Beautiful, the Dark Heir (bdh17)

Chapter Seventeen

Fanfic Adopted from Bittersweet Alias

A Feeling of Suffocation or Great Distress: An Oppressive, Frightening, or Unpleasant Dream


Harry’s eyes fluttered open as he groggily took in the pale expanse of the ceiling.  His throat felt dry – parched – almost as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in several weeks.  His mind was confused, disoriented, all he could remember was rushing—then falling—then—

“Morpheus?” he gasped, his hand slowly and painfully moving until it rested over his still flat abdomen.

“Shh,” a voice beside him whispered and a strong hand covered his own protectively.  “Morpheus is fine.”

Harry let out a breath painfully, tears forming in his eyes.  “I thought I’d lost our baby, Romeo,” he whispered brokenly.

Soft lips gently ran over his face, catching the falling tears as Harry continued to cry.  He felt so ill, so nauseous.  The room was spinning around him and his heart felt like it had almost been torn apart when he thought he might have lost their beautiful little baby.

“What happened?”

Micah sighed and ran his free hand through Harry’s tangled hair in comfort.  “You need to rest, Hadrian.”

“What happened?” Harry repeated, more forcefully.  “Tell me what the fuck happened!”

A cool forehead pressed against his own and Harry choked back his emotions.  “Hush, Hadrian.  You need to calm down.  It’s not good for Morpheus.”

“I want to know who did this to me,” Harry begged.

“I know,” Micah growled softly, “and I will tell you, once you’re calm enough.”

Harry entwined their hands and pulled Micah gently toward him.  “I need you,” he murmured and Micah climbed onto the small hospital bed next to his husband.

“Pomfrey says no sex for at least the next three fucking weeks,” he griped as Harry curled around him, frowning.

“Poor baby,” Harry hummed.

“How am I supposed to keep you happy if I’m not fucking inside you every night?” he said sullenly.

Harry sniggered quietly at his mate’s antics.  Well, whatever tactic Micah was using, it was definitely working.  “Oral?” he suggested innocently.

Micah looked down at him curiously.  “Hmm,” he agreed.  “She didn’t say anything against orgasms.”  He kissed Harry’s lips softly.  “Hadrian,” he breathed reverently, his hand snaking down until it wormed its way under his hospital gown and rested on his bare stomach.

“Our Morpheus is truly well?” Harry asked quietly when Micah released his lips.

“Yes.  It was touch and go for awhile, but Pomfrey and Snape saved him.  I’m afraid the whole school must know by now, though.”

Harry sighed.  “Dumbledore’s not come in, has he?”  He spat out the name of the headmaster as if it were a disease and Micah quietly agreed that, in all the ways that mattered, Dumbledore was just that.

“I’ve had the room warded against everyone but our family and Pomfrey.  Oh, and that Ravenclaw.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at him.  “Well, Maeve is practically family.”

“Some of the prefects are taking bets on when he’ll propose to cheer themselves up.  Don’t tell Malfoy that though.”

He frowned.  “I don’t like thinking he’s your ex-lover,” he admitted.

“He was a toy,” Micah refuted.  “Nothing more.”

“And what was I if not a toy?” Harry asked quietly, his head now pressed against Micah’s chest.

He sighed.  “At first you were that, but by the first time you let me kiss you, you were never that.  Never.  You’re my mate.”

They fell into a comfortable silence and Micah thought that Harry had fallen back asleep.  His hands traced up and down the smaller boy’s back, soothing him as his even breaths puffed out against Micah’s neck.

“What happened?” Harry’s small voice questioned again.

Micah looked up the bare ceiling, looking for guidance, which he didn’t find in the aging plaster.

“Weasley pushed you down the stairs.”

Harry tensed in his arms and Micah just held him closer.  “Malfoy and Bradley were at the bottom of the stairs—I think they were snogging,” he smirked and Harry winced as flashes of his memory came back to him.

Running.  Footsteps.  Portraits on the wall.  Standing at the top of the stairs.  Smiling down at them.

Draco pulling Maeve’s thin figure against his, kissing her desperately.  Happiness for his cousin.




He shut his eyes in pain and Micah just continued to run his fingers through Harry’s hair.

“Weasley must have been there somewhere.  The portraits say he was in the shadows and he came out and pushed you down the stairs.”  Micah took a deep breath and Harry remained completely still, reminding himself he had to breathe.  “She heard you fall and Malfoy managed to slow you down.  He rushed you here while the Ravenclaw got me and Snape.  We almost lost our Morpheus.”

Harry closed his eyes against the pain and nodded.  “Has he been punished?”

