1,175Harry Potter stood by one of the many street lamps of Luxe Alley as they flickered to life for the evening. Luxe, an offshoot street of Diagon, dealt mainly with items that were either expensive, rare or pretentious; often some nauseating combination of the three. Harry, despite his relative wealth and status, had rarely visited the place. Nevertheless, he was good at never seeming out of place in just about any environment; now, he leaned casually against the wall of a high-end cosmetics shop, letting his eyes wander the dusk-lit street with practiced ease. The clothes he wore were very ordinary for the environs; tailored trousers, a dark green turtleneck jumper and dragon-hide shoes. He sipped casually on a straw, enjoying an admittedly delicious strawberry milkshake so fresh that it kept mooing at him in an irritating fashion until he finally silenced the gimmicky charmed cup. It was at that exact moment – as he audibly told the cup to fuck off and drew a glare from a passing elderly witch – that the Dark Lord made his appearance.
The Dark Lord wore a cloak that almost entirely hid his form. The dark material moved around him in thick waves and the hood revealed only his mouth to the casual observer. It was only Harry's familiarity with that very mouth – and the fact he'd been told to be here by the man - that made him certain that it was the Dark Lord.
"I told you to be unrecognised," the Dark Lord said when he approached, his distinctive eyes visible once he was stood just a foot away.
Harry flashed him a confident smile. "I am," he gestured to the crowds going about their business. "I think you're the one likely to draw attention."
Although as he looked he realised that wasn't true, and picked up on the distinctive air of magic. Voldemort had clearly erected some form of powerful notice-me-not charm. "I'm better than invisible, Potter."
"Well," Harry continued. "In my experience, you're most invisible when blending into a crowd."
"I don't think I could 'pull off' the plebeian look as well as you, even should I believe it worked better than magic." Voldemort didn't remark further however, simply taking Harry's arm firmly.
The snap of apparition was so smooth and instantaneous that it was momentarily disorientating.
Taking in his environment he saw that they were in an apartment of some kind, judging by the view from the outside window. The Dark Lord released his arm immediately and vanished the cloak around his person with a careless gesture. They were stood in a sort of living room/kitchenette; it was clean enough, apart from the odd sock on the floor and crumbs on the counter. On the far side of the small room was a beat up sofa and an old looking wireless. Posters had been plastered haphazardly along one of the walls. It was immediately odd to see the Dark Lord in such a place, especially after so long of seeing him only in the grandeur of the Imperial Base. Voldemort checked the time with a silent tempus and hummed thoughtfully.
"Er, my Lord?" Harry said, thoroughly confused. The Dark Lord had given him no further information on their mission other than where to meet him, and this certainly hadn't been where he expected for them to end up. It looked entirely ordinary.
"Hush," Voldemort commanded in a tone that brooked no argument, even as some part of Harry bristled. Mere moments later, he heard footsteps approaching and the sound of soft conversation and laughter. Two men, Harry thought as he judged the sounds in a way years of experience had given him, neither of them particularly heavy, and they sound young.
He watched the Dark Lord, who was watching the door with rapt attention. His assessment was proven correct moments later when two men, boys really, opened the door and swept inside with all the assurance of someone coming home. They hadn't even noticed the two stood there by the time the dark lord had incapacitated them, knocking them out and silencing the sound of their bodies hitting the ground in the same moment. The door shut and the lock clicked immediately after.
"Good," Voldemort said, almost to himself as a bemused Harry looked on. He was levitating the boys – both perhaps eighteen or nineteen by the looks of things - into the air where he suspended their unconscious forms together. They were brothers by the looks of things; either fraternal twins or siblings very close in age. "Now let us discuss."
Voldemort moved over to the aged sofa and sat down - still looking bizarre and out of place – and Harry followed him, taking a seat in the armchair nearby. He didn't ask any further questions, not knowing where to start on this odd turn of events. His mind whirred, wondering what exactly he would be expected to do with these young men. He comforted himself knowing it was unlikely the Dark Lord would have come personally to simply execute two unconscious teenagers, let alone need Harry's assistance in the matter.
