chapter 7: an alternate future

The final form of Harry’s contract with Voldemort was as ironclad as Harry, Theo, Harry’s lawyers, and his close Vipers could make it. It reminded Harry of an agreement between an emperor and the ruler of a small city-state: the latter swore allegiance to the former, and would contribute to the wide-scale ruler’s objectives, but retained full autonomy over the affairs of his own people. Voldemort had also granted Harry a seat in his formal Inner Circle of high-ranking Death Eaters, all of whom, Barty assured Harry, were treated with respect and encouraged to voice dissent even with Voldemort himself, albeit never in front of their lower-ranking peers. The affairs of the Houses of Black and Gaunt would remain untouched by the agreement.

“I think he’ll want another agreement later about the inheritance,” Harry said, looking over the contract for the umpteenth time. It was time to sign it. He didn’t know why he was hesitating. “He won’t want to merge Gaunt and Black any more than I do, and yet he’s effectively sterile.”

“He had been considering a blood adoption, but as he’s also immortal, ensuring a line of succession is low on his list of priorities,” Barty said drily. “I’m sure any children of yours would be granted full rights as Gaunts, at any rate, and to be honest, politics bore him. It’s possible he would eventually consider stepping down in favor of you or your child as the Head of House Gaunt.”

Harry looked at him steadily. “Don’t you mean our children?”

Barty winced and cut his eyes toward Theo, who was sprawled in front of the fire with a book. “I’m just going to find a surrogate, don’t look at me,” Theo said. “Hermione said she would consider it after she has a few of her own with… whoever. We wouldn’t even have to fuck to do it, there’s rituals, or you can get a Healer to facilitate.”

“Your father would agree to that?” Harry said, momentarily distracted.

“Are you joking? He thinks Hermione’s brilliant, he was peeved when we broke it off,” Theo said. “Ability over blood and all that. We Notts have always been too pragmatic to go in for the hardcore blood supremacy shite. Though I don’t think there’s been any handfastings with first generation wix like Hermione—mostly my ancestors preferred at minimum one parent from an established magical line, and then they just charmed the records so people like the Malfoys and Traverses wouldn’t notice. And yes, before you ask, my grandfather’s Sacred Twenty-Eight book was incredibly hypocritical, though to mount a dubious defense it was more about politics than blood purity; there are noble families as old as mine who didn’t make that list because Granddaddy didn’t like them.” He turned a page with a decisive flick.

Harry focused back on Barty with a challenging eyebrow. “We, on the other hand, are officially courting. Last I checked, that leads to a handfasting, which is typically followed at some point by offspring.”

“Not… necessarily,” Barty said. He seemed to be choosing his words with care. “Marriage contracts can vary a lot. I’m the last of the Crouch line, but we can draw up a contract such that our House affairs are entirely independent, which would mean that you could choose to bear a child with a witch of your choice, as Theo intends, or blood adopt a child into the House of Black, and I would have no paternity rights nor custody unless you died and your will named me their guardian.”

“Is that what you want?” Something was tight in Harry’s chest: some emotion, probably, though as usual he couldn’t bloody name what it was. “To have nothing to do with…”

Barty’s lips thinned. “I was barely of age when I went to Azkaban, and then I spent more than a decade on the other end of my father’s Imperius. Until very recently having children wasn’t something I even thought about. I don’t… know if I would… I don’t know what a good father looks like. I’ve an idea of what not to do, but it’s a lot easier to fuck up as a parent than be a good one.”

“And you didn’t bring this up before why?” Although, in fairness, Harry hadn’t thought of it either. He had always assumed that he would have, or blood adopt, children eventually; he’d have to, to have an Heir, and he didn’t think he would want to have just one. It was just that—well. It suddenly felt quite a bit more concrete.

“I didn’t want to rush you. You’re… younger than I am by a lot. I know it’s less of a difference than it might be otherwise considering…” the years in which Barty was imprisoned and not going through a normal adulthood, yes, Harry knew what he meant— “but still. It’s your decision. I figured we would discuss it in the marriage contract negotiations whenever you were ready to take that step and that we’d just leave it undetermined in the contract if you didn’t know for sure by then. Not to mention we won’t even get to that point until this, ah, shadow war is done with.”

Considering Barty was a wanted fugitive and blood adoptions weren’t even legal yet, yeah, that was fair. “I want children, and I would… rather not parent them alone. I might have even less of an idea of what good parenting is than you.” He thought about it. “Actually, of the three of us, I think Theo’s the only one with anything resembling a healthy father figure.”

“The Dark Lord—”

“I said healthy,” Harry interrupted.

Barty snorted. “Yeah, okay, point.”

Another thought struck Harry and he glanced at Theo, wondering how to ask or even if he should. Harry certainly didn’t have the terminology to explain the way Theo had slotted into his relationship with Barty: he seemed to enjoy being present when Harry and Barty got each other off, though he never participated; he was always around, researching on his own or with one or both others. Really, he had been such a constant in Harry’s life that Harry had found it as natural as breathing to fit Theo into the rhythms of his life outside of Hogwarts as well as inside its walls. And Barty seemed to like Theo independently of Harry—the two of them could spend hours debating any subject that came to mind, or dueling, or diving further into ancient languages when Harry was doing an intensive potions experiment or buried in Black family papers.

Theo seemed to sense his internal conflict, and sighed, rolling over to survey Harry and Barty with hooded eyes. “We’re having this conversation, then?”

“It’s probably time,” Barty said, and smirked at him. “Fair’s fair. You dodged a curse a few minutes ago, now it’s your turn.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Theo said amiably. “Fine. Harry, I… am not going anywhere unless you tell me to leave. I have no interest in—in sex or love the way it seems to work normally, I just… we’re… I have friends, and that’s not what this is,” he gestured between them, “and it may not be the most conventional thing in the world but I’m not inclined to give it up.”

Barty shrugged. “Purebloods have done weirder. Since blood adoptions went out the window, it’s not uncommon for a contract to be strictly impersonal, require the production of an heir or two, and then otherwise set the respective parties free to do as they wish. Including move their lover into the same place as their spouse and the primary union’s children just have a Mum, a Father, and a Dad, or whatever.”