“He was expelled immediately.  Lucius Malfoy is suing the Weasleys for every penny they have and will earn.  The Department of Law Enforcement has charged him with two counts of attempted murder, assault, and even conspiracy.  He’ll be in Azkaban, though I think your father means to play with him first.”

“Good.”  Harry’s voice was cold, hard, unemotional.  It covered up the pain that was coursing through his veins and freezing his mind in agony.

“The Weaslette has also been suspended and your uncle is trying to have her barred from Hogwarts, as well.  Her wand won’t be snapped, but her parents won’t be able to send her abroad.”

Harry snorted.  “Dumbledore must be fucking thrilled.”

Micah smirked.  This was his favorite bit to tell Harry.  “The governors have convened and after all the atrocities against you and wanting to fucking ass-kiss your uncle, they’ve told Dumbledore this will be his final year at Hogwarts. McGonagall has already been contracted to be Headmistress next September.”

“They did all that,” Harry wondered aloud.

Micah growled.  “More will be happening.  It’s only been three days, though, Hadrian.”

Harry lay passively against Micah’s chest but didn’t say anything in response at first.  “Morpheus Garoul is really alright?” he asked again, his mind half-numb.

“He is safe and healthy,” Micah assured him, allowing Harry to relax slightly.

“Are Maeve and Draco alright?” he asked after a half of silence.

“That reminds me,” Micah said, confusing Harry further.  He reached over to the side table where several newspapers were stacked and began to sort through them.  He didn’t care if a few issues fell.  They were only copies, after all.

When Harry was unconscious, Micah found that he was going out of his head.  He had to do something, so he poured over the Daily Prophet and started a second scrapbook with the latest headlines and all the ones he had saved from back issues concerning the Weasleys’ fall from grace. 

He was fucking sad, he thought.  For some reason, he felt like he needed to save every scrap of paper that mentioned his precious mate—including recountings of the horrible events in their lives.  He now had a positive book that was purple, which he had decided on as it was Harry’s favorite color given the decoration of his prefect room, a negative one that was a dark green, and would probably start one that was red for everything involving Viridian.

If he didn’t already know he was in love with his little mate, this would probably have tipped him off.


He brought the paper up to his face and flipped it to the third page before clearing his throat.  “Ready?” he asked with a slight grin and Harry smiled back at him.

Malfoys Become Guardian of Pureblood Orphan in Light of Ministry Scandal,” he read the headline.

Harry groaned.

“Do you want me to go on?” he asked solemnly and Harry nodded against his chest.

“Who’s it by?”

“Skeeter, who else?” he laughed before reading aloud.  “In light of the recent attack on Mr. Potter-Black and his unborn child, a new scandal has arisen regarding the soon to be former Headmaster Dumbledore and, more importantly, the Ministry of Magic.

“Less than a month ago, Hadrian Potter-Black and his cousin Draco Malfoy became acquainted with then-believed Muggle-born orphan Maeve Ellinora Bradley.  Miss Bradley is a sixth-year Ravenclaw at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and a prefect, which I might conjecture is how they met.”

“Skip to the part I don’t already know,” Harry groaned and Micah scanned down the article.

“It has come to light that Dumbledore as well as the Department for Magical Child Welfare were aware of Miss Bradley’s magical heritage but that the Department, on Dumbledore’s urgings, left the placement of Miss Bradley to his discretion.  Ever a friend to the orphans, including the Boy-Who-Lived as we had previously believed, the Ministry allowed this.

“It then goes on about her childhood and the religious abuse,” Micah explained, “and then how the Malfoys are now her magical guardians, her fortune is being restored to her, and she is being given a thousand galleons per year she lived in the orphanage.”

“Good.  Muggles disgust me.”

Micah leaned down and kissed Harry quietly.  “You’re free, Hadrian,” he intoned.  “You’re never going back.”  He glanced at the paper.  “All placements of magical orphans, including your previous ‘home,’ are being investigated.  Dumbledore’s being brought up on charges in front of the Wizengamot and there’s talk of him being dismissed from the International Confederation of Wizards,” Micah paraphrased succinctly. 

Harry sighed.  “I’m glad something good came of all this.  Anything else?”

“Yes.  It’s come out that Dumbledore tried to have Susan Bones placed in a Muggle orphanage as well, but her aunt stepped in and claimed her soon after her parents’ deaths.  Bones has been living with her aunt ever since, who apparently didn’t know that that’s what Dumbledore had planned.”

“That’s disgusting.  He claimed that he only ever put with me with the Muggles ‘for my protection.’  Something about blood wards.  How could he try to take a child away from its family?”

