The Master of Death

Chapter51: A Deal with Devil

The needle-pain of the cruciatus still echoed through Harry's veins like a drum. His whole body ached with it and yet at this moment, it was such a far-away sensation, like a scream muffled by a blanket. He felt something crawl beneath his skin, curling in a non-existent space around his spine. The part of him that was not affected by the pain and instead had found dark amusement in face of the Dark Lord's fright.

His physical body didn't fare as well.

With trembling limbs he pushed himself upright, a bloody string of saliva stretching from the corner of his mouth till it reached the shiny floorboards.
Harry tasted blood where his teeth had cut a jagged line into the inside of his cheek. He spat on the floor, more out of spite than an inability to swallow.

Sirius' eyes were wide and full of concern. He hovered next to Harry, hands twitching, yet not quite reaching out.

"M'fine," Harry said in reply to the unvoiced question. Digging his fingers between the black coils wrapped around his neck, he tugged. "Loosen up a bit, will you," he hissed to Death, who in response relaxed some of his muscles so Harry was re-gifted the ability to breathe once more.

Harry was still a bit rattled but he snorted weakly when he realized, that Death had been more bothered by Greyback grabbing him by the neck than Voldemort casting the Cruciatus curse on him.

Apparently, pain was a rather dismissable concept to the being. Someone physically touching or marking him on the other hand seemed unacceptable.

It also explained Death's rather murderous reaction to his detention with Umbridge when Harry had written lines with the black quill. This time around he hadn't gathered the "I must not tell lies" scars, but it had been a close call.

Backlit by the harsh light cutting through the window, Lord Voldemort's imposing figure still stood as it had before. Like a marble statue, he looked down at Harry wand in hand and face shrouded in shadow save for the eyes. Two red needlepoints, flaming with fury in an otherwise stone-cold face.

Voldemort's magic was rolling with emotion, warping around his silhouette like waves breaking against a cliff.

Be it recklessness or the remains of this other within him, Harry couldn't keep his mouth shut. Green eyes flicked to the abandoned curse-box and with a cracking voice he said, "I could show you how to open it."

A collective inhale went through the room. Yet no one mattered but Voldemort.

In a serpent-like motion, the Dark Lord invaded Harry's space. "What makes you think Lord Voldemort would be in need of such inconsequential advice?" His voice was once again this soft, cold thing, but the dangerous overtone was more noticeable to Harry than ever. His skin tingled with the thrill of it and he felt the other part stir. Voldemort tilted his head just the slightest bit and then he leaned towards him. When he spoke Harry felt his breath brushing against his skin. "Even if I needed this pesky little piece of information, what makes you believe I wouldn't render you limb from limb until you would beg me to let you reveal your knowledge. I could tear the information from your mind and leave you in such a pathetic state you wouldn't even remember your own worthless name."

And as Harry stared down the point of Voldemort's wand, he did not doubt that he had meant every word of it even though the last part was debatable. Harry's lips parted in a silent inhale. Behind all the fury and violence in the Dark Lord's threat, he could smell the spark of fear.

The whole room seemed to watch their interaction with bated breath.

"Is all that hassle really worth it, though? For a filthy rat?" Sirius spoke up, reminding Harry of his presence with a suddenness, that pulled him out of his strange face-off. His godfather had spoken with an almost bored sounding nonchalance that made Harry question how he ever could've assumed that this man was one of the saner members of the Black bunch.