Chapter Text
He was forced to recollect on how he came to be here, his desperation and foolish need to be a part of something more than solitude. How he ached to know friendship, companionship, love. Now look at him, strapped to an altar and about to die knowing none of that, save his gullibility, had been real.
It had all seemed so innocent. Harry had been oddly flattered when he'd been offered a position with Theodore Nott's acquaintances. The other boy was the youngest son of a middle ranking nobility. Nott's blood might be purer than gold but it still flowed in the veins of someone deemed startlingly insignificant. They had bonded over that—falsely it seemed. They both meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, Harry was less so. He was nobody, an orphan with an ancient name but no claim on a legacy.
Everyone pitied him, the supposed heir to an ancient family but no definite way to lay a claim. His mother's family, as questionable as their lineage might be, had refused to take him in after the murder of his family. Since his father had rescinded his title in order to marry his mother, Harry technically had no claim on the title of Lord Potter. While he did not resent his father for his dedication to his love, he wished there could have been another way. In a world steeped in manipulations and power struggles, he had no one. In their world, no one allied themselves with someone that had nothing to offer.
That wasn't saying that he didn't have friends. No, Harry just didn't belong anywhere. His bloodline allowed him contact with noble houses, just not the ability to belong to one. That bittersweet luxury permitted him contact with many of his "brethren," otherwise known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight, even if his father's disgrace had purged them from the brotherhood.
He might prefer the Weasleys, but somehow he always ended up falling in line with the likes of Theodore and others like him. The Weasleys were kind, generous folk, but they too stood on the fringe and life was easier when you associated with those of influence.
Which once more, lead him, ever the fool, here. All it had taken were soft spoken words, a new sense of companionship, and everything Harry had thought he'd known had been torn asunder.
Needless to say, Harry had been swept away by the grandeur and quiet elegance he'd been allowed to glimpse, but never partake in. Theodore had been markedly kind and thoughtful. There had been lavish but practical gifts, but the true gift had been acceptance. The wonders Harry had learned; of magic, and immortality, of deals with demons signed with blood. It was that knowledge that drew Harry like a flame, his curiosity rampant and without end.
Then the offer came. Theodore had played him like a fool. He pitted Harry's gratitude and curiosity against his common sense. Of course, if he truly possessed common sense he imagined it would have protested long before the midnight hour begged its due.
A simple ritual, a small offering and a deal with the devil. Theodore needed one pure of heart, magic, and virtue. Apparently, the demon in question had a preference for fair maidens and men of honor. That should have been his first clue that something was amiss.
Harry was no maiden, but he was untouched and far too trusting. He was reminded of this as he sensed Theodore and his followers moving to surround him. The whisper of their robes trailing against the floor making him shudder; he'd never felt so sensitive or alert in his life.
Their voices were perfectly synchronized, softly chanted Latin binding together in a thunderous call that chilled Harry's bones. The air was disappearing from his lungs, the blood pounding in his veins becoming one with the magic surging through the air. He was blind to the world, cloth he'd once admired tying his wrists above his head and forcing his eyes shut.
It was as if time had frozen. He could feel them transcribe symbols onto his skin, but he could do nothing to prevent their molestation. He tried, his body twisting in a futile attempt to disrupt their attempt at branding him their sacrifice.
But there was no use, they were experienced. His ignorance was not preventing him from understanding that his life was to be forfeit for another's ambitions. Oh, what poetic justice. He, who had never wished for advancement, only honest relations.
The Gods always pitied the fool, and Harry had turned out to be the ultimate fool. Their world had been shaped by fools like him. Under Theodore's tutelage, he had learned everything came with a price. That price was the hopes, dreams, and lifeblood of those like him: the nameless, the unloved, the nobodies. Sure, he flitted from noble house to noble house as needed, but he was never allowed more than a glimpse into the life he should've lived. The riches and the power did not interest him, but he longed for that sense of belonging to something greater than just himself.
He did not yearn for the prestige of what the House of Potter would have allotted him, but for the connection to his family, his history. All he knew was word of mouth, and look where that had gotten him. Harry Potter was going to be a sacrificial lamb. He would pray to the Gods, but in all honesty, there was a large part of him that thought perhaps he deserved this.
His own inaction had brought this upon himself. His own wavering moral ambiguity had contributed to his soon to be sacrifice. Theodore had never hidden his true self, but exposed it slowly with the practiced ease of an experienced seductor. How many other fools had been captured by silver-tipped words and bittersweet promises? Perhaps this was his penance for ignoring Theodore's lust for power and blood, his designations above his station.
However, he'd considered it not his place. He possessed no title and therefore he was voiceless. Harry Potter held no authority or place in the world. He'd let his discomfort fester in favor of Theodore's attentions. Maybe he did foster some resentment after all; it would explain how quickly he fell under Theodore's spell. If only it had been a spell and not Harry's ego.
Now it was time to suffer the consequences of his inaction. Harry could sense the moment reality bent; the chanting had worked, something else was present in the chamber with them—something more. Harry had never encountered something so ethereal and compelling in his life. It curled around him, soft tendrils of power caressing his bare skin. It felt almost like a lover's. Or what he imagined a lover would feel like. Suddenly his skin felt too warm, his back arching as a scream broke free.