“No idea.  There’s a pretty scathing comment from Amelia Bones here, too.”

“What does she say, Romeo?”

Micah quickly skimmed the article.  “‘Dumbledore has shown that he is a disgrace to the name of Wizard.  He has knowingly placed not only Miss Bradley but Mr. Potter-Black with neglectful if not abusive Muggles.  Orphans should be treasured.  All of our children should be beloved.  They are a gift from magic, and for him to knowingly commit such atrocities as to give the next generation of wizards and witches “an understanding of Muggles and their culture” is absolutely despicable and morally reprehensible.  I support any and all measures to dismiss Albus Dumbledore from his many current positions.’ Nasty shit, that.”

Harry hummed in agreement. 

“It also says that the Malfoys filed for custody of you as your grandmother was a Black, but that the Ministry denied the claim because of Lucius Malfoy’s time spent under the Imperius Curse in the first war and because Dumbledore claimed you were with ‘a kind and loving family.’”

“Disgusting.”  Harry sighed.  “I wonder what my life would have been like if Aunt Cissa had adopted me.

Micah shrugged.  “You probably wouldn’t call me Romeo, that’s for sure, Hadrian.”

Harry laughed slightly but it soon turned into a cough.  Micah quickly handed him a glass of water.  “Romeo, Romeo, where art thou, Romeo?” Harry quoted in fun before Micah gently claimed his lips once again.


Harry found that the Hospital Wing was extremely boring over the next few days and that although he was in bed all day, he was exhausted.  He ached everywhere and barely had an appetite though Micah dutifully coaxed him into eating as Harry slowly began to magically heal.

Dumbledore was still barred from the Hosptial Wing and his only company was Draco, Maeve, the Malfoys, and occasionally the Montagues.  Remus came twice, apologizing that his godfather could not come, but Harry understood.

He was vaguely aware that the Malfoys, with his father’s permission, of course, were slowly moving to become his legal guardians.  Sirius was still a convict and even though Peter Pettigrew had been handed over to the Ministry—Narcissa had whispered that in his ear the day after he awoke and Harry suspected it was a present from his father—the Ministry of Magic had yet to acknowledge it, instead preferring to allow an innocent man to hide for a crime he did not commit.

They were all fucking hypocrites, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry believed that Dumbledore might have been behind it, a final show of his disapproval, but Harry doubted that Fudge would do anything to exonerate Sirius Black.  He was too little and mean of a wizard to do anything of the sort.

Micah only left the hospital wing once a day, a little before dinner, to collect their assignments from Draco and some seventh-year Slytherin, but Harry couldn’t—wouldn’t—touch his assignments.

He was just too exhausted.  He was painfully aware of his abdomen and he was thankful when he was given dreamless sleep a week and a half after the incident so that he could be transported safely to Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa leaned down and kissed his forehead gently just before his eyes closed.  “Sleep, Hadrian.  Everything is prepared for you and Micah.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, his body fighting the potion as it usually did.  “Tell me about it?  It’ll help me sleep.”

She laughed prettily at him.  “If you like.  It’s on the second floor—a suite has been prepared.  Micah said that you liked white walls lined with royal purple, so we followed that scheme.”

Harry smiled happily, snuggling deeper into the pillows as Micah gently stroked his back.  “Sounds lovely.”

Narcissa looked softly down at him.  “I hope so.  It’s a few doors down from Draco’s suite—in the family wing, but there are plenty of silencing charms on it.  There’s a common sitting room, two studies that have an adjoining door, and a small nursery off of your bed chamber.”

“I’ve had it painted white and Slytherin green,” Micah growled.  “I want Morpheus to know his heritage.”

Poor Sssiriusss,” Harry hissed unknowingly in Parseltongue as he slipped into slumber. 


The suite was as beautiful as Narcissa described.  It was light and open and with the help of the many tutors the Malfoys hired for both Micah and Harry, he slowly began to heal emotionally from the attack.

The Dark Lord even visited every few nights—it was a mystery to Harry how he got in unseen—and although Harry wasn’t allowed up from his bed unless Micah was washing him in the bath, Voldemort would sit at the end of the bed and have dinner with his Heir.

“I want revenge,” Harry stated casually one night as he watched Voldemort drink a glass of wine, his red eyes focused on the swirling crimson liquid.

“I had planned on taking him out of Azkaban when your plans come into effect next month and torturing him for several years to come,” he responded, a gleam of sadistic pleasure lighting up his eyes.

“No.  I want to deal out the revenge.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked quietly.  “You should really stay in bed and rest.  Morpheus should be your priority at the moment.”

“I’m not weak,” he huffed petulantly.