“Is that what you want?” Harry said carefully.

Theo’s lips quirked. “I would be honored to raise my Heir as a sibling to yours.”

“Hopefully between the three of us we won’t fuck it up too badly,” Harry said with a grimace.

“If all else fails we call Hermione,” Theo said. “Or Justin. They both had healthy childhoods. Them and… none of the rest of our friends. Maybe Daph, I guess.”

“Are Muggles just better at being parents?” Barty wondered.

Harry laughed. “Don’t suggest that to your stand-in father.”

“Oh, Merlin, never.”

“Are you worried about the Dark Lord interfering with your children?” Theo said. “Is that what brought this up? Because it’s in that contract, too. That’s House of Black business. Your children, your Vipers’ children, they’re all sacrosanct. Including mine and Draco’s. He’s only Marking us to…”

“Strengthen the alliance,” Barty suggested.

“I was going to say to get leverage, but yes, that too,” Theo said.

Harry shrugged. “He’s trying to align our interests as much as possible, no? It’s reasonable. Is a manipulation still a manipulation if the other party knows what you’re up to?”

“Slytherins.” Barty rolled his eyes.

Theo cackled. “Yes, literally.”

“Oh, for—” Barty threw a pillow at him, which Theo slapped aside, still laughing.

“Here goes, then,” said Harry softly, and they both sobered, watching him pick up a blood quill and bring it to bear on the contract in front of him, written on parchment spelled seven ways from Sunday against deceit, trickery, invisible ink, and any outside magic.

All it would do was bind.

Harry signed his name across the bottom, next to the spot where Marvolo Lord Gaunt was already spelled out in old-fashioned, elegant cursive, the Dark Lord’s blood dried to a dark brown.

It was over in seconds, Hadrian Sirius Lord Black spilling across the page in Harry’s more cramped and angular script, glistening ruby-red in the witchlight. The parchment glowed a bright gold and with the light came magic that pierced through Harry like a lance. It dug into the very heart of him and wrapped around and settled. For just a moment, he felt the bond pull taut, and could not breathe— and then it was over, having settled into his magic.

He was officially an ally of the Dark Lord Voldemort, otherwise known as Marvolo Gaunt. He was officially bound to take the Dark Mark on Litha two days hence.

“No going back,” Theo said softly.

Harry’s lips twisted up into a mirthless smile, despite himself. He set the quill down with the care due to such artifacts and looked up. Barty’s eyes were on him, hard with desire and affection. Something darker too—triumph, or possession, or even, Harry could admit in the privacy of his own mind, something like love.

Theo was right, there was no going back, but this wasn’t the moment when that became true. The time for turning back had been over long ago.

Litha: the summer solstice.

It was, Harry reflected, foolish bordering on idiotic to assume that the light’s strongest day was one of happiness and peace only. Light was harsh and burning, pitiless and merciless; Light was Lady Justice, blindfolded and sword-wielding and cruel in its honesty.

Light was everywhere. The bonfire leapt almost as high as the trees that surrounded the forest clearing, oaks all. Twelve sacrificial boars, one for each full moon of the year, hung around its edges, their blood slowly dripping into the soil as payment for the oak they had taken and cut to pieces for the fire. Burning green wood was a noisy, smoky affair: the fire roared. The heat was relentless.

Overhead, the sun blazed down on them as it neared its zenith. Harry and the two dozen or so other attendees had come in robes of summer colors—brightest yellow, green like the season’s fierce abundance, gold and violet, azure blue like the sky above. Harry had chosen a yellow robe dense and heavy with leaf- and thorn-laden vines embroidered in green thread. It clung high to his throat and stopped just below his knees at the tops of his dragonhide dueling boots.

His arms were bare.

Summerwine, laced with the first blood of the largest sacrifice, had been flowing for an hour, as they all built up the fire, pouring magic and fuel into it, building it high with the force of their cause. Rest and introspection could wait for Yule, which was in many ways a softer holiday; Litha meant action, meant boldness, meant purity of purpose. Litha was a day for revolutions.

So far, despite the wine, no one had said a word.

Harry knew several of them, of course. Bellatrix had embraced him when he arrived and gone to a knee, taking his right hand and pressing her forehead to the Black signet ring. Harry had drawn her to her feet and bowed in return: he was, after all, the head of her ancestral House. Her lips had already been red with wine, and her eyes hard and glittering.

Her sister was present, too, and Lucius Malfoy, both of them pale and haughty. Narcissa was so unlike Bellatrix Harry had a hard time believing they were sisters: restrained where Bellatrix was wild, fine-boned and pale-haired where Bellatrix was strong-featured and dark. Neither Malfoy parent had so much as looked at Harry. Plenty of the others had: Lord Nott, evaluative and warm; Lady Parkinson, who just seemed amused by him; the Lestrange brothers, both of whom glared at Harry like they’d like him to be the sacrifice. Possibly because Harry could technically dissolve Bellatrix’s marriage with the stroke of a quill. And would, if she asked it of him. Rodolphus struck him as an unpleasant sort of man and Sirius had mentioned once that the marriage was arranged.

Harry, and everyone else, felt it the moment the Dark Lord arrived; Harry turned, and Theo and Barty, who had not left his shoulders for a moment since Barty apparated him in, did likewise. Every one of the gathered Death Eaters was frozen in anticipation when Voldemort strode out of the trees from the east draped in flowing robes of blinding white.

In unison, they fell to their knees, heads bowed, Harry and Barty included.

“Rise,” Voldemort said, his voice somehow blending with the crackling fury of the bonfire, until he sounded not entirely human. He looked around into their assembled faces and his red eyes seemed to burn. “We gather here this Litha to unify our cause… and to celebrate as our family grows by three. Magic bless and keep us.”

“Blessed be,” they said, mostly in unison. A thrum of power went through the clearing.

