Spared in Silk Chapter 1

Story Pairing: Harry Potter x Mrs. Zabini

His legs shook under him, his wand clutched in an unsteady hand that he struggled to make still. He was surrounded on all sides by Death Eaters, the man who murdered his parents miraculously alive and more powerful than ever stood across from him.

“Harry Potter.” Voldemort spoke his name softly. “Do you know how to duel?”

“D-Duel?” His voice stuttered as he spoke, and the Death Eaters laughed at him from the sidelines.

“Yes. Dueling is still taught at Hogwarts, is it not?” Voldemort’s lips curled in amusement, as if talking to a slow child. “Or has Britain’s education system fallen so far under Dumbledore’s guidance?”

“Is this a game to you?” He was angry, his words coming out with a serpentine quality that came from parseltongue. Off to the side, all of the Death Eaters jumped and backpedaled, staring at him with fear.

Voldemort’s amused grin became a smirk, as he too spoke in parseltongue. “So the rumors were true… It has been so long since I’ve spoke to someone like myself.”

“I’m nothing like you.” Harry hissed back.

“Both Halfbloods, both orphans, both manipulated by that old fool. Both having discovered the Chamber of Secrets, and both having grown up without the knowledge of magic.” Voldemort listed off as he stared at him, before reverting back to normal English. “No, Harry, we are so very much alike.”

“What do you want?” He ground out, feeling that this conversation was pointless.

“Tell me, Harry, what would you do if I gave you immunity?” The Dark Lord surprised his followers with those words. “That I allowed you to live in my new world, on the agreement that you wouldn’t resist me?”

“Y-You would spare me…” He felt more confused than ever.

“Let it not be said Lord Voldemort isn’t merciful.” The Dark Lord’s smile said otherwise.

“I’m not joining you.”

“I have not asked you to.” Voldemort’s tone mockingly soft, almost indulgent. “Merely that you do not raise your wand against me. A… neutral party, shall we say.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, and he felt the urge to call Voldemort a liar and attack then. But something stayed his hand, something within him that begged him to stop and think. It was something in his very bones that called out to him, asking for him to change something in his life and to stop fighting for once.

Harry was tired. He had spent the year being ostracized and slandered in the press while his classmates either abandoned or hated him. And now he was at the end, having won the third task with Cedric dead and the pain from an acromantula bite flaring against his skin. He wanted to move on, for his life to get easier, and not have to face down Voldemort and his dozens of followers in a battle he would never win.

His vision swam as he looked across the graveyard, knowing what he was about to do would betray everything he had ever stood before. And he wouldn’t just be betraying Dumbledore and the trust he placed in him, but also his parents who died before he ever knew them. But in the end, he didn’t have a choice.

“I… I’ll do it.” His voice was raspy and tired, representing perfectly how he felt in that moment.

“You may return to Hogwarts.” Voldemort stated after a long moment. “Tell them whatever you like, as it won’t matter in the end. But you will remember this night, Harry, and the mercy I gave you.”

Harry’s heart hammered painfully, and he moved over and bent down to pick up Cedric’s body because leaving him behind felt unthinkable, before unsteadily making his way over to the portkey.

Voldemort’s voice followed him. “Run along, Harry Potter. Our paths will cross again, but not as enemies… unless you force Lord Voldemort’s hand.”

Harry couldn’t answer, moving away with Cedric’s dead body slung over his shoulders as he neared the trophy they had both taken. The cup’s portkey activated the moment his fingers closed around it, and the graveyard vanished in a swirl of blue light.

The next thing he knew, he was staring into Dumbledore’s eyes, before the Hogwarts Headmaster turned and announced that Voldemort was back to the crowd. And yet Harry never said anything.

/////

Privet Drive felt more like a prison than ever that summer, and not just as a physical prison, but rather as a place where his state of mind went to suffer.

The nightmares were constant, as every night he relived himself being in the graveyard under different circumstances. Surrounded by Voldemort and his Death Eaters as they taunted and tortured him night after night, until Harry begged for mercy. It was always the same, with Voldemort taunting him for being weak, but what could a fourth year do against a Dark Lord and his surrounding followers?

Harry cursed himself for being so weak, even when sound logic told him that he would never be able to escape alive if he resisted. That didn’t mean he felt any better, as what kind of Gryffindor would give up just because his enemies outnumbered him?

