Hello everybody! [Cocks ear and waits for ‘hi Doctor Nick!’]

I wasn’t supposed to start this until I finished The Lambs (but there are only three chapters left anyway) but here I am. I have a load of stuff to do for Uni, but I really need a break, and the thing is I don’t seem to be motivated to write The Lambs or Black Complication (even though I’m meant to dedicate the next thing I do write to BOOMrobotdog who had her birthday a couple weeks ago), so here is the first chapter of Butterfly!

It’s a prologue, so it’s skipped the whole start of the story. But I’ll go back to Harry’s childhood in chapter 1 – and it’ll be a long story from there. I’m doing his life as it passes, from childhood to year four and on wards. That’s the plan, anyway; we’ll see how it goes.

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“Butterfly”

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, et all are property of JK Rowling, and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros and all those other nifty people that make it so we can read and watch the Potterverse whenever we feel like it. I make no money from this, just so you know.

Summary: [LM/HP] When Harry was 5 he had a pet butterfly. The butterfly could turn into a man who lived in Harry’s basement. That man killed Vernon when Harry turned 8. That man is a Death Eater who has been training Harry in how to be a proper Pureblood Heir. Harry was always told he was a bit like a Caterpillar and one day he’d be a Butterfly too. Sorted into Ravenclaw, when he starts Hogwarts, Harry learns that sometimes it’s much harder to keep secrets than it is to tell lies. But it could be worse: he could have been a Slytherin. As if enough people didn’t look at him funny already!

Warnings: Slash. LM/HP: HP/other(possibly DM)(minor). AU. Character Death. Violence. Language. Ravenclaw Harry. Underage. Attempted Non-Con.

Rating: R/NC-17 SLASH!!

A/N: I got the idea of being raised by a Death Eater from the fiction A Life Of Lies, which I love, over at HP Fandom. I also have the author’s permission to use Evan Rosier as that Death Eater.

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Words: 5,155

Chapter 1

Prologue

29th May 1995. Little Hangleton.

When the world stopped spinning, Harry found himself thrown to the ground. He landed painfully on his injured leg, suppressing a groan as he rolled onto his back. His eyes fluttered as he focused on the sky above him, taking in the blue sky and the slight smattering of fluffy white clouds as he tried not to vomit. He turned his head to the side and frowned. They were obviously nowhere near Hogwarts now. Even the mountains that usually surrounded the castle were out of sight now. Harry was lying on the ground in the middle of a dark and overgrown cemetery. There was a hill to the left of him, and he could barely make out the shape of a house on the hill. A church was to their right, far away from them nonetheless.

He was alone – almost.

Beside him Cedric Diggory made an excited squealing noise.

Cedric was seventeen and, despite the fact that he was older than Harry, he was spinning around in circles laughing. “We won, Potter!” He cried, looking down at the boy on the ground. “We won!” He was tall, and fair-haired. His grey eyes sparkled in his handsome face as he turned to grin at Harry.

“Where are we?” Harry whispered. He had an idea of what was going on, of course he did. Evan wouldn’t have risked his safety in anyway, and that included not informing Harry of any plans the Dark Lord was carrying out. He knew something was happening, right then, as they spoke, but he wanted to know where he was as well.

Cedric stilled suddenly. He drew his wand from within his robe and pointed it ahead of him. “Wands out I suppose?” His free hand was clenching at the black and yellow fabric of his sporting robe, nervously.

Harry watched him curiously. It was strange, the teenager decided, how humans could change from one emotion to another so suddenly. Each smile, followed by a frown, followed by another smile was a metamorphosis of its own: like changing from a caterpillar to a butterfly. Each time, stopping to rest as a cocoon.

Harry was a cocoon for all intents and purposes.