Voldemort strode forward, and raised his wand: the burning logs, in a typically terrifying show of his magical power, shifted, splitting into two slightly smaller towers with a gap in the center, several of the largest pieces of wood and the hottest bed of coal keeping the flames high there. “Litha,” Voldemort said, still in that impossible, fiery voice, “is a day for actions. We who gather here today shall forge our hearts and minds and magic into one, the better to obtain our ends. May this fire burn away all impurities. May this fire carry the force of our purpose to Magic itself and lend us its blessing.” He turned, and paced a circle around the fire, heedless of the sparks and smoke that landed on his robe, heedless of the flames and heat licking at his heels, eyes raking over them all with an almost physical touch. Harry bore it without a flinch.

He came to a stop where he had begun, right next to the low center of the bonfire, and then, without a pause, took two long strides and leapt. The fire roared, triumphant, and leapt higher to wrap itself around him, and with it Harry felt their gathered magic pulse with an ecstasy that lingered in his blood.

Then Voldemort landed on the other side, and turned, holding a hand out towards the fire. “Bella,” he called.

Bellatrix laughed, a high, unrestrained cackle, and ran headlong at the fire. Her jump lacked Voldemort’s uncanny grace but if anything, Harry thought, the fire loved her more, and indeed it clung to her hems as she hit the ground and sank to a knee before her Lord, whose hand moved on her forehead for a moment before she rose and smiled at him and stepped back. He had written the rune sowilo—sun, victory, power—on her brow.

The wild energy built higher, and then higher still with every Death Eater that followed. Harry, yet to be Marked, would wait; when it was his turn, Barty kissed him hungrily before taking his run through the fire and receiving the rune from Voldemort, who cupped Barty’s cheek briefly in his hand before pulling his quasi-son to his feet.

At last they had all gone, all but Harry and Theo and Draco, who had gravitated together and waited alone on the eastern side of the fire, Voldemort and his Marked vassals arrayed on its far side, waiting.

Voldemort held out his hand.

Somehow Harry knew he was to go first. He took one step and a strange wildness overcame him, seizing the very cells in his body. He hurled himself forward and then into the air. Time, for a moment, stood still: he hovered in the fire, bathed in it even, and the heat and the light scorched through him, and he knew in one pure, joyous second that this. was. right.

His feet hit solid ground again. The hem of his robe was on fire but he felt no heat nor pain. Harry sank to his knees. His heartbeats seemed to blur together, the magic and the fervor and the ecstasy pounding through him with his blood.

The worst enemy of occlumency was doubt. Harry looked up and into Voldemort’s red, red eyes, and he had never been so sure of anything in his life.

He raised his left arm without waiting to be asked.

Voldemort brought his wand to bear and pressed it to the soft flesh of Harry’s inner arm. For a moment, its point dug in—and then all else ceased to exist.

Words like pleasure and pain were inadequate. It fucking burned, his flesh and his magic too, searing him right down to his very essence. Red filled his vision: red of Voldemort’s eyes, red of the fire, red of the blood sacrifice he could feel being consumed by the ancient oak trees and feel on the brows of his fellows, sinking into their skin, binding them all. He pulsed with the furious life all around and for a moment he knew all the forest’s secrets.

Harry’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

And then it was over. Harry slumped, panting harshly. His right hand pressed into the dirt and supported his trembling body. He looked, and there it was, a bright red gash on Harry’s arm—the skull and snake of the Mark, just below where Voldemort’s pale fingers wrapped around his wrist, keeping him from totally collapsing.

He was a Death Eater.

Voldemort dipped his thumb in what appeared to be a mixture of blood and ash that burned almost to the point of pain when it came into contact with Harry’s forehead. It felt like he was drawing the rune slightly off-center, and then Harry realized, with a jolt that went straight down to his stomach, that Voldemort was tracing the rune directly over his scar.

“Rise, promised of my son,” hissed Voldemort, and Harry started; he hadn’t spoken after any of the others. “Rise as my ally and as my son and Heir. Rise, blessed child of magic, bearer of Sowilo. May you be a boon to the House of Gaunt.”

“My Lord,” Harry said, and then he repeated it again in English, “My Lord,” as he stood on legs that shook with the force of the energy coursing through him.

“My son,” Voldemort said again, presumably for the benefit of everyone who couldn’t speak the serpent tongue, and a ripple of surprise went through the gathered Death Eaters. Harry allowed himself a small hard smile as he stepped away and joined Barty in the semicircle that waited at Voldemort’s back.

Barty seized his hand as Harry took his place at Barty’s side. He said nothing, but his fingers clenched around Harry’s. Desire hit Harry like a punch to the gut and he was suddenly breathless with want. Barty’s eyes darkened and Harry knew he felt the same.

Later, he thought, though whether he was trying to convince himself or Barty he didn’t know.

It was probably bad form to start mindlessly snogging in the middle of this ceremony.

He looked back at the fire just as Theo made his jump. At its peak he seemed almost weightless, eyes closed and face turned up towards the blazing noontide sun, flames reflecting endlessly off the red-gold of his robes until he resembled an elemental creature of old. Watching, Harry ached.

Theo let out a harsh, low scream as the Mark sank into his arm. Seeing it from the outside gave new context—the way his face contorted, the tremors that seized him. It took much less time than it had felt in the moment.

Theo seemed to have more difficulty standing, when it was done, but he did without help, and walked a straight line to his father’s side. Lord Nott dropped a hand on Theo’s shoulder.

Then it was Draco’s turn, appearing translucent in robes of pale yellow as he passed through the fire. He gasped as he landed, and seemed almost to glow, as though a bit of the fire had taken up residence in him. Like Theo, he screamed, but only for a second before biting down on his lower lip; and then it was over, the red of the Mark and the blood-black rune rune standing out stark and brutal against his skin.

Draco, shaking, went to stand between his parents.

Voldemort turned to face them all. “In this fire we are forged anew,” he said, “and our circle grows. Carry the magic of Litha with you in your hearts. Let it fuel your minds and your wands. Let this fire be that which drives us onwards, in the name of Magic, to achieve our ends and lift up all of Magic’s children.”

“Magic, bless our purpose,” said Harry’s mouth and all the other mouths around him. A circuit closed somewhere and for a second that lasted forever Harry was one of many.