"These are Jacob and Justin Baker. They're brothers, a year apart in age; both muggle-born and both wizards," Voldemort began in the clear, impatient tone he always used when he was giving information. Harry nodded, knowing not to ask questions yet, but still he was surprised. Two wizards from one muggle family was unusual to say the least.
"They graduated from Hogwarts with mediocre grades a year and two years ago respectively. They have been working as shop boys in Nocturne ever since. A month ago they were contacted and recruited by the Rebels."
Harry stilled, pitying the boys for a moment. It was unlikely they would survive this interaction as known collaborators. "At some point over the next few days, they have been told that their contact will take them to the resistance training camp to complete basic training." Harry nodded, suddenly realising where this was likely going with a surprised jolt. "It is likely that after they complete the week of training, they will be dispatched to train further at one of the three bases that our intelligence believes are currently in operation."
"You believe Verona has been taken there?" Harry asked in disbelief. It'd be a ballsy move on their part, to say the least.
Voldemort threw him an irritated look at the interruption. "Yes. However, infiltrating their base is not only to find Verona, but also to stamp out these dregs of resistance once and for all. Whilst they're little threat, it would not do to leave them to grow in strength. They've grown to be a significant inconvenience."
Harry nodded, "So where do we come in? Do you want to persuade them to spy for us, or imperius them?"
Voldemort's irritated look became derisive. "Do you believe I'd need you here for either of those courses of action?"
Harry flushed slightly around the neck, thankful for the turtleneck that covered it along with the mark that similarly heated whenever he even slightly drew the Dark Lord's ire. "No, my Lord," he said flatly, without a hint of apology. Voldemort could get under his skin, but he wasn't easily cowed.
Voldemort continued as though he'd never been interrupted. "Tonight we will draw information from the boys' minds and take blood for the Morphus potion. Tomorrow, we will begin impersonating the brothers until such a time that we gain access to the Rebels' bases."
Harry blanched, his lips parting in surprise, sure he'd misunderstood. "You want to go undercover as a muggleborn shop boy?" he exclaimed, uncharacteristically unable to hide how taken aback he was.
Voldemort glared once more. "Will I have to repeat every part of this instruction, or will you manage to be quiet." The last two words were infused with a hint of magical command. A subtle magic that could nudge unsuspecting or untalented wizards into obedience. It wouldn't work on Harry, but it served to menace him into shutting his mouth once more.
"Once we've infiltrated the bases we will extract Verona, gather whatever further information is deemed necessary, and kill whomever else we find there," Voldemort finished simply.
Harry was reeling. The plan was too bizarre to be fully comprehensible. Voldemort impersonating an impoverished teenager was enough to make him grateful he was sitting down. Harry impersonating one along with him, acting as his brother, was quite another. Then there was the plan itself; the danger implicit if they were discovered. Then again, how much danger was there with the Dark Lord present? The man could likely kill every other person at the Imperial Base alone if necessary. Which brought him to the final sobering thought of the reality of infiltrating the resistance. He thought of Sirius, Blaise's father and the best friend of his own late father. He thought of all of the muggleborn teenagers not unlike his own new ward that had been recruited by them. He thought of… It took all his control not to think of the person he wanted to think of in that moment. The person he had grown to suspect over the last few months, and prayed he could intercede before it was too late. He hoped it wasn't already too late.
Gathering himself, he pushed such emotions away. Away to the distant place in his mind that the horcrux had created. It was a common misunderstanding to say that the creation of a horcrux takes away ones ability to feel; it simply makes it somewhat optional. It gives one a place to put it.
"Yes, my Lord," Harry said solemnly. After a heartbeat longer, he added, "Are you- Are you good at er- acting?"
Voldemort's frigid demeanour thawed somewhat, clearly surprised by the question. "What?"
"I mean, because you're er.. you're very, well, yourself."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, "Myself?" he said, almost archly.