Out of the corner of his eyes, the Ravenclaw spotted a short, podgy man sneaking towards them. In one arm the man was carrying a bundle wrapped in black, and the other hand held his wand out straight, pointed at Cedric. Harry considered warning the other boy, but he didn’t want to ruin the Dark Lord’s plans. He bit his bottom lip, thinking. The slight moment he would have had to save the other boy’s life passed, and Harry watched as green light engulfed the other Tri-Wizard Champion content that he had made the right decision to let it happen.

Harry wasn’t like other children. He didn’t care about right and wrong, or black and white magic. Harry believed in power. You either sought power or you were to weak to seek it, and so you sought out the powerful and made yourself of use to them. Peter Pettigrew was not powerful, but he was loyal to the Dark Lord. It was for that reason alone that Harry did not attack the man the instant his hands fell on Harry’s shoulders.

“Incarcerous!” Pettigrew shouted, shoving Harry backwards at the same time. The teenager smirked slightly. Obviously, this Death Eater was not privy to the Dark Lord’s secrets.

Ropes bound him, arms and legs and torso, to the gravestone that had been directly behind him. For the first time, Harry noticed the large black cauldron that sat beside him. Beneath it, Pettigrew lit a fire, and they watched it burn in silence for a moment before a hissing voice commanded, “hurry, you fool. Put me in the cauldron.”

Harry watched them: his head tilted to one side as he studied the horrid creature being bared before him. Pettigrew unwrapped the black cloth from what he had been carrying, and Harry’s mouth turned down in distaste as the rotting corpse of a baby was revealed to him. It hardly even resembled a child anymore. What was bared to Harry was scaly and hairless, hunched over and looking a dark reddish black colour. Its face was flat, snakelike, and red eyes peered up at him, narrowing at Harry’s obvious lack of fear.

Voldemort was laid gently down into the cauldron and Pettigrew immediately set to work. There was a splash as Voldemort entered the cauldron, then a soft thud as he hit the bottom. For a brief moment, Harry thought, ‘let it drown’, his eyes straying to Cedric’s corpse. But then he shook himself, straightened his back as much as he was able (tied to a gravestone, and all) and looked Pettigrew straight in the eyes.

Pettigrew looked away first. He spoke, his voice slow and shaky and he looked scared out of his mind. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”

The ground Harry stood upon began to shake, the dirt on top of the grave shifting slightly to the side. A fine mist rose up, glittering softly in the twilight as it floated towards the cauldron. Bone fragments, Harry realized, worn down completely by time. He swallowed heavily as the potion in the cauldron turned a poisonous blue.

He had no reason to fear, he tried to remind himself. This was his Lord; he would happily serve this man because it would make Evan happy as well. His Lord would not hurt him, nor would Evan be harmed. He didn’t have to fear. His brain seemed to find that argument reasonable, but his heart, oh his heart, was beating four times faster than it should have been. It skipped a beat as Pettigrew suddenly produced a dagger and held it to his own right hand. That hand that was already missing a finger.

“Flesh of the servant… willingly given… you will revive your m-master,” the other man stuttered. The dagger was shaking, rocking terrifyingly from side to side as it pressed harder against skin. As he said the word ‘master’ Pettigrew pushed down, cutting completely through bone and skin and sinew, severing his hand. It dropped into the cauldron with a splash and Peter was left, clutching at his handless arm, his mouth opened in a silent scream of agony. Harry winced, squeezing his eyes shut in a moment of weakness as his brain tried informed him of how much that would have likely hurt.

The potion was red now, and Harry turned his face back to it, staring at it, defying it to act against him somehow. He didn’t know this ritual, he had never studied it and the fact that he didn’t know what to expect scared him. As a Ravenclaw, he was intelligent, he liked to learn and know things that no one else knew. He was studious. He was supposed to be in control. He swallowed again. Pettigrew was walking slowly towards him. Harry wished Evan had told him what would happen in more detail. He wished he had thought to ask, but he hadn’t, he had just trusted Evan like always.

The dagger was pressed to his crook of his right arm. “Blood of the enemy,” Pettigrew panted, still in terrible pain, “forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.”