The power exploded from them in a rush. Harry didn’t feel drained, though—more like a cup, held in a waterfall and scoured clean, and now left full to bursting.

He barely noticed the closing of the rite, Voldemort reaching straight into the fire and seizing a flaming branch that he used to light fresh branches in each of their hands, each Death Eater kneeling before him one last time before they apparated away. Harry hardly registered the flame in his hand or that he was abruptly back in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen. He did notice when Barty returned a second later with Theo, because Harry had half-expected Theo to go home with his father; but of course, he thought suddenly, of course Theo would be here, where else would he go?

They each lit a tall pillar candle on the table in the kitchen—the heart of the home—and then they placed their burning brands into the hearth, where Kreacher had prepared a generous pile of firewood.

Barty took him by the hand, lifted it, kissed his knuckles. Theo’s hand was a featherlight touch on the back of Harry’s neck, and then Barty was leading the way up the stairs. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.

Harry was hard and aching before they even reached the master bedroom. Theo followed him across the threshold and gently shut the door on their heels. Barty drew Harry in and brushed their lips together softly, once, twice.

Abruptly, Harry tired of waiting. He fisted his hands in the front of Barty’s robes, yanked them together, and kissed back, shoving Barty towards the bed as he went. Theo’s quiet laughter only stoked the heat in Harry’s abdomen.

Barty twisted at the last second and it was Harry who landed on his back on the bed, Harry who gasped at the force of the impact and lost focus for the second it took Barty to pin his wrists down and kiss him deeply. Harry arched upward in desperate search of friction. “Not yet,” Barty breathed against his lips, and then turned his attention to Harry’s throat, sinking his teeth into Harry’s pulse point while his leg pinned Harry’s hips to the bed, forcing him to stay still. Harry let out a startled whine.

It got unbearable just as Barty began to move again, sucking bruises along Harry’s collarbone—when had his robes come undone?—and whispering an unintelligible spell. Harry wondered what it did for half a second and then felt something silken wrapping around his wrists, pinning them together, just as Barty finally ground his hips down on Harry’s.

The glance Barty aimed over Harry’s head confused him until—oh, fuck—the rope around his wrists went taught with pressure—he craned his head back, which of course only gave Barty better access to his throat—it was Theo who’d seized the far end of Barty’s conjured rope and, smirking at Harry, yanked it back to tie to something out of sight.

A rush of cold air made Harry jerk: Barty had pulled away and in the same second vanished Harry’s clothes. Some of his neurons managed to fire and Harry said accusingly, “You better not have lost that robe.”

“It’s in your closet,” Barty growled, “now shut up.”

Harry grinned at him. He was definitely going to regret this. “Make me.”

“Make—?” Barty cut off with a laugh. “Harry. Do you really think I can’t?”

Harry opened his mouth but quite abruptly lost the ability to speak because Barty had bent over and taken Harry’s cock in his mouth.

It was not the first or second or even the dozenth time Harry had had another man’s mouth on him, but the sensation hadn’t diminished in the slightest. His world narrowed to the press of Barty’s lips and tongue, the heat, god, that had to be a spell or something, that can’t be natural, the way it pulses in his dick and in the Mark on his arm—

Two new sensations came at the same time and Harry’s whole body tightened like a wire: there were fingers on his Mark, lightly tracing; and slick fingers reaching between his legs, pressing in. He heard a high-pitched gasp and belatedly realized it had come from him.

Harry looked down, and saw Barty, eyes closed, mouth still working Harry’s cock with unrelenting attention, right hand out of sight, left hand pinning Harry’s leg to the side. It was too much so he looked up and back instead.

Theo smiled at him, cruel and possessive. He had taken a seat on the bed and it was his fingers tracing maddeningly over the hypersensitive skin of the Mark. “I like you like this,” he said softly. “I like you safe in our hands.”

Oh, fuck, that was too much, Harry was going to—

Barty came off his dick with a slight pop. Harry’s hips jerked up—uselessly; Barty was still holding his right leg down—and he gasped out, “You fucker” in a completely wrecked voice.

“Yes, that’s the idea,” Barty said, and bit the inside of Harry’s thigh, the bright flare of pain echoed a second later when Theo dragged his nails across the Mark.

Harry felt like he might actually explode.

Barty turned his head and kissed the purpling marks from his teeth. Harry went suddenly boneless as Barty’s finger sank into him, impossibly gentle.

They’d done this much before; Harry had some idea of how to relax into it, sort of knew to expect the way the initial burn would fade into warmth and pleasure. He had felt the jolt of sudden arousal when Barty found and pressed that one specific cluster of nerves. So he wasn’t entirely taken aback. It was just that Barty was moving with a purpose now, doing… something that left Harry more stretched with every passing heartbeat.

The sensations just built on each other: Barty pressing him open; Barty’s other hand creeping up to pinch and press his nipples; the drift of Theo’s hand and occasional scrape of his nails over the Mark; the sleek and unforgiving grip of the silk cord around his wrists, which Harry couldn’t help but tug against. Occasionally Barty would lick or stroke along Harry’s cock, each time drawing some sort of noise from him, but never more than that, and by the time Barty pulled his fingers all the way out, Harry was so distracted he hardly registered the oddly empty feeling before Barty replaced his fingers with his dick.

Harry tensed up. “Relax,” Barty murmured, leaning down on arms that shook faintly to kiss Harry deeply, slowly, like they had all the time in the world, and Theo twisted his fingers into Harry’s hair and tugged, and Harry forgot to think. Dimly he felt Barty pressing deeper: it burned, fuck, but then Barty stilled and dragged one hand up and down Harry’s side, and as Harry adjusted the heat faded into pleasure.

Then Barty began to move, slowly, rocking in and out. It was such an odd feeling. Harry dragged a few scattered thoughts together and decided he should try rocking his hips up into Barty, which—

“Oh shit,” Barty said raggedly, a sentiment Harry completely agreed with, because something about the angle had changed and it felt like electricity jolting through his whole body. “Do that again,” he got out.