Voldemort leaned forward and caressed his cheek.  “You, my Heir, could never be weak.  Your child, though, needs you.  He is defenseless at the moment.”

Harry lowered his eyes and his hands snaked up to his abdomen where they rested protectively. He was barely a month in and already his child had almost been snatched away from him.  He needed blood, torture, possibly death to right this wrong.  “He tried to kill Morpheus.”  His voice was tinged with loathing and steel, causing a shiver of pleasure to run down Voldemort’s spine.

“You will have it, Hadrian, I swear to you.”

“I cannot be easy until I exact it myself.”

Silence held between them and Harry took up a piece of toast and butter that a house elf had kindly prepared for him.  Although one would imagine toast and butter would be a simple meal, the Malfoy elves simply outdid themselves.  The bread was made from scratch, in the style of a French baguette, and then toasted decadently in expensive olive oil before butter, fresh from the cow, was spread onto it.

It was simply divine and Harry thought he could never give up such a luxurious feast—even if it was toast and butter.

“Micah won’t let me leave the room although the healer said I could be active as early as next week.  Nothing strenuous, though.  I can even perform most types of magic at the moment.”

“I see.”  He paused.  “What do you want me to do?”

Harry smiled.  “I want you to bring me my cape next week.”

Voldemort snorted.  “Viridian’s disguise?”

Harry nodded.

“Surely you want something else?”

Harry hesitated.  “Normally I would simply Apparate myself there and back and not require back up, but Morpheus is more important.  Micah can’t know—not until I return and am safe—but perhaps if Uncle Lucius and Mr. Montague came along?  Sirius even?  I assume Weasley,” he spat out the word, “is at the Burrow awaiting trial?”

“Yes,” Voldemort confirmed.  “There are Aurors guarding him, of course, but they could easily be handled.  You would even be within your rights within the old pureblood laws to extract this sort of vengeance—as long as you do not use an Unforgivable.  The court, even if they become aware of your actions, will not punish you.”

Harry looked at him, startled.  “I thought Dumbledore overturned the Wizengamot’s recognition of the Laws of Mordred.”

“He did.  But Amelia Bones, his successor, has reinstated them, quietly of course.”

He snorted.  “Dumbledore’s great legacy comes undone.”

A predatory smile played across Voldemort’s thin lips.  “Indeed.”  He looked out the window and the sprawling gardens and a white peacock crossed across his line of vision.  “Only the Malfoys,” he said quietly, before turning back to his heir who, despite everything, looked beautiful against the white and purple bedspread, a pillar of strength and power even in his state.  “Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Father,” Harry whispered, lowering his head in a gesture of respect and supplication.

“Vengeance will be yours,” he assured, before standing and sweeping majestically from the room.

Harry fell asleep with a smile forming on his lips, a slight tinge of color finally returning to his cheeks.


Harry stood at dusk in front of one of the large windows in his bedchamber, the folds of his crimson cape falling gracefully around his lithe figure.  His hair was in a low ponytail; even his fringe was pinned back with hairpins that Maeve had happily sent him when he asked for them.

His body was devoid of all jewelry except for the platinum torque ring that adorned his left hand.  He clutched fiercely a black mask that was made of charmed silk that would cover his face with the aid of two strings tied at the back of his head, transforming his visage into a laughing fold of fabric that obscured his features but gave off a sinister impression.  In his right hand he clasped his holly and phoenix feather wand, the wood feeling familiar and reassuring to him.

On the Dark Lord’s suggestion, Mari Montague had called her son to dinner to help her plan a surprise baby shower for Harry, and with his husband’s gentle urgings, Micah had consented to go.  As the clock chimed four, he slid his hood up and waited for the inevitable sound of footsteps from the hallway through the half open doors.

“Hadrian,” Lucius greet before he caught sight of the frightening figure of his lord’s heir.  “Viridian,” he gasped, quickly falling to one knee.  When Caelius entered right behind him, he quickly crouched as well, showing homage to the Dark Lord’s heir.

“You may rise,” Harry as Viridian intoned without emotion.  His heart felt like it was still breaking and he rested his hand above Morpheus, drawing comfort from the knowledge that his unborn son was unharmed.

“Forgive me, Lord Viridian,” Lucius asked hesitantly, “but may inquire where my nephew is?”

Harry turned, a small smile on his face.  “I’m right here, uncle.”

Both Lucius and Caelius gasped.

“You’re the Dark Lord’s heir?” Lucius asked in wonder.

Harry nodded.  “Yes.  Father saved me from my Muggle relatives, from Dumbledore.”

His uncle looked on at him in wonder, hardly believing it. 

