Property

Chapter Eight

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He returned to reality slowly, drifting out of a dream. There was a whisper of warmth at his throat, like the brush of a gentle hand. Harry opened his eyes.

Nothing.

He'd fallen into a stupor against the window. His back was cool from the glass and each muscle ached, pained by the awkward, hunched position he'd remained in for so long, lost in ugly thoughts. Pale light spilled in around his shadow. He rubbed his eyes with his fists. When he opened them again and blinked slow he saw the gold particles of dust rising through the still air, and let out a sigh that made them swirl.

He didn't try to find me, thought Harry, and wondered why that disturbed him at all. He hadn't wanted to be found. He'd wanted solitude for his grief: a silent place to force out his hatred with gritted teeth and clenched hands. But now the loneliness made him uneasy. He realised it must be morning, and he was hungry and still terribly tired. But he was used to hunger, and to tiredness too. At least he was semi-warm and his clothes were of a reasonable quality.

The coil of the snake at his throat was growing suddenly warmer.

He wants you, said the house, in a whisper of a voice that had suddenly grown so much clearer to him. It sounded startlingly female, mellow and soft. It made him think of music. Go.

Even the house, it seemed, knew its master.

Harry clambered to his feet. His legs felt unsteady beneath him, soft and pliable in a way that muscle and bone had no right to feel. He turned to look up and down the corridor. Which way had he come from? He'd been so angry at himself and so afraid of his own thoughts that he hadn't thought to check at all. And what if Tom wasn't in the study anymore? Harry had no idea how large the house truly was. In his mind it was some kind of endless, sentient monster. Impossible to navigate.

"Which way do I go?" he asked quietly, feeling a little foolish for talking to a house. He looked around: at the dark walls, the curls of dust in the air. "How can I find him?"

The air shivered.

Go.

The house was going to be no help, then. He looked around again, finally walking aimlessly down the left end of the corridor. It did not look familiar at all. He stopped, considering his options, hesitant to make any further moves. At his throat the collar began slowly and inexorably to burn. He hissed, low, clutching at his neck. It only began to get worse.

"I'm coming," he murmured, trying to steady his voice. There were tears pricking at his eyes. God, it hurt. And it was such a different kind of hurt from a quick knock to the face or a blow to the stomach. His flesh felt like it was burning. Ever part of his skin tingled with the promise of agony, ever growing. Uncontrollable.

If Tom had heard his voice the collar certainly gave no sign of it. Harry began to run, skin burning, eyes burning – he didn't know where he was going anymore. He only knew that he had to find Tom now now now.

All gifts are punishments, Harry. Didn't you know?

He ran faster. There was no clear direction in his head. But he heard voices, not the voices of the house but wide, roaring things. Snakes or lions or strange, terrible angels, he didn't know. He simply followed. His lungs ached, burning with the need for breath. Turn to the right here… turn to the left there –

"There, I told you," Tom said, in a voice of pure satisfaction. "He's an obedient boy."

Harry stopped, gasping hard. His arms curved tightly around his midriff. The collar had gone blessedly cool, though his skin still felt painful. Rubbed raw.

Tom was watching him with an unreadable smile.

"Harry," he said gently. "Why don't you introduce yourself to our guest?"

Standing at a respectable distance behind Tom was 'our guest': a tall man with a stiff bearing and lank, dark hair. His nose was hooked and his eyes very, very black. Harry could not help but stare at his face and his strange flowing clothes. He looked nothing like any man Harry had seen before. He was not beautiful like Tom was; but he did not look at all kind either.

"Hello," Harry said awkwardly. He was not sure what to do. It felt strange to have someone new in the house. "I'm… I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

Not a flicker of the man's eyes betrayed any feelings. He tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"Severus Snape," the man bit out. It took a moment for Harry to realise that that was his name.

Tom laughed – and what could possibly delight him so much about this? He strode over to Harry and wrenched his head back in one swift, casual movement. Harry gave a yelp of pain that he quickly tried to swallow back. His neck hurt.

"Just look at him," Tom said tenderly, framing Harry's face with gentle hands, his thumbs pressing together beneath the boy's chin. "In such good condition, don't you think Severus?" The fingers moved lower, tracing the collar. "Quite a find."

This… this was simply wrong, in a way Harry did not even know how articulate. It was worse somehow for someone else to watch him being treated like this. When Sampson had hit him it had seemed normal. It had not mattered. But now Harry could feel a flush of heat at his neck and his face, all over him, and felt unwontedly ashamed.

The man Snape nodded. Harry could feel Snape's eyes on his face.

"As you say, my Lord." His voice was low and even. Untroubled. "Do you wish me to begin?"

Abruptly, Tom released him. Harry stumbled, taking a quick step forward. He fixed his gaze on a point in the distance and started at it hard, willing the shame away.

"Take as long as you like," Tom said, the playfulness gone from his voice. "Just finish the job."

Then he was gone.

xxx

Harry Potter?

It was so typical of his Lord to gloat. And oh, the boy was indeed a find. His Lord no doubt appreciated the fine, pale features; that dark hair, and those sharply green eyes. A find. Yes. But the boy's appearance aside, his name spoke volumes. Severus knew what the boy was. It was hard not to.

Typical, of his Lord to have found him first.

He had not let his expression betray him. He had learnt to dissemble a long time ago. Instead he simply gave the boy a long, hard look, until he began to squirm, and then told him: "Come with me." The quicker this was done, the better. This was news that would need to be told to certain parties, and soon.

He walked away, his robes rasping against the floor as he moved. The boy followed.