“Demanding,” Theo commented.

Harry tried to say something back but in that same instant Barty snapped his hips forward with a lot more force and it came out in a stream of wordless parseltongue. Barty cursed again and held very still, eyes shut.

“You’re holding back,” Harry said.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Barty gritted out.

Harry canted his hips up as hard as he could from this position, which wasn’t very seeing as he had next to no leverage, but even so Barty let out an almost inaudible whimper. “You won’t,” Harry said. “Let go.”

Barty opened his eyes. His pupils were so dilated they were nearly black. For a second Harry felt like he was drowning in them, and then Barty smiled wickedly and said “If you insist” and—

Fuck. Fuck. Each stroke pressed Harry’s body up the bed, sending fire lashing through him; Theo’s fingers were twisted harshly in his hair, pinning his head back and leaving him utterly helpless while Barty fucked him. “Yes, God, keep going, Barty, fuck—” he babbled, and then stopped using words altogether, only carrying on because some distant part of him knew parseltongue made Barty lose it, and Harry loved watching Barty come undone.

Right now, for example: Barty’s face tight, the desperate grasping of his fingers on Harry’s shoulders and waist, the harsh rasping of his breath—Harry had done that to him. Was doing that to him.

Barty shifted. Harry didn’t even have time to wonder why before Barty’s hand closed around his cock and Harry contracted involuntarily. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to push down onto Barty or up into his hand, and then realized the answer was to do both, Barty setting a rhythm Harry could just barely match—

Theo sank his fingers harshly into the Mark and pleasure punched through Harry so hard his vision whited out and he stopped breathing. Dimly he realized he’d completely clamped down around Barty and had a dazed half-second of wondering if it hurt before the movement of Barty’s hips faltered and there was a sudden bloom of a totally different kind of heat deep inside.

“Fffffff… fuck.” Barty collapsed half on top of Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. If he’d come home wired and burning and fairly buzzing with energy, that fire was banked now, smoldering happy and low.

And he suddenly really wanted to sleep. Harry turned his head slightly sideways and closed his eyes.

“Nope,” Theo said with a laugh, shoving at him. “Shower first.”

“Yeah,” Barty mumbled into his shoulder. “Shower.”

“Fine. You have to get up for that,” Harry said, summoning the energy to poke Barty in the ribs, which made him yelp and twist away. Harry started to sit up and got jerked back down on the bed by the cord he’d forgotten was still around his wrists.

Theo snorted and did a quick vanishing charm.

Somehow, Harry got himself into the shower without falling over, despite his uncooperative legs and the exhaustion that was settling in as the last of the ritual’s high drained away. Having Barty in the shower with him was pretty obviously arousing but Harry only noted it in an abstract sort of way, and if their hands wandered over each other, it was only for the comfort Harry had found in touching and being touched.

Theo was already in a spare set of Harry’s pyjamas and half-asleep on one side of the master bed when they came back in. “Didn’t want to…” He gestured vaguely towards the door. Only because Harry knew his friend so well did he detect the faint trace of uncertainty lurking under Theo’s calm exterior.

“You’re welcome here,” Barty said, nudging Harty towards the bed.

“Is this normal after a Litha rite like that?” Harry said. “The…”

“Wanting to fuck and then sleep? Yes,” Barty said, Theo laughing in the background. Harry kicked Theo in the leg as he slid into place in the middle of the enormous bed. “After a Yule rite people mostly want to sit around with a drink and a fire, talk, maybe have lazy sex. Litha gets you… charged. And Beltane, Merlin, Litha’s just about energy in general but Beltane specifically gets everyone fucking like rabbits. I’ve heard stories of Beltane rituals that ended in essentially an orgy.”

Harry fell asleep imagining telling Aunt Petunia about wizards having orgies: she would probably expire on the spot. Maybe he should work out a way to go do that one of these days.

The Mark itself, once Harry got over the bizarre and selective sensitivity of it, was an intellectually fascinating piece of magic. Voldemort had designed it himself: by providing a physical and symbolic anchor for a fealty agreement, he had strengthened the reciprocal nature of a fealty oath, and been able to introduce several other, more targeted benefits. In an emergency, any bearer of the Mark could activate it to alert their Lord to the danger, and the spell itself would alert him in the event of incapacitation or mortal injury. One could also call the Dark Lord, sense the presence of other Marked Death Eaters, and apparate to the Dark Lord’s side at his call without knowing the destination. There was a geas woven in as well, of which Harry heartily approved; a Death Eater couldn’t give up the names of Death Eaters whose allegiance they knew only from sensing other Marks, nor could they voluntarily share information shared by another Death Eater under geas with anyone save other bearers of the Mark or, of course, the Dark Lord himself.

Harry also suspected there was a sort of… escape clause built in. The nature of a fealty oath went both ways: having a ‘kill switch’ of some kind would contradict its fundamental nature, and the spell would, according to Harry’s research, either fail entirely or corrupt into something like the Roman Empire’s slave-brands. However, he sensed that, in extremity, he could turn the Mark back on himself.

Naturally, he asked Barty about it.

“Yes,” Barty said shortly, looking down at his own arm. The Mark was visible, as they were in private and outer robes could be discarded without violating decency.

“And you never…”

“Sometimes.” Barty tensed his arm and they watched as the Mark jumped with the muscle underneath it. “But I always… hoped. It wasn’t like it got any worse. Azkaban was easier in some ways, I had… I had the others, at least, even if most of the time we couldn’t talk. After that… my father never… escalated. It was just day in, day out of the Imperius, the monotony, the… some days I wasn’t sure if I was still alive or not, or if maybe the Muggles had been right all along and I’d wound up in some kind of, of posthumous punishment.” He took a shuddering breath. Harry reached out and wrapped his fingers around Barty’s right hand. “But it never got any worse. I told myself, on my lucid days, when I thought about maybe… I told myself I had nothing left to lose, I was as low as I could possibly go, so what did it matter if I had to put up with another month or two of hell before I died? What difference did another day of torture make? If there was a way out, an escape, if my Lord ever came for me, anything, I knew I’d be glad I hung on. And if eventually I got confirmation that there wouldn’t be, I could always end it later. When you ask yourself that question, you can turn a no to a yes pretty easily, but you can’t take back the yes once you’ve done it.”