That wasn’t right, Harry thought. He wasn’t Lord Voldemort’s enemy. Why didn’t they use Cedric’s blood if that was what the ritual required?

He gasped. A pain shot through him, beginning in his arm and travelling its way down his spine and his legs. He clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out as Pettigrew twisted the dagger in the gash he had made. A vial was pressed to the wound, catching a few drops of blood, and then Pettigrew was walking back to the cauldron, and emptying the vial over it. Whatever potion was in the cauldron suddenly turned a blinding shade of white. His job done, Pettigrew fell to the ground, curled in on himself and clutching at his bloody stump.

He must have taken a potion, Harry mused. Or he would have lost consciousness some time ago.

Nothing happened for sometime. Ever the Ravenclaw, Harry found himself going through ideas and suggestions, trying to think what Pettigrew might have done wrong to botch the potion. Perhaps he used too much blood, or too little? Or maybe he should have—

Harry’s eyes widened, his brain quietened for a moment, before kicking into overdrive. It had worked it seemed. How would Voldemort look? Did the potion work properly? Who had brewed it, Snape maybe?

“Robe me,” the same hissing voice commanded. Pettigrew dragged himself to his feet, whimpering pitifully as he unfolded the black material that had been discarded earlier. It was a robe, not a blanket as Harry had assumed originally, and it was old and tattered but it appeared clean enough. Voldemort allowed it to be draped over his naked body.

The man was thin, almost skeletal in appearance, and unnaturally tall as well. He stepped out of the cauldron, his red eyes fixed on Harry’s face and the teenager stared back. He looked nothing like the Voldemort from Evan’s stories, nothing like Harry had imagined him too. This Voldemort was paler than paper, his skin stretched tight over his flat, nose-less face, bald and a pink tongue licked at his lipless mouth as he walked closer to the gravestone. Bony fingers reached out, caressing Harry’s face, and the Ravenclaw suppressed his urge to flinch backwards.

He had leant young that accepting punishment hurt a lot less than fighting against it.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort hissed, his voice strangely soothing as he stared down at the fourteen year old. “If I may.” He didn’t say what he wanted and he didn’t ask for permission. Voldemort dropped to his knees before Harry, his face pressed to the crook of his arm where the gash was still bleeding sluggishly, and his mouth closed around the wound. Harry felt light-headed all of a sudden. He could feel Voldemort’s tongue flicking over his skin, his could feel the Dark Lord sucking on his arm, lapping at his blood and swallowing it down. He shook his head, letting out a soft groan as his vision blurred slightly.

Voldemort drew back. He smirked up at Harry, black eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheeks as he allowed them to close briefly, before he rose fluidly to his feet.

“Thank you, Harry.” He reached around behind Harry and untied the ropes the Muggle way. “The dizziness will pass in a moment. I’m afraid Wormtail didn’t use enough of your blood as he should have. The ritual required a portion of your magical essence, and that would have required a full vial of blood.”

“Not just a few drops,” Harry said, interrupting. “That’s why you look the way you do now.”

Pettigrew looked over at him, eyes wide in horror. Someone had dared to speak to Lord Voldemort so disrespectfully? The Dark Lord smirked, his mouth curving upwards. The skin around his mouth was twisting and shifting, growing outwards and plumping up, forming lips that were pale pink and puckered as Voldemort smiled. “You are correct, child. Your blood will fix my appearance in its own time.” Even then, his hair was growing back. Long black strands appeared, falling to his ears with a slight wave and Voldemort brushed it back gently.

He took Harry’s hand. Voldemort led Harry away from the gravestone, and towards the cauldron. With a wave of his hand he vanished the cauldron and its content and the fire, and then he turned to Wormtail. “My wand,” he said, his hand already outstretched. When the wand was placed in his hand, his fingers (which were already filling out) clenched around the wood, squeezing it, relishing in its familiarity.

He turned then, wand in hand, to look at Harry.