"You know," Harry struggled, fighting his own smile despite himself. "You're very good at being a Dark Lord. I just don't know if that lends itself to being good at… not being one."
Voldemort smirked, amused. "Well I'm glad for your ringing endorsement on my abilities in 'being a Dark Lord' however, I'm excellent at everything I do."
"I have no doubt, my Lord. Shop boys everywhere will be put to shame."
The Dark Lord scowled.
Verona Selwyn was absolutely furious. She had been furious for weeks now; how long precisely, she had no idea.
She was furious with the people who were holding her captive. Who exactly they were, who was responsible for the steaming bowls of food that arrived three times a day into her admittedly well equipped suite, she had no idea. But she was furious with them nonetheless.
She was furious with the werewolf, Lupin, who had somehow managed to trick her as they entered the wards of the safehouse – overpowering her and knocking her out long enough for her to be stripped off her wand and imprisoned.
She was furious with Valeria, who – if it had not been a trick, and she was relatively certain it wasn't – was involved in all this.
Most of all, however, she was furious with herself. Verona was prized for her intellect and her self-control; for remaining cool headed at all times. She'd been called cold before and disliked that, but not nearly so much as she would have disliked being labeled reckless. But reckless it had been.
She paced the room - as she had day after day - like a caged tiger. She tested the wards with wandless magic endlessly, but they were far too strong for that to have any visible effect. She shouted and screamed and bargained, but as far as she was aware no one could hear her.
Verona couldn't even manage to go mad. Books had been provided for her after the first few days; quills and parchment had also been provided briefly, until they saw she'd begun constructing runes with them. A wireless had come after the first week. Whomever her caretaker was clearly didn't want to give her the peace of losing her mind in this prison.
Prison was perhaps a strong term for a room with a four-poster bed and a claw-foot bath, but Selwyn – however powerful and adept – had grown up a pureblood aristrocrat and took little comfort in such paltry luxury.
As days went by she worried more about the implications of her absence. Even in regular times, Verona was hardly expendable to the Death Eaters. Now, she was more important than ever. With each day that went by, the project the Dark Lord had her working on grew less and less feasible. It wasn't his fury she worried of truly, but she hated to fail. In anything. Ever. Luckily, it had yet to happen.
Well, not until recently.
She didn't let herself think too long on Valeria. Valeria Nott, the woman who'd always been able to make her behave in the most inexplicable ways. Since they'd been girls, Valeria was the only person in the world that could make her act so. When she got her hands on her she was going to curse her into oblivion, she was going to kill her for this. The stupid girl had gotten herself into deep trouble allying herself with the resistance, and if Verona had been fool enough to try to help her come to her senses then this was what she had gotten in return. The bitch.
Days went by, blending from one to the other. She was relatively certain that the roast she received was once a week, and guessed it was a Sunday. She marked time through food she could barely be bothered to eat. Vitamin potions were added to her trays and it made her furious enough to throw them against the wall. What did they intend to do, keep her here forever?
How could Valeria do this to her?
What would she do to Valeria for this?
If she had been furious before, the usually calm Verona grew incandescent with rage. She couldn't have done this to Valeria. For all she hated her, despised her, she couldn't sit and watch her live in a cage. It just proved what Verona had always known, that she understood human nature better than that spoiled princess ever had. Valeria would likely hardly see this as a cruelty, would think it fine so long as she fed her and clothed her and kept her 'entertained' – she had never understood that there were things crueller than that was when Verona had a thought.
It took her only a day to gather the courage. She needed her little healer to see what she was doing.
She waited for her vial of potion to arrive and – dashing it against the wall – took only a heartbeat of hesitation before she lost her nerve and used it to cut deep into her wrists, slashing down to the bone as she groaned in agony. Hot blood pooled around her arms as she sanl to the floor. Her vision swam. The last thing she registered was a scream that wasn't her own.