To make things worse, Ron and Hermione were ignoring him. He could only assume that it was Dumbledore who influenced them, as the Headmaster had been immensely displeased with Harry at the end of the year for some reason. He didn’t know specifically why, but it was almost like Dumbledore knew exactly what went down in the graveyard.

If there was one upside, beating his metaphorical wand was one of the few pleasures he got over the summer. While he wouldn’t delve into drinking or drugs, Harry desperately wanted to pull his mind away from those terrible thoughts surrounding the third task. Memories of Fleur Delacour often drifted through his head, alongside some of the older girls he ogled from time to time at Hogwarts.

His room smelled of his musk. Days worth of nonstop masturbation to amuse himself in the Dursleys absence. Petunia would probably kill him if she saw the mess he had made in his room, along with the smell that came with it.

But Harry didn’t care. He was too busy running his hand up and down his cock, basking in the little pleasure it gave him. Precum oozed from the tip, making each pump come with a squelch sound as he got closer and closer.

“Fuck.” He threw his head back as his release came, savoring the pleasure. Luckily the Dursleys were away, visiting France while they left him home, not wanting to waste their time dealing with him on vacation.

He heard something as he laid there then, sounding like the kitchen cabinets opening and closing as someone moved around on the ground floor. Harry stood, dressing himself as he left his room and walked down the stairs with his wand in hand. He moved to the kitchen, finding it empty, only to turn and see someone occupying the next room over.

Voldemort was sitting at the Dursley’s dining table. Not only had he let himself in, but he had even gone to the effort of making himself a muggle meal. A simple sandwich was clutched between his long fingers as he took bites out of it, not bothering to look up as Harry entered with wide eyes.

“Why… How are you here?” As far as he knew, no one knew where he lived outside of Dumbledore and his friends. Even then, the Headmaster had assured Harry many times that he would be safe and protected at Privet Drive, and that it was impossible for anyone to harm him there.

“The old fool has made sure you are protected.” Voldemort answered. “His followers watch your home at every time of day.”

“Dumbledore? He has people watching me?” His eyes widened at horror, a sudden realization coming then. “If that’s the case, then did you—”

“A sleeping charm ensured the woman wouldn’t see me, otherwise the old fool would’ve been alerted and come running.” The Dark Lord strangely muttered the last part. “Although, I can’t say I’ve seen an auror with pink hair before.”

“I thought we made a deal.” Harry nearly snapped. “That you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I couldn’t have entered this home otherwise.” Voldemort said calmly. “Dumbledore placed blood wards around this place, to ensure that no one could enter who meant you harm, Harry. If I had the slightest desire to harm you, then I wouldn’t be here.”

The calm explanation stopped him in his tracks, as his voice finally crept out, thin and hoarse. “Why are you here?”

Voldemort chewed calmly, dabbing his lip with a napkin as he seemingly ignored him. They both knew who had the power in his situation, and Voldemort exemplified that perfectly as he took his time before answering.

“Our little arrangement…” He spoke calmly at last. “Is no longer adequate.”

Harry’s heartbeat stumbled. “But you said—”

“I said,” Voldemort’s voice was razor-sharp as he cut him off. “that you would be spared, so long as you did not oppose me. I keep my word far more faithfully than you would imagine, Harry. But circumstances change.”

“How so?”

Voldemort let out a low, chilling chuckle. “My followers are… how shall I put this politely? In a state of fervent anticipation. They expected your death that night in the graveyard. They longed for it. Imagine their shock when the Boy Who Lived decided instead to bow his head to me like a frightened lamb.”

Harry’s cheeks burned with shame and fury, and he had to restrain himself from taking the bait. His wand twitched in his grasp, desperately wanting to unleash its power as its tip turned green.

“You will not curse me, Harry, you and I both know that. If you could muster such bravery now, then you would have done so in the graveyard.” The Dark Lord taunted him before sighing dramatically. “So, in order to maintain stability within my ranks, and of course to ensure your continued good health, I must offer them something else instead. A gesture on your part, a symbol of our goodwill. A… Concession.”

“What kind of concession?” he asked, though he feared the answer.