Unless you’re Voldemort, but no, mentioning the Dark Lord’s little flirtation with death would not be a helpful response. “For what it’s worth I’m glad you hung on,” Harry offered instead.

Barty smiled wryly. “As am I. My Lord is alive and well, better even; we’re making real progress towards our goals. And…” He brought Harry’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it in a not-quite-kiss for a few long seconds. “This, you, are more than I ever hoped for.”

“I was always afraid I wouldn’t have anything like this,” Harry said quietly. “The trust, of course, but with most people the…” He waved a hand. “Whatever mystery ingredient pushes you into sexual desire, I just don’t have it, most of the time. I see people having sex casually and it baffles me. I figured finding someone who I can feel that for, and who returns it, and who’s unattached and within a certain age difference, and who would understand me… it seemed unlikely.”

“Theo was a surprise as well,” Barty added.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “A pleasant one, I’d hope.”

“Oh, absolutely. He’s brilliant. You’re both brilliant. You realize I really have little left to teach you?” Barty said. “My father allowed me to read sometimes, but nothing too… complex magically, and I had barely been out of school a year when we got sent away.”

“It’s excellent that you’ve got us, then,” Harry said solemnly. “Wouldn’t want you to get complacent.”

Barty’s face did something complicated and outraged. “Complacent?”

Harry lost it, and burst out laughing.

<>

Jules stared at the desktop and tried to form words.

Across from him, Andi and Ethan waited, Andi patiently and Ethan with a tapping finger. Jules thought probably a lawyer shouldn’t have such an obvious tell. Then he thought he was avoiding thinking about the thing they had actually come here to get him to think about, and he should quit being a coward and actually think it.

“Harry?” he said, hating how lost and young his voice sounded.

“I think so,” Andi said softly. She would look so much like her sister if not for her expressions, which just totally changed her face—real warmth, a lack of sadistic glee, those things made a huge difference. “The Potter wards are ancient. Not impregnable, no wards are, but to fool them without alerting the Lord of the House, who was here at the time? No one could have done this who wasn’t a Potter.”

“Harry’s not a Potter.” Jules’ voice came out bitter this time.

“He used to be,” Ethan said. “He looks like you, he shares your… what do Muggles call them?”

“Genes,” Andi supplied.

“Genes. You’re sympathetically connected.”

“I don’t get that.”

“You’re twins,” Andi said. “That’s something… special. There have been many cases of magical twins sharing certain abilities, even developing something akin to telepathy or an ability to sense the other’s emotional state… even drawing on each other’s magic to perform incredible feats under duress. There was some speculation that you survived You-Know-Who’s attack because of your twin bond.”

“I’ve never felt… anything like that.” Maybe if he had, things would be different. Maybe if he had he’d have—fuck, Jules didn’t know, tried harder maybe, understood younger, known Harry wasn’t exaggerating or, or making things up. Maybe he would’ve stood up to Dad and been a better brother.

Now, it was way too fucking late.

Especially if Andi and Ethan were right.

He dragged his brain back to the room, where Andi was saying, “You didn’t grow up together, so it’s likely that it simply never developed, but the potential was there all the same. If Harry found a way to draw on that, to enhance another ritual or spell…”

“Jules,” Ethan said, leaning forward, “can you think of any time in the last, I don’t know, six months or so when someone might have collected your blood?”

“What? No. Not even Pomfrey.” But then— “Wait. I cut my arm, in Herbology, a few months back… it bled all over. I guess someone could have stolen some then?”

Andi looked grim. “And do you often slip and cut yourself with your Herbology tools, Jules?”

“No…” Oh. “You think…”

“Yes, I think it possible the tool was hexed and the blood harvested,” Andi said. “Or someone saw an opportunity and took it. Either way, with your blood, this ritual…” She pulled a book out of her purse and handed it to Jules, who opened it to the marked page and read.

His jaw gaped when he was done. “You think Harry did this? Like, magically pretended to be me? That’s possible?”

“Normally, no. It takes rigid mental control, a lot of magical power, and even then it’s far from foolproof,” Andi said. “For example, I could likely use this to slip into a warded Black property, but only if I had blood from one of my—my sisters. Ethan could not, nor you. This would allow a hypothetical person to fool wards cast within the last few decades—those lack the experience and awareness of old familial wards—but that person would have to be unusually powerful and skilled. I would at least have very good odds of managing it; for me it would depend largely on the relative strength of the wards’ caster. Most of the Order could not keep me out if I had this spell and the blood of the caster or someone keyed to the wards. Albus could have. Kingsley. I expect Nymphadora will one day… or would, were I not her mother.” Her eyes grew distant. “It’s hard to ward against blood kin.”

“And there’s no way for someone other than Harry to have done it?” Jules said desperately. “What about… I dunno, someone at the party?”

“The Ministry checked all the guests,” Andi said. “None were suspicious; all or most had alibis.”

“It’s… also possible that Miss Weasley was a conspirator, not an innocent,” Ethan said.

Jules reared back. “No.”

Ethan reached across the desk— Dad’s desk— and laid his hand over Jules’. “Hear me out. She’s a Slytherin, surrounded all year at school by the children of Death Eaters. Even a good kid can fall in with a bad crowd, make dumb decisions. Maybe she agreed to lure him away and didn’t know where it was going to go—maybe she thought someone just needed him distracted from the party for a bit. But if she knows anything…”

“Didn’t the Ministry question her though?” Jules said, trying to ignore his sudden nausea.

“Of course, but her memories are likely disjointed from the trauma, and they wouldn’t have been looking for anything else. They can’t. Investigators are oathbound to seek only that which is relevant to the case. As you know.”

Jules nodded. Beneath the desk, the hand that wasn’t caught in Ethan’s had sunk into his own thigh hard enough to hurt.

