Part the Eighth—
“There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.”
—Lord Byron
The Dark Lord was waiting for him nearly two weeks later when he floo’d back in the early hours of the morning. “You were not in your room,” he said. “Come, read the heavens for me.”
It was nearing August and Octavian had once again crawled into Harry’s bed, stepping out only when it was well past four in the morning and he wouldn’t be noticed by anyone at the Manor. He seemed to have been wrong on this occasion.
“Your birth father is waiting,” the Dark Lord continued fluidly. “I will not tell him that you have been in the arms of your courted one.”
Octavian looked at him, startled.
“I was young once. I know how a young wizard of power thinks when that power is taken away from him. You find solace in the arms of another. For you it is this Harry Potter, and I will allow it—for now. You haven’t had time to fully understand my appeal as a lover.” He smiled at Octavian thinly. “Now, come. I am certain Lucius would rather be with his lovely wife.”
Nodding, Octavian allowed himself to be ushered from the room but he wasn’t taken up the main staircase. Instead, he was led to a small door with a circular staircase made of wood traveling up into the rafters.
“All the way up, Octavian,” the Dark Lord said, the name a caress. “Then you will find your father.”
Octavian sighed and then took the stairs, hearing them creak beneath him, and he breathed out as he climbed higher and higher. He could feel the Dark Lord’s presence behind him, urging him forward, so he put one foot in front of the other, going higher and higher until he reached a trap door. Pushing it open, he climbed up onto the roof of the Manor, Lucius waiting for him patiently near a telescope that had been erected to look out toward the North sky.
“That will be useless,” Octavian said at once. He felt the Dark Lord come up behind him and he looked about. There was a sort of pathway around the parapets of the manor, and it was from here that Octavian would have to view the heavens. He wouldn’t be able to—wait, yes.
He jumped up a sloping wall and caught the edge with his hands, pulling himself up.
“Octavian!” Lucius called. “Be careful.”
“I need a better view,” he called down as he hoisted himself up. When he had dragged himself up over the edge, he turned on his back and looked at the stars, unhindered. “Shall I shout down or do you want to come up here?” Octavian called and with two cracks of Apparition, he was no longer alone.
“Lucius, could you conjure pillows. I’m afraid your roof is rather uncomfortable,” Octavian said jovially, getting into the spirit of things. “I need to lie down to look at the full expanse of the heavens.”
The Dark Lord did the honors, all in sumptuous greens and blues and Octavian resisted smirking up at him. Lying down, he took in the sky and the position of the heavens.
“Venus is nearly invisible,” he began. “She’s the goddess of love but also tranquility. Conflict will soon approach, I think. Are you planning something, Dark Lord?”
“Octavian,” Lucius chastised. “Do not be so free and open with the Dark Lord.”
“No,” the Dark Lord interrupted, placing a hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “Octavian may be as free with me as he likes. It is he who is offering me this kindness and he who may one day prove my equal.” The words were said sibilantly, dark and smooth, and Octavian shivered at it. “What else, Octavian?”
“You can see the Aurora Borealis. It’s quite bright for this time of year,” he murmured. “That signifies change and upheaval, but also a beauty that is to come from it.”
The Dark Lord looked down at Octavian. He truly was beautiful, with his long lashes and his golden hair. His black eyes were so mysterious, they hid as much as they portrayed and they always seemed to be teasing the Dark Lord, telling him to come closer and to learn their secrets.
“Hercules is the constellation of the evening,” Octavian finally said, catching the Dark Lord from his thoughts. “It’s tipped, just so, a little off its pattern. Hercules, as you know, was a warrior. If he is finding his own path, then it means war is on the horizon. But, of course, you already knew that. It’s probably what you’re planning.”
“I thought you did not wish to know my plans, child.”
“I don’t. I don’t like keeping secrets. I wish the one about my birth had lain buried where it was supposed to have done before Ollivander had to go and open his mouth.”
“An honest Slytherin,” Lucius mused. “I think that may be a first.”