Harry lowered himself to the ground, eyes downcast, head bowed. “My Lord, allow me the honour of serving you?”

Voldemort allowed a soft chuckle to escape him. “From what I have heard, you already do.”

“It makes Evan happy.” Harry said negligently, still not looking up.

Red eyes widened. “Does it make you happy to serve me?” There was a teasing lilt to his voice that even Pettigrew picked up on. Voldemort allowed his eyes to rake over the form kneeling before him. Harry was beautiful undoubtedly, but if Barty Jr. was to be believed someone already had Harry’s attention.

Completely missing the leer Voldemort sent him, Harry looked up. He was frowning, but he knew he had to answer honestly. “I don’t know. I haven’t served you long enough, while in your presence, to make an informed decision.”

“Now,” Voldemort said seriously, “I see why you are wearing blue and grey robes.” He held a hand out and Harry took it into his own, allowing the Dark Lord to help him to his feet. “It would please me to have you serve me, and support me.” When Harry made to speak, Voldemort pressed a finger to the boy’s lips. “I wish for you to be above my Death Eaters. You are not my equal, you are not equal to me in age or experience but probably in power; so you shall be my heir. I have been told that was what Rosier was training you for anyway.” Harry gave a shallow nod, staying silent. “I want you to understand, Harry. I am a cruel man. I will not be a father to you, and I have no interest in you behaving like my son. You are a vessel, to learn from me, to follow in my footsteps and lead my Death Eaters should I ever be out of commission. We are not family, and I will punish you if need be.”

“I understand, my Lord.” Harry lowered himself slightly, curtsying, rather than bowing again. Voldemort’s grip on his face would not let him bow.

“You may call me Marvolo. It will make sure the Death Eaters know that you are above them.” By now his face had a nose, straight and regal. There were black eyebrows on his face, nicely shaped but not too thin, and while his body seemed to have gained some shape, fat or muscle or both, he was still freakishly tall. “Your father wore glasses,” Voldemort said suddenly. His fingers brushed the bridge of Harry’s nose, which was spectacle free.

“Evan gave me a potion to heal my vision. He said my glasses looked unseemly.” Harry gave a soft smile; thinking about Evan always made him happy.

A sudden hissing drew Harry’s attention. He looked at the ground, eyes widening slightly at the sight. A huge cobra had appeared, wriggling its way between Voldemort’s feet, its tongue flicking out to caress the man’s ankles. The snake had not been there when Harry first arrived, but he assumed it had been with Voldemort all along. It couldn’t have just gotten there, by itself.

“Nagini, this is Harry Potter. He is my heir; I wish to teach him everything I know. You will be respectful towards him, and you are never to bite him.”

The snake turned her head towards Harry, its forked tongue coming forward to taste the air between them. “He looks like he would taste well, master, but I will not eat him because you ask it.”

“That is good to know,” Harry said softly, smiling down at the cobra. Both the snake and Voldemort’s eyes widened, looking at him in shock. Voldemort had heard rumours, told to him mostly by Peter, but hearing about it and hearing it first hand were different matters.

“You are a Parseltongue.” The Dark Lord stared at him, unblinkingly.

“Yes. Evan says I’ve been able to speak to snakes for as long as he has known me.” Harry gave another soft smile. Fortunately for him, not many people knew he shared a trait with several dark Wizards. Life would be complicated then, he supposed, should that particular secret ever come to light.

“My Lord,” Wormtail suddenly interrupted, choking the words out through his sobs, “you promised… you did promise!”

“Hold out your arm,” the Dark Lord said, not looking away from Harry.

“Oh thank you, thank you, master,” Pettigrew praised happily as he held out his bloody stump. Harry grimaced at the sight of it.

“The other arm,” Voldemort drawled lazily, laughing at Peter’s moan of disappointment. He reached forward, grabbing at Peter’s left arm and pushing back the sleeve. A mark that Harry was very familiar with stood out vividly against the skin of Pettigrew’s left forearm. The Dark Mark. A small tattoo in the shape of a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. Evan had one as well.