The last two weeks had just been an unrelenting nightmare. Hours upon hours of conversations with what felt like dozens of Ministry officials. Frantic Order meetings. Gringotts and dealing with the… the will, and then the funeral… and the theft… all of it mixed with the grief, the rage, the absolute conviction that this was foul play and the Ministry didn’t believe him or worse was complicit, the horror of what had almost been done to Ginny—and now to think that Harry had been behind it all? Harry, not some Death Eater?

Jules had barely even cried. There just hadn’t been time. He was grieving, Merlin, he was fucking wrecked, but he was so many other things too, mostly anger, and if Andi was right—

“So it had to have been Harry,” he whispered.

“It seems most likely, yes. I’m so sorry, Jules. I know you hoped you could still reach him, but with this in mind? He’s… he’s already gone.”

“And we can’t get him for it,” Jules said.

Ethan shook his head. “No. The Ministry ruled him out as a suspect; there were fourteen eyewitnesses placing him at a private gathering at the time—”

“Probably lying—”

“They gave memory verification, Jules, and the DMLE experts confirmed the memories as genuine.”

“Polyjuice then!”

“There’s no way to prove that,” Andi said. “Jules, think. Verified memory testimony gives him an ironclad alibi. He voluntarily surrendered his wand to the Aurors and it came up clean of anything more than moderately grey, which is perfectly explainable by the private dueling lessons he says he’s taking in hopes of competing in the adult professional circuit in a few years. There’s nothing tying this crime to him except circumstantial evidence and a lot of hypotheticals. Nothing even remotely enough for an arrest, let alone a conviction. And there’s always the possibility that there is another incredible ward-fooling spell out there that I just don’t know about. Recently invented, or hidden away in some tiny family library. Unlikely, but possible.”

“So he just… he does this, and he just walks away?” Jules said. The glass in one of the photographs on the table fractured, and he throttled his temper. “Nothing happens?”

“Well,” said Ethan slowly, “not necessarily nothing.”

<>

Over the centuries, House Black had guarded its influence and resources wisely, dispensing them in careful quantities on only those causes deemed worthwhile. It was the rulebook Arcturus had played by in the last war, allowing Sirius to court one side and his other descendants the other, keeping himself and the bulk of the Black assets carefully neutral.

It was a wise strategy. Harry was also ignoring it completely.

He didn’t have five young relatives to choose from and over a dozen adult family members among whom to divide responsibility. He had himself alone. And, as he’d told Snape, sometimes the Slytherin way was picking the winning side, but other times, a real Slytherin made sure their side would win.

As it turned out, throwing the full might of the House of Black behind Voldemort’s cause made a very big difference indeed.

Harry felt like he barely slept for the next month. If not for Kreacher he doubted he’d have remembered to eat. He existed in a constant hurricane of projects, people, gold, and the never-ending stream of letters.

Theo had been the one to suggest hiring a secretary. Harry was hesitant at first, but Penelope Clearwater was efficient, organized, and honestly better at writing polite non-answers than Harry himself, which he supposed was the sort of skill Percy Weasley would find attractive in a witch. Her connection to someone of that family had given Barty some pause but Ginny assured them Percy was determinedly pretending his blood kin didn’t exist. Harry had, in fact, been surprised when she answered the ad he put out in the Prophet.

“I’m a Muggleborn,” she said baldly when he obliquely inquired as to her lack of notable employment since leaving school. “I chose not to take a Ministry job charming dust or—or fetching coffee that will ensure I go absolutely nowhere, and it seems that all the jobs with real potential were snapped up by people who oh so coincidentally had nice wizarding surnames, so here I am applying to work for a schoolboy.” Then she had flushed bright red. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“It’s no problem,” said Harry with a warm smile. Sancus’ flowers were quite nice-looking and also had the added benefit of compelling those who inhaled their scent to speak honestly. He had taken an antidote before the meeting, of course, but Miss Clearwater, of course, had not. “I understand and I know it’s not what you hoped for. However, I’m technically a Lord of the Wizengamot, and you’ll be able to make plenty of connections working for me that wouldn’t as somebody’s coffee girl, which I agree is a waste of your time and talents. If you do well we can even talk about funding for a Mastery program in exchange for you working for me for a few years once you get your certificate—I promise it’ll be a reasonable contract.” He decided to go in for a bit of honesty himself. “I sometimes wonder if… Lily Evans would have been remembered by anyone, if she hadn’t married a pureblood Heir. It isn’t right.”

And so Penelope Clearwater came to organize his life. It was a bit irritating—Harry couldn’t wear short sleeves around her, as she was probably clever enough to detect a glamour charm strong enough to hide the Mark—and Barty had to stay upstairs or pop some Polyjuice when she was at the house. Harry scheduled her to come by on weekdays from ten to two and pointedly locked the floo down to all but her letters outside of that time; Kreacher screened the mail, and if there was anything urgent he would tell Harry as soon as it came in.

Death Eaters all had some sort of private owl window, and when sending sensitive mail, impressed a bit of magic on it that would guide the owls to the private post reception point and also cause the missive to self-immolate should anyone without a Mark try to open it—another useful benefit to the tattoos. There was not, however, much of that sort of mail; the Death Eaters were in general very cautious, and Harry specifically communicated with the Dark Lord most in person or through Barty.

It felt like nearly the entire Ministry infiltration operation had been transferred to Harry’s authority. It hadn’t—Corban Yaxley, Reaghan Fawley, and Patricia Cynova all had prominent roles in one way or another—but certainly a great portion of the tactical operations had been, since Harry had at his fingertips money for bribes and information for blackmail in larger quantities than most of the other Death Eaters put together.

And he was also studying for his NEWTs.

“You’re insane,” was Justin’s comment the day he moved into Grimmauld place, a few weeks after the Marking. “How are you doing all this?”

“He has me and he isn’t sleeping much,” said Theo from the other side of Harry’s office.

“Hey, Theo.”

“Hi.”