The Dark Lord extended a hand and pulled Octavian up from his prone position. They were mere breaths away from each other and Octavian looked up into his eyes, their breaths intermingling. “Do not tease the boy,” the Dark Lord whispered, a hand snaking round Octavian’s waist. “To gain his trust and his loyalty means that you gain it completely. It is something worth having.—Now, Octavian, I know you leave in two days’ time. The last day should be spent with the Malfoys, but I should like to thank you for all that you have done for me. Where is it in the world that you would most like to go?”
Octavian tried to push away from him. “You know we’re not supposed to be alone together.”
The Dark Lord held him fast. “Come,” he whispered against Octavian’s lips. “Let me treat you.” Let me seduce you.
Hesitating, Octavian looked over at Lucius, who was decidedly looking away from them. “There is this town, Coin-du-Banc, right near Percé in French Canada. There’s an Auberge there with cottages with views of the sea. I would like to go there.”
“Consider it done,” the Dark Lord said, reaching down and kissing his forehead. “We will have to go midmorning to catch dinner, but we can be back in time for dinner here, if we choose.”
And they went. Octavian was dressed in pureblood black, a button up suit jacket over a turtleneck, while the Dark Lord wore a glamor that he only allowed Octavian to see through. “Wouldn’t do to startle the Muggles,” the Dark Lord said plainly as they sat out on the deck and were served les moules et les frites.
“Do your followers know where you are?”
“Yes, I told them I was with you,” the Dark Lord answered truthfully. “Bella was a bit anxious but I reminded her that you’re our most valuable asset. Then again, she is in love with me, so she hates it when I show attention to anyone else.”
“Aunt Bellatrix is in love with you? What about her husband?”
“It hardly matters to her,” the Dark Lord said nonchalantly. “Bella is attracted to power. The only wizard close to me in power is Albus Dumbledore.—Now, I want you to see someone about unlocking your ability to prophesy. I don’t doubt you have the ability, but you are a little young. It would be useful if we could unlock it sooner.”
“That,” Octavian chided, “could be dangerous. The treatments just as often as not prevent prophecies.”
“So you refuse your lord?” he hissed.
“You are not my lord,” Octavian said, a little afraid. “You will never be my lord. I am not yours to command.”
The Dark Lord sat back and laughed. “How you do amuse me, Octavian. I would not wish for anything else.” He lifted up his glass of red wine. “I shall not force you to do anything against your morals, young Prince. Encourage, perhaps, but not force. You are my most valuable asset, after all.”
Octavian seemed to be considering carefully. “I wonder at my cousin’s placement as spy. Surely he is not the obvious choice.”
“No,” the Dark Lord responded, “he is not. However, he had the opportunity. You, also, have the opportunity but I would not ask it of one so young, nor of one so gifted in the arts of foretelling as you. You might be forced to use your gifts for the Order, and I would not like that.”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Octavian countered. “They do not allow children to be present at meetings.”
“A pity. Children often know so much,” the Dark Lord mused. “When is your birthday, Octavian?”
“August fourth,” he said. “I’ll be fourteen.”
“Still, so young,” he sighed. “Still, it will not always be such.” They fell into silence. “Promise me something,” the Dark Lord said at last. “That you’ll make sure whichever wizard wins you—Potter or myself—that he deserves you. Your talent is unquestionable. It should not be downplayed or hidden by polite society.”
“It will always be ‘hidden by polite society,’” Octavian said. “So it must be. It is not seemly to have a Lord possess such a talent. He is not gifted except politically and in magical strength, not magical talents. The fact that I’m a charms prodigy is damning enough as it is.”
“Then I wish you had not been born to such high a house,” the Dark Lord whispered. “Perhaps, if you had been adopted and raised by Lord and Lady Malfoy as a second son, you would have been free to explore your talents.”
“But I was not, Dark Lord,” Octavain said, his voice full of steel. “Any possibility of that was nullified when Lucrece decided not to exchange names. You cannot fault my parents, my real parents, for the future they have given me. I will be one of the most powerful wizards in the land. Not even the great Albus Dumbledore, half-blood that he is, can boast that.”
The Dark Lord raised his glass to Octavian. “To your future, young one.”