Morpheus was an interesting potion. It was rarely spoken of due to the scarcity and expense of the ingredients required, but when it was it was often compared to the polyjuice potion. Harry felt this was certainly a mistake, as it blew polyjuice potion out of the water. For one thing, morpheus lasted significantly longer than even the most potent dose of polyjuice potion. A single dose would give 3-5 days of use, making it much easier for longer term espionage. Secondly, morpheus avoided some of the common issues associated with polyjuice; there were far fewer charms and curses that could undo its effects and reveal the user. Thirdly, and as was something of a relief to Harry, during the term of the dose you could change at will between your natural and assumed form with near instantaneous transformation. It was based not on glamour spells like the polyjuice potion was, but on the innate powers of metamorphagi, focused into a single form using powerful blood magic.
Harry was particularly pleased with the last point, as it meant that the next morning – after sleeping in the younger boys bed at the apartment – he got to see the Dark Lord's true appearance donning the uniform of a nineteen year old muggle-born shop boy.
Harry had snorted and then narrowly avoided a curse sent his way, as the Dark Lord had warned Harry that once they left the confines of the apartment they had to remain 'in character' as much as possible.
"If they're smart, which thankfully they rarely are, they'll be watching them. It's important they have no reason to suspect foul play," Voldemort warned.
Harry still hadn't worked out quite why the Dark Lord was doing this. He thought on it as he concealed the sleeping boys within a stasis charm and shrouded them in dark magic. It had been all he could do to convince Voldemort that they might have need of them in the future.
The Dark Lord had more lackeys than anyone else on earth, and as much as he liked to complain of the incompetence of all his subordinates, there were many trained in just this sort of thing. He'd not say this to his face of course, but he doubtlessly employed people who would be better at it than himself.
The morning passed quickly, and they were due for their "shift" in minutes. Harry offered to apparrate them, earning him a glare. "The brothers walk the 10 minutes from here to the shop each day. Why would they change their routine suddenly?"
Harry agreed and decided to concentrate on the task at hand. Seamlessly, they both shifted into the forms of the boys. It felt ticklish somehow, in a prickly sort of way that wasn't entirely pleasant, and then they left together in silence.
The moment they reached the street below however, things changed. Voldemort began to chat. He talked about having had a fight with his girlfriend – the one he had presumably never met – animatedly. He mentioned an upcoming quidditch match with enthusiasm, and suggested they stop to pick up some bagels on the way to work and when Harry (semi-sincerely) protested that they would be late, said that their boss – who he had also never met – could suck it. Before they even reached the shop, Harry was positively floored by the shift.
Voldemort was an excellent actor.
They reached the shop and Harry still felt – as he had for the past day – that he was scrambling to catch up with reality.
"You're late again, you bloody ingrates-" barked their 'boss'. Harry had seen enough of Harlow in the brothers' memories to know he was an unpleasant hulking bear of a man. He was too lazy to be properly sadistic, but he didn't mind abusing his power when it didn't cost him anything.
"I'm sorry, Mr Harlow," Voldemort said quickly. "You see, there was this witch on the way to work who had a terrible incident with a hippogriff-"
Harry listened in awe as Voldemort told the worst and most botched lie he'd ever heard. There was something nakedly impressive about watching someone act very well someone acting very badly. He could hardly look away.
"Oh piss off, both of you," Harlow interjected eventually, not having the patience to scold them further. "There's a fuck load of stock that needs doing today and if you two don't get it unloaded before the afternoon rush then it'll be your pockets that suffer not mine," he picked up his magazine as he ushered them away. As they walked past, Harry heard the man mutter irritably 'mudbloods'.
Voldemort and Harry got to work without further comment. At the rear of the shop was a storeroom full of crates and crates of medicinal potions and herbs; most of it was crack stuff. Stuff meant to make you more virile, or happier, or readjust your humours. Some of it was legitimate, but by the looks of things, bad quality. Harry could tell by the colour alone that these had hardly been brewed to a good standard and wondered how it had even passed ministry quality control. The true business of the place however were the potions that altered the mind. There were potions that could make you see things that weren't there and potions that could make you feel utterly relaxed; potions that could make you forget and some that could make you remember. There were many of them that Harry knew to be perfectly safe, but a few were terribly dangerous and terribly addictive. Harry and Voldemort set to work unpacking the crates and stocking the shelves, and all the while Harry waited to see if they'd be spirited away by the resistance.