Justin came and looked upside down at the parchments and scrolls skewed across the desktop. “Right, this is… bribes? Oh, I see, identifiable weak points.” Harry nodded: Blaise and Pansy had, by some unspecified method, come up with a list of, among others, a wizard high-up in International Cooperation with a lot of gambling debt, a witch in the Floo Network Authority having an extramarital affair with her husband’s father, and another witch with a history of harassing other employees by way of her job as second-in-command of the Internal Affairs Office and whose vulnerable younger sister was in permanent care at St. Mungo’s.

Harry didn’t really intend to hurt the sister, but the threat alone would make his target hop to.

“Mmm. And this is… outright money laundering.” Justin raised his eyes.

“You’d be amazed how hard it is to plausibly move money around to fund a covert revolutionary militia,” Harry said wryly.

“Right, that’s my project now. No, hands off, mine,” Justin said, clutching the stack of parchments when Harry tried to summon them back. “You literally cannot keep doing all of this, it is physically not possible, now sit down and go back to coercing people into helping you take over a government.”

“Stop laughing,” Harry said to Theo. “Traitor.”

Justin kidnapped basically every financial document in the house, vanished into a room with them, and emerged only to eat and have shouting matches with goblins through the floo. Harry was starting to get concerned after three days when Justin came out in need of a shower and in possession of an entire system for Harry to move Death Eater money and have it all look completely above board to the Ministry’s tax people.

“I don’t understand this,” Barty said, flipping through.

“Me neither, but it works,” said Harry with a shrug. “He’s not planning to move out soon so I am more than happy to delegate this.”

“If my Lord knew how financially brilliant Muggleborns are he’d have hired more of them a lot sooner.”

There was, of course, the unconventional relationship between Harry, Theo, and Barty to consider, but if Justin thought it odd he kept that opinion to himself. When Harry told Graham, his wad had pretty much just rolled his eyes and told Harry that the younger Vipers had all been betting on whether Harry and Theo would ever realize they were platonic soulmates.

Harry gave up trying to understand the minds of people under fifteen.

The NEWT examinations were held at the end of July. Harry got through them in a haze of studying, eating, and being forced to sleep by Justin, who had taken up a personal crusade against Harry’s terrible sleep schedule. He emerged from the Runes practical on the last day feeling like his brain was about to leak out of his ears but optimistic about his marks.

That night, the Hogwarts Board of Governors announced their confirmation of one Severus T. Snape as the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Harry invited his inner circle of Vipers over for drinks to celebrate. He raised his in Draco’s direction. “Quite a coup for you.”

“Thank you.” Draco’s smug expression didn’t slip even when Hermione kicked him in the ankle. “Apparently I’m more useful than my father already.”

“Not hard to accomplish,” Blaise said into his margarita.

Pansy opened her mouth, probably to escalate the sniping match, but Justin cut her off. “Don’t be a prat, Blaise, Draco dear is trying his best.”

“Now who’s being a prat?” said Draco.

Justin smiled sunnily.

Lord Black,

I would be delighted to pursue this project. In fact, I had already been pursuing a very similar investigative angle, but you have left me with several new points of inquiry and more research to do! Rest assured an early draft will reach your desk by August.

Rita Skeeter

Harry had to rather carefully husband his time alone, when neither Barty nor Penelope was in the house, and Theo either absent or busy.

Something told Harry to keep this particular project entirely to himself for now. In an hour, when Barty was due back, all the books Harry had out would be reshelved, and any sign of his presence in the library eliminated. Kreacher was an invaluable ally in terms of keeping secrets. For now, though, Harry could sit in peace, alone in the house, and think.

The ring he’d taken from Dumbledore had been the first clue. Once Harry noticed the crack in the stone’s center was right along a vertical line, and once he’d had time to think about it, he realized the geometric pattern on the stone was not a family crest but the same symbol on the cover of Dumbledore’s out-of-place copy of The Tales of Beadle the Bard. And also the same symbol used within the book for the three Deathly Hallows.

It was a story. A children’s tale. Muggles and wizards had them. It was stupid to even be considering that the Hallows might be real.

And yet.

There was the stone, which indubitably had an aura of something strange and powerful, once you spent enough time in its presence to notice. And the wand—there was no single spell to identify a wand’s wood, you needed a wandmaker for that, but the color and the berries carved along it were consistent with elder… and of course it had a similar aura to the stone, albeit more mischievous, active.

Harry slowly reached for the heavily warded top drawer of his desk. If anyone who wasn’t the Black Lord so much as tried the knob, they would regret it immediately. After he’d gotten back from Potter Manor the day of the gala, he’d come straight up here, knowing there was no better place to hide something on short notice.

It clicked open at the touch of his fingers. Harry slid the drawer open. It held only one item, at present, which he examined thoughtfully, and then picked up.

The Potter invisibility cloak shimmered in the candlelight as he allowed its almost liquid fabric to slide from one hand to the next. It absolutely was not demiguise hide, the usual material for an invisibility cloak. It had also been passed down from James to Jules, and before that from James’ father to him, if the stories were to be believed. And—yes. It too had a trace of an ancient and powerful aura.

Harry gently laid it on the desk to the right of the wand.

Stone. Wand. Cloak. According to legend, Harry was now the master of death… and yet nothing had happened.

He already knew he wouldn’t be using the wand whether it was the Deathstick or not. Harry’s ash wand was his, and it liked him, and he it, and for all that the other wand all but leapt into his fingers, he didn’t know it to trust it. Whatever else it might be, it was ancient. Harry would consider carrying it as a backup wand, but he didn’t plan to use it unless the ash was unavailable.

And then the Cloak… Harry experimentally twirled it around his shoulders, and fuck, it was every bit as good as Hermione and Neville had indicated in their stories—but that was it.

Feeling a bit foolish, he fastened it and reached out, picking up the wand and the stone.

Nothing happened.

Harry shook his head, set the stone and wand down, and shrugged the cloak off again. No way to know if these things were the Deathly Hallows or just a coincidental trio of very old, uniquely powerful enchanted objects.

Although, now that he thought about it, the one of the Hallows whose results would be impossible to fake… was the stone.

Slowly, Harry reached out and picked it up. It sat in his palm. The black facets of the stone seemed to drink in the light.

Harry took a deep breath and then turned it over three times.

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