He wondered if Voldemort would make him take the dark mark, or even have his wand snapped and force him to disappear into the muggle world entirely. Maybe the Dark Lord would even ask for his cloak, or demand the contents of his Parents Gringotts vault as payment.

“A simple one.” Voldemort murmured. “You must take a wife.”

Harry staggered back so abruptly that he nearly fell down. It was only at the last minute that he managed to grab onto something and steady himself.

“A… A what?!”

“A wife.” Voldemort repeated with unhurried clarity. “You will submit yourself to a magically binding marriage contract. The wedding will include the usual ceremony, vows, public acknowledgements, as to appease the Pureblood families and show you are domesticated.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “You’re insane.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed dangerously, looking angry for the first time in their interaction. He was sure the Dark Lord would’ve cast the cruciatus curse on him then if the wards didn’t stop him. “You are only alive because I find you useful, and that usefulness must be reinforced with something more binding than a verbal agreement made in a graveyard. You will marry whom I choose.”

Harry shook his head violently. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t make me do that!”

“Oh, Harry. There is so much you still don’t understand. I can make you do anything.” Voldemort’s smile was small and cold. “If you refuse, my followers will take your defiance as permission to kill you. You cannot imagine the creativity with which they would go about committing such an act.”

His will to resist collapsed then, as he slumped in defeat.

“I will choose your bride.” Voldemort murmured. “A woman loyal to me. A witch who will ensure your… obedience. It will all be arranged soon enough.”

With a lazy flick of his wand, he vanished the crumbs and wiped the table cleaner than Petunia or himself had ever managed. He moved toward the back door as it swung open by itself, moving to leave, but the Dark Lord paused on the threshold, glancing over his shoulder with a final, poisonous smile.

“Oh, and Harry?” A soft, deadly pause ensued that made him sweat. “Do try not to run. It would make matters terribly inconvenient for everyone involved. Especially your friends.”

It was only after the Dark Lord left that Harry realized they had been speaking in parseltongue the entire time.

/////

A week later an unfamiliar owl tapped at the window with the bored impatience of a creature who had crossed far too many miles for far too little reward, and when Harry opened the window, it thrust out a single envelope tied with a deep green ribbon.

The parchment was expensive and smelled of an extravagant feminine perfume, the kind that no schoolgirl could reasonably afford.

Harry’s stomach lurched at the realization, and he shakily tore it open.

The handwriting inside was elegant, looping, and confidently slanted. Beautiful, feminine, yet possessing a certain deliberate precision that suggested the writer never did anything by accident.

-

Dear Mr. Potter,

I believe we have delayed our introduction long enough.

Given the circumstances of our arrangement, I think it best that we meet on neutral ground before any misunderstandings are allowed to linger.

Meet me tomorrow evening at six o’clock at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, Diagon Alley. A public venue ensures propriety and a neutral ground, as I am sure you’ll agree. I am also aware that you are familiar with the establishment.

I look forward to seeing you.

Yours,

Julia Valeria Zabini

-

He swallowed thickly as he finished reading. There were enough odd quirks to the letter that it made his head spin, wishing that Hermione was there to decipher it all. Clearly the woman knew of his many visits to Florean Fortescue’s in the summer before his third year, that much was obvious.

There was also her name, Julia Zabini, and he could only guess that she was related to one of his Slytherin classmates. Blaise Zabini was odd to say the least, and rumored to be gay, but his mother was well known.

Mrs. Weasley had often ranted about some of the pureblood women who she despised. Narcissa Malfoy had often been mentioned in the Burrow’s kitchen when she was in a foul mood, and Mrs. Zabini was another name. The woman who supposedly married and was widowed seven husbands, accumulating massive amounts of wealth and power in the aftermath of each death.

Of course, it seemed fitting that Voldemort would select such a woman to be his wife. Someone who would kill him right after they married, ensuring that the Dark Lord never had to get his hands dirty.

Harry just hoped she was pretty. He would hate to spend his remaining days with an ugly wife before she murdered him.

Disclaimer: All Characters are over the Age of 18

A/N:

A bit of a dark story for today.

I needed a break from the usual update schedule, and so I thought the first chapter of this short story would be fun to write. It won’t be very long, with only a handful of chapters, and plays on the idea of Voldemort sparing Harry in the graveyard along with what that would entail.