It didn't happen. They worked for hours on end, Voldemort occasionally making in-character comments and Harry too got the hang of things soon enough. Partly he just felt the need to prove he wasn't an inept actor either, and by the time it got to lunch they had grown a bit competitive with it. One thing had become entirely clear however, Voldemort was also inexplicably good at this job. It sounded ridiculous to say, but he stocked the shelves deftly; handled the enquiries from the occasional customers perfectly; he even bantered with the stocker when he returned for the empty crates. Harry wasn't doing a bad job with acting the part, but he certainly didn't have the air of practise with this sort of menial labour. Voldemort had even silently, almost compulsively, corrected his work on several occasions.
When lunch came around, they went to eat their shop bought sandwiches on a nearby bench and Harry cast a privacy ward around them. Voldemort didn't argue, the brothers themselves had cast them on many occasions recently – ironically to discuss the very thing they were now here for.
"So, do you still doubt my acting skills?" the boys voice asked in a very Voldemort-esque way as he tucked into the sandwich.
"Never again," Harry breathed. "It's actually really alarming how good you are at it."
Voldemort smirked, clearly pleased at the compliment. The smirk disappeared when Harry added:
"You've done this before, haven't you, worked in a shop?"
Voldemort's expression stilled, his face closing off and becoming guarded as he focused on eating. They couldn't be heard but they could be seen, and it was clear that the Dark Lord had to try to control his expressions at the comment.
"What makes you ask such a ridiculous question, Potter?"
"You're just, really good at it – like it's muscle memory or something. It wasn't an insult."
"I told you, I'm excellent at everything I do," Voldemort said, the expression that would no doubt have been terrifying on his true face was belied by the teenager saying it.
Harry smiled wryly. "As am I, my Lord, but there are things the body has to learn – not the mind."
"I worked in a shop for a couple of years after I finished Hogwarts," Voldemort bit out as he drew out an apple, the comment clearly having cost him. "In Nocturne."
"So Abraxas didn't get you the job in Gringotts," Harry said, without thinking. Voldemort stilled, his hands curling around the apple in a way that made him feel sorry for the piece of fruit and even sorrier for himself. "I'm sorry, my Lord-"
At sixteen, at the end of his sixth year, Tom Riddle had been entirely certain that Abraxas – a schoolmate and Draco's grandfather – would be able to get him a job in Gringotts in the research arm. He had looked forward to learning about ancient curses and goblin magic. Harry knew this because he had known and loved Tom Riddle for years, but his knowledge of Voldemort ended there, the pages between a mystery. He had always assumed that the Dark Lord had gotten that first job. The Dark Lord's expression soured. It had been years since Harry reminded him of his intimate knowledge of his early life, and clearly he was little more comfortable with it now. Still, Voldemort controlled himtself. "We'll discuss this later," he snapped, and ended the privacy charm. Instantly, the chatty teenager returned and Harry had to once again push aside how unnerving the skill of it really was.
Verona came awake slowly into the silence of a dark room. She opened her eyes, waiting for them to adjust. She was increasingly sure that she was in the same room that she had been before, and the bed certainly felt the same. She was too tired to feel fully angry, and before the anger could build she noticed that there was a figure sat next to her bed.
The beautiful witch was watching her and, upon noticing she was awake, launched immediately into a tirade.
"Of all the stupid, selfish things you've ever done Verona Alicia Selwyn, this has to be the absolute worst. Do you have any idea how close you came to killing yourself? You always think you're so bloody measured! Well that was almost a measure too far. You nearly died!"
Verona coughed, sitting up as she came back to herself. "Valeria?" she said, slightly dazed.