“In private, both of you may address me as Hadrian and act as you always have, but of course at meetings I expect to be treated as you would treat Viridian if you did not know his identity.”

“Of course, Hadrian,” Lucius assured him. 

Harry looked them both over.  Their hair was pulled out of their faces as well, but they only wore dark hoods, their faces still visible beneath the folds.  “Did Father tell you not to wear your masks?”

“Our L-lord,” Caelius stammered, still unbelieving that Harry—the Harry Potter—was the Dark Lord’s heir and was married to his only son; it was entirely surreal to him, “did not instruct us on the matter.”

Harry nodded.  “Although you will stay outside of the wards, I suggest you wear them.  I want to terrify Weasley before I forever trap him in his worst nightmares.”  His tone turned dark and cold, causing the two Death Eaters before him to know that despite his true identity, there was still reason to fear him.

“As you wish.”

Within minutes they had returned with their masks and Lucius quietly took Harry’s arm, Disapparating them to a clump of trees near the Burrow.

“You are late,” a voice hissed and Lucius and Caelius once again fell to their knees in front of the Dark Lord.  “Your mask, Hadrian,” he said quietly, ignoring his servants.

Harry handed it to him and turned, allowing his adopted father to lower his hood and carefully tie it into place.  “Are you well?” he hissed in Parseltongue.


Voldemort nodded.  “What do you want done to the guards?” he asked, switching back into English.  “This is your—operation after all, my Heir.”

“Stun them.”  A statistic smile played on his hidden lips.  “With the survivors possibly telling stories of Death Eaters attacking, it will serve to confuse the Ministry of Magic even further.”

The Dark Lord laughed darkly, agreeing without words.

Within minutes, Harry was rushing through the wards, his father, uncle, and father-in-law taking up positions around the perimeter.  Lights were on within the Burrow and Harry peeked in the window, seeing Mrs. Weasley and Fleur of all people shouting at each other in the den.  Mr. Weasley was sighing, looking dejected in a corner, but Ron was nowhere in sight. 

Going around the back, he let himself into the kitchen where a stunned Percy Weasley squeaked at the sight of him.  “Wh-who are you?” he asked, his voice quivering.  “Are you a Death Eater?”

“Hardly,” he said tonelessly, his wand pointed at Percy’s chest.  Percy was holding a cup of milk in both hands and his wand was somewhere—else.  Harry shrugged it off.  “Where is Ronald Bilius Weasley?” he demanded.

“Why do you want to know?”

Harry rolled his eyes before whispering, “Stupefy.”

Percy slumped to the floor but the other Weasleys didn’t hear him over the shouting.

The Dark Heir slipped out of the kitchen and stupefied Arthur Weasley quietly when he turned toward him. 

“’Ow can you say zat to me?” Fleur demanded loudly.  “’Ee cheated on me wiz a leettle boy.  An innocent leettle boy.   Your son disgusts me.”

“You claimed you loved him!” Molly Weasley shrieked back.

Harry slipped up the stairs.  He passed the twins’ room and heard mutterings behind the door, but continued up the stairs until he came to Ron’s attic bedroom. The light was off beneath the door, but Harry still opened it cautiously, allowing the dull light of the hallway to filter in.

“Who’s there?” a groggy voice asked from a dark corner where Harry knew Ron’s bed was.  The orange walls seemed hideous and nightmarish in the half-light and Harry sneered at the sight.

“Vengeance,” he replied coldly.

Ron quickly sat up and squinted in the darkness.  He reached blindly toward the nightstand but his hand only found the pieces of his broken wand.

“It’s not that easy, Weasley.”

“Wh-who are you?” he demanded, louder.

Harry, however, did not answer the question.  Now was not the time for Viridian to be fully revealed, especially to someone as disgusting and insignificant as his former best friend.  “You almost murdered my child,” he responded instead.

Ron looked at him, shocked.  “H-harry?”  Fright laced his tone.  “What are you doing here?  Why are you in a mask?”

“I wanted it to be the last thing you saw, Weasley, that you would recognize.”  He took a quick step and in a dead, haunted voice he whispered, “Kikimora,” drowning Ron in an illusion, and with a flick of his wand, he ensured that Ron would never be free of it until his twisted soul finally left his body.

Kikimora is Russian for ‘nightmare.’ 

I decided to invent the incantation for Bittersweet Alias’s spell, and after spending half an hour on the O.E.D., I decided on that.


This fic was abandoned because my readers and I had creative differences. I wrote a long, winding post back in 2009 … but today I just offer how it stands.
I hope you enjoyed reading this. -cen

Published by excentrykemuse

Fanfiction artist and self critic.

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