I love you too.” Lucius breathed, relieved, before pulling Harry into another kiss. “The others are waiting for you outside. Hurry, go with them and hide.” Lucius told him, pulling himself off of Harry and pulling the boy after him. “Go, be safe.”
Harry made his way to the door, glancing over his shoulder as Lucius pulled back the hood to tie back his hair, before pulling it up again, hiding everything distinguishing about himself beneath the black cloth that was uniform for the followers of the Dark Lord.
Neither Wizard noticed that the twins had once more been listening in on their conversation through the door in the tent.
XXX
September 1st 1994.
Sirius brought Harry to King’s Cross Station. Remus didn’t come with them, apparently Dumbledore wanted him to go on an errand of some sort for him, probably to do with the riot at the Quidditch World Cup because that was all anybody was talking about lately. There was no Dark Mark in the sky, no deaths, nothing to prove that this was Voldemort’s doing, but the tingling in Harry’s scar after Evan and Lucius had returned to Malfoy manor told enough about the Dark Lord’s pleasure for Harry to know it had been the case.
Harry didn’t say anything about it though. The twins didn’t either, they simply went home with the Portkey before the Malfoy’s did, their mouths shut and their eyes narrowed in contemplation.
“Well,” Sirius said hesitantly reaching out to pull Harry into a hug. “Have a good year, kiddo. Write to me, yeah? Or come back for Yule?”
That was the strange thing about Sirius. As much as he said he despised the Pureblood propaganda, he still followed all of the old ways, even Remus did sometimes, but then they stopped completely any time they had guests as if they were ashamed of their beliefs and traditions. Harry had asked him why once, and Sirius had simply shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll see.”
Harry turned away. He spotted them immediately. Theodore, Draco, and Hermione were standing together at the entrance to one of the compartments of the Hogwarts Express. The adults were gone, having dropped them off some time ago, and the trunks were already stowed away, but they waited for him at the doorway anyway, just to make sure he wouldn’t miss them.
Harry waved goodbye to Sirius, and made his way towards his friends. It was time to go home.
XXX
1 - FYI, the grandparent thing? I’m not saying this is Mpreg before anyone gets in arms about it. Harry could easily be seeing a girl as far as Sirius is concerned. Just so you know.
2 - The Walrus and the Carpenter, “Through the Looking Glass”, Lewis Carroll.
3 - This date was from the HP Lexicon. But Google says it should be the 22nd, but since I had the scene before written first, I’m leaving it this way. Similarly, Voldemort has been more active in this story than in canon, so he rescued Barty himself, along with Evan (it’s one of the things they were working on, but it’s not really that important overall).
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Was going to make this a shorter chapter, according to my notes, but then I felt bad cause it’s been so long (though it’s not really that long either sigh). So enjoy. And yes, I really need to work on Through the Looking Glass, but I actually sent my notes back tucked into a library book FML.
Words: 2,824
Chapter 40
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