“It is back,” Voldemort muttered to himself. “Now we shall see. How many dare return, how many will be brave enough to come back to me.” He smirked then, a cruel glint flashed in his eyes and Harry’s heart sped up again. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away.”

His wand pressed against Peter’s mark, and the shorter man gave a gasp of pain. He tried to curl in on himself, to hug both arms to his chest, but Voldemort’s grip was too tight. In the end, Pettigrew sobbed, his arm held by Voldemort as he hung below it, limp and in pain and trembling.

Cracks filled the air. Pops and their echoes rang through the graveyard. Harry looked around in awe as shapes appeared out of fog, incorporeal at first, then mere silhouettes, and suddenly visible and real. They seemed to fill the cemetery completely. Along with all of the dead bodies, more and more Wizards were appearing, hidden between gravestones and behind trees and pressing up against one another. Each of them were masked, their faces hidden by white porcelain, and they wore black robes their hoods raised to hide their hair.

All except for one.

“Harry!” Evan Rosier shouted, as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd. He grabbed the teenager by the shoulders, pulling him into a rough hug and then shoving him back just as quickly. As excited as he was, he didn’t seem to notice when Harry stumbled. Voldemort reached out to steady the boy. “How was it? What happened? Did it wor-” Evan’s eyes narrowed on the hand that rested on Harry’s arm. The gaze followed the arm upwards, finding the attached shoulder, then the neck, until, eyes wide, Evan was looking at the face of Lord Voldemort. “It worked!” He cried. He pulled Harry into a hug again, dragging him out of Voldemort’s grip. “My Lord, you’ve returned!”

“I know,” the Dark Lord hissed. “I was there. As was Harry.” His head turned, his red eyes fixing on the others, the ones who hung back still. They watched the Dark Lord, as if they did not believe their eyes. One by one they inched forward. Crawling on their hands and knees they each kissed the robes of Lord Voldemort, before moving back. They stood, forming a circle that completely surrounded Voldemort, Evan, Harry, and the grave, and the sobbing form of Peter as well. There were gaps left in the circle, but Voldemort did not seem to expect anyone else to arrive. Harry thought, possibly, those spaces were left for the Death Eaters who were imprisoned. He remembered Evan telling him stories of the Lestranges, and the Longbottoms, and what had happened to both families.

Reluctantly, Evan let Harry go, and he took his position in the circle. Evan stood near the centre, next to someone whose grey eyes peered intently at him through the slits in his mask. Harry smiled back at that Death Eater, and the grey eyes fluttered closed momentarily in relief.

“Welcome Death Eaters,” Voldemort spoke, making his way around the circle, unmasking his followers as he went. He drew their masks off one by one, starting with the lowest ranking Death Eater and making his way up to Evan, the gap beside him big enough for two people, and then the man with the grey eyes. “Thirteen years since we last met. Yet you answered my call as though it was yesterday. We are still united under the Dark Mark then? Or are we?” He sneered suddenly, throwing the last mask to the ground in anger. “I smell guilt.”

A pale face looked back at him, eyes wide and unfettered, allowing Voldemort to look into his mind, to search for lies or secrets or unloyalty that did not exist. Pale blond hair, almost silver in colour, framed his face, hanging to mid back, and looking as soft as Harry knew it felt. Those grey eyes shone slightly, almost silver in the twilight as well as he gazed at his Lord and then over to Harry.

“There is a stench of guilt upon the air.” Voldemort finished, turning to stare at someone else. Lucius Malfoy continued to watch Harry.

He suddenly spoke again. A shiver went through the crowd, as if each one of them wanted to step back but didn’t dare. “I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact and I ask myself, why did this band of Wizards never come to the aid of their master? And I answer myself, they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone.”