"Just a stupid, selfish, nasty thing to do – do you think we'd all be so impressed that you'd figured some way out? Well I'm not! It's just like you to-"
Verona silenced her with a fierce kiss.
Valeria stopped talking.
The rest of the day passed much the same as the morning for Harry. Voldemort did most of the talking, but it seemed he was usually the more extroverted of the brothers anyway so it worked well. Harry began to get the hang of things, but was exhausted hours before his shift ended. It wasn't the physicality of it – Harry was fitter than the vast majority of the population given his career – and it wasn't intellectually difficult. It was simply that the boring repetitiveness of stocking the shelves, sweeping the floors, answering the same questions, was a brand of exhaustion in of itself and not one Harry was at all familiar with. Still, he came to terms with the idea of a few days of boredom. He'd gotten comfortable in the rhythm of things as the end of their shift approached, when a wizard of imposing stature entered the shop.
He was a Death Eater. That in of itself wasn't too surprising, there were many Death Eaters and this sort of shop was popular with them. This man, however, appeared to be a Death Eater from a particularly notable family. Harry didn't recognise the surname, but the man wasn't British by birth and heraldry was not his skill. Still, Harry recognised his tone and behaviour having come across it enough over his life. He was old money, and old blood.
The man perused the shop for only moments before calling Harry over with a gesture of his hand. "Boy," he called imperiously. "Where is the Ragamoot elixir?"
Harry remembered this one from the conversation with the stocker earlier. "I'm sorry, sir, we're out."
"Out? What do you mean you're out?" the man barked, glaring at Harry as though he had just stolen it from his hands.
Harry hesitated, unsure of the polite service-sector version of 'I mean what I just said' and instead said; "I'm very sorry, we should have more next week."
"Next week is not good enough, boy" the man stated, growing angrier by the moment. Voldemort was in the background stocking shelves, but the boss was conveniently absent so Harry could hardly redirect the man.
"I'm not sure what to tell you, Sir," Harry said, acting the part of the nervous teenager even as he began to grow irritated. This man was looking down his nose at him not knowing that Harry could have easily killed him before he could call him boy once more.
"Well, mudblood, you will tell me that you will acquire me some now," the use of the slur was jarring, although he'd heard it many a time himself. He'd never heard it used against him and rarely with as much derision and venom as this man put into it.
"That won't be possible, sir," Harry continued, grinding his teeth to keep his temper. "The brewers were out of stock and-"
"Are you arguing with me?" the man said, seeming scandalised by the idea.
"I'm just trying to tell you that-"
Smack.
The man had, quite unexpectedly, reached out and slapped Harry in the face. He was so surprised by the slap – not strong or painful, but stinging – that he didn't react immediately.
"How dare you talk back to me, mudblood, I could have you out of a job in an instant if I-"
CRACK.
The man's legs broke beneath him. The pureblood let out such a guttural scream that Harry's stomach clenched in horror. The scream only lasted a second however, before it was silenced. Voldemort was at his back. Silently, as though all the sound had left the room, Harry watched mutely as the man's arms snapped to unnatural angles. Harry had been furious a moment before, ready to retaliate with his own angry magic, but Voldemort had beat him to it.
In a low voice, Voldemort said, "You had a terrible accident. You fell down some stairs. And then up them, and then down them again. It was all so very confusing," he was casting a memory charm, Harry realised as he worked to throw up a complex privacy wall that ought to protect them so long as no one was watching the last minute or so, and they weren't looking too closely just now. "You will apparrate to St Mungos now and apologise for bleeding all over their clean floors-" the man's stomach ripped open in a shallow but wide laceration that began to trickle blood. "- And you will never return here again."
The man, entranced, apparrated away with an expression of absolute agony.
"What happened to not breaking character for any reason?" Harry breathed, the nervous energy of having watched a man paralysed before his eyes making him facetious.
"The only person who gets to slap you, Potter, is me," Voldemort said with a smile, before turning back to the shelves and continuing his work.