“Forgive us!” A voice cried. A man surged forward, his face flushed and his eyes wide with fear. “Forgive us all.” He clutched at Voldemort’s robes. Evan snorted, a smirk crossing his face as Voldemort raised his wand at Avery.

“Crucio.” A scream, unlike any other Harry had ever heard before, rent the air. It was louder still than the one Vernon had uttered as Evan dealt with him, though perhaps not as desperate. The scream stopped, and panting filled the silence. Harry looked down at the Death Eater. His face was flush, covered in a sheen of sweat, and he twitched lightly on the ground. “Be silent, Avery,” Voldemort commanded. “You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here had paid some of his debt already, as has Evan.”

All eyes flickered to Harry as Voldemort said this. Many of them wanted to know why Potter was there and still alive, only three knew already. “Evan has paid of his debt to me in full.” He turned his attention back to Peter. “Worthless and treacherous as you are, you helped me,” Voldemort said as he reached down to grab Pettigrew’s right arm. “And Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers.” He raised his wand and whirled it through the air. A pool of molten silver swirled in the air, shapeless it floated towards Wormtail’s stump before morphing into a replica of a human hand. It attached to the bleeding wrist, looking, silver and shinny, but as if it had always been there.

“Thank you, thank you, master,” the man sobbed, climbing to his feet.

“The Lestranges should stand here,” the Dark Lord said, pointing at the space between Lucius and Evan. “Come here Harry.” When Harry was at his side, Voldemort reached out to caress his cheek. Red eyes glinted as they noticed the tightening of Lucius’ fists, the tenseness in the man’s stance the longer his hand remained on Harry. So the rumours were true. “What do you know of the Lestranges?”

“They tortured the Longbottoms into insanity, bar their disgrace of a son, and are now in Azkaban Prison.”

“That will do.” He said suddenly. The hand on Harry’s face pushed softly, and Harry taking the hint took two steps backwards, out of reach. “They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honoured beyond their dreams.” He walked silently passed others, spoke to four other men and then stopped in the largest gap yet. “Three dead in my service,” he said softly, “one, too cowardly to return, he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever; he will be killed, of course. And one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service.”

Harry watched the Death Eaters look at each other, trying to decide between them who of those missing and still alive could be this ‘most faithful’ person.

“Alastor Moody,” Harry said suddenly, grinning over at Evan. “Who is he really?” He asked Voldemort.

The Dark Lord smirked, cruel and cold as he turned his whole body to face Harry again. He strode away from the gap and caught the teenager by the neck. His fingers tightened but Harry didn’t flinch or struggle and after a moment Voldemort let him go. Lucius was gripping at Evan’s arm, stopping the man from doing something stupid. “You are a very clever child.” Voldemort said at length.

“I spent years living with Evan under constant Polyjuice cover. I think I’m used to it enough by now to know when someone is pretending to be someone else.” Harry was still grinning, even as he rubbed at his throat. “Who is he?”

“You will find out soon. He has orders to see to you when you return to Hogwarts.” He turned to face his Death Eaters again. He continued to speak, and as he spoke, Harry moved to stand in the gap left by the Lestranges. One hand reached out to hold Evan’s, squeezing it lightly. The other hand reached out to the other side, his fingers just brushing against the back of Lucius’ hand, and as the blond looked down at him Harry gave him a soft smile.

Voldemort suddenly stopped talking. His red eyes were fixed on Lucius’ face. “Something you wish to share, Malfoy?”

Lucius bowed his head, muttering apologies and begging forgiveness, as Harry frowned. Harry’s mouth opened. Evan’s nails dug into the back of Harry’s hand, and the boy’s mouth closed again.

“Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party.” Voldemort said, changing the subject suddenly. Everyone turned to look at Harry again, except Evan who was watching the Dark Lord warily. “One might go so far as to call him my guest of honour.” His smirked maliciously at Harry then, and the teenager swallowed convulsively. A finger crooked at him, and Harry walked forward warily, following Voldemort’s silent command. When they were close enough to touch, Voldemort spun him around and dragged Harry against him, back to chest. “Ah, my story, and what a story it is. It begins, and ends, with my young friend here. But the story is too long, and Harry must be getting back to Hogwarts soon, so perhaps you will hear it another time, if Rosier humours you.”

Brown eyes looked back at him stonily; the only Death Eater who did not fear pain or death, and so feared Lord Voldemort less than the others as a result.

“Harry, here, was raised as some of you may know by Muggles. What you may not know, is that Rosier actually was the one to raise young Harry. Harry will be, and has always been, my heir. You will all treat him as such, is that understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” they all chorused.

Voldemort smiled. His hand pressed down on Harry’s forehead and the boy screamed as pain flared through his entire being. He flailed in Voldemort’s grasp, thrashing desperately to escape from the hold and the pain. “That will have to be remedied,” Voldemort whispered as he pushed Harry away from him.

The ground rushed towards him, but before Harry could land on it, two arms encircled his waist, pulling him up and cradling him gently.

“So the rumours are true,” Voldemort mused out loud. He had expected Rosier to jump forward and catch Harry, but not Lucius. The fact that Lucius had disregarded his composure, ignored his pride, dived into the dirt before them all to catch Potter, well, it went to show that he must care deeply about the younger Wizard. “I did not realize you preferred children, my friend. I shall have to make some available to you on our next adventure.”

Lucius looked up at him, worry evident in his eyes. “What did you do?”

“It seems that my touch pains him.”

“Only his scar.” Evan said suddenly. He walked forward, unconcerned that there were people listening and watching him. “His scar is cursed, and it pains him sometimes when your emotions are heightened. I have taught him Occlumency, what I know of it, and that helps, my Lord.”

Voldemort took in Evan’s words, but did not reply to them. He crouched down, before Lucius and Harry, and pushed back the teenager’s fringe. His scar was raw looking, red and there was a smear of blood across it.

“I apologize.” He whispered in Parseltongue. With a nod, Harry accepted it, because he knew the Dark Lord would never apologize to him if anyone else could understand. He was surprised his pain had been noticed at all, really. Lord Voldemort didn’t seem as bad as Headmaster Dumbledore made him out to be. “It is time to be getting back to Hogwarts, Harry.”

“Yes Marvolo.” A gasp came from most of the Death Eaters, but glares from Lucius and Evan kept them from speaking out of turn.

“Are you ok?” Lucius asked him softly, when Voldemort had walked away from them. His lips brushed gently over Harry’s scar, the feather light touch soothing the pain that still throbbed through Harry’s head.

“I’m fine.” The boy whispered, tilting his head up automatically.

“Liar.” The blond’s lips were pressed to Harry’s own then, slim fingers tangling into the long locks, drawing Lucius closer to him.

“Accio,” a voice called, and through his daze Harry recognized it as Voldemort’s. Lucius had just enough control left to rip himself away from Harry before the Portkey slammed into the boy’s stomach. A whoosh of air left the brunette, his eyes widened slightly as a body hit him, then narrowed at Voldemort’s amused face. “Goodbye, for now, my Harry.” The Dark Lord waved at him, just as the world began to spin again.

When the world stopped spinning, he was lying on his back. The Portkey lay on top of him, and beside him was Cedric Diggory’s corpse. He remembered Voldemort waving at him, he remembered the feel of Lucius’ lips on his, Evan hugging him tightly, and he tried not to smile. Harry was always told he was a bit like a Caterpillar and one day he’d be a Butterfly too.

As Dumbledore’s face appeared above his own, Harry forced tears to his eyes, still fighting back a smile.

It seemed as if he had finally emerged from his cocoon.

XXX

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Some of Voldemort’s speech to his Death Eaters was taken from Goblet of Fire. You’ll have recognized it.

Thank you very much for reading. It’ll be a while before we get to the Lucius/Harry, so bare with me.