Octavian did not drink at first, but he held the Dark Lord’s gaze. This was a dangerous game they were playing, and the Dark Lord knew Octavian realized it.
But he had had a sip of both the water and the wine. That was all it took, the Dark Lord knew. As they walked along the beaches of the Gaspésie, he could see the red flush of Octavian’s cheeks.
He was a selfish bastard—he knew this. He wanted Octavian and he would be damned if he gave him over fully to Harry Potter.
It was feverish, in one of the cabins. Octavian had stripped off the Dark Lord’s clothes and pressed his naked chest against him. “What is happening?” he asked with glazed eyes, but the Dark Lord only kissed his deeply, wanting a child to come out of this, to show his dominance over Harry Bloody Potter. The wretch had taken over ten years of his life—he would not take this extraordinary wizard from him also.
As he propped himself up above Octavian, those black eyes now a filmy white, he thrust in deeply. Small hands whispered down his chest and he grunted in arousal. “Do you want a child?” he whispered into Octavian’s ear, knowing that the suggestion should be enough.
He was not an unkind lover, bringing Octavian to completion. As they lay panting in each other’s arms, he felt Octavian’s skin cool and knew that rationality was once again returning. Octavian pressed himself against the Dark Lord’s chest and looked into his eyes. “What have we done?” he asked desperately.
“What we were meant to do,” the Dark Lord responded, kissing still lips that would not yield to him anymore. It did not matter. He would have Octavian in the end and in the meantime, there were potions to make Octavian his.
He was frightened, scared. As he sat in his room at Wolf Hall, he took out his tarot deck with trembling hands. He had promised not to read for the Order. He had not, however, promised not to share what he learned.
Touching his lips again, he felt the ghost of the parting kiss, the last kiss that the Dark Lord would ever bestow on him, even if Octavian had to carve out the Dark Lord’s heart himself.
He breathed deeply. He’d just returned from Grimmauld Place and realized something. Something dreadful.
He turned the first card. The Ace of Cups. Ah, so that’s where he was hiding it.
Octavian had been home for exactly four days when he flew into an Order meeting, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny hot on his heels. “Horcruxes,” he declared. “The Dark Lord has horcruxes.”
Everyone looked about them, confused, but Dumbledore’s eyes only twinkled. “How do you come to know such information, Mr. Prince?”
“I’ve met him—the Dark Lord—and at first I thought it was odd. He smelled a little like Harry. But then I realized that Harry smelled like him.” He turned and he pointed to Harry’s curse scar. “It all makes sense. Harry is carrying a shard of that bastard’s soul in him, but I knew there had to be others, so I did a reading. A book, a ring, a necklace, a chalice, and a crown. Destroy them and then someone can destroy him!” He tried to keep his voice level, but he was feeling a little hysterical, just thinking of the Dark Lord and being alone with him again.
“A reading?” Moody asked. “Such hogwash isn’t to be believed.”
“It must be!” Octavian countered. “Why was that prophecy so important if it were all hogwash, as you say? Anyway, I have given you the information that you need. Use it, for the old gods’ sakes!”
“Octavian,” Harry put in, “what’s wrong? Something’s wrong!”
“What’s wrong is that we have a Dark Lord who uses people for his own amusement, walking free when they,” he pointed to the Order, “could be doing something about it!”
“You’ve seen things,” Dumbledore said. “Many things, I should think. Very well,” he made a motion for them to leave, “I will use your information, Mr. Prince.”
“Thank you,” Octavian whispered, still a little desperate. He allowed Harry to pull him from the room.
He collapsed crying on the stairs up to the drawing room, the other children around him. “Octavian! I know something’s wrong!” Harry whispered desperately. There was an odd chill to the air, the music almost half-forgotten, but Octavian held onto it, not willing to let it go.
“He’s horrible,” Octavian whispered to himself, still remembering the pleasure that potion, that damned potion, had given him. “He’s the most despicable being I think the earth has ever produced.”
“None of us are fond of You-Know-Who,” Granger put in, “but you loathe him, don’t you? Why don’t you tell the Order what has happened? They can protect you!”
“No one can protect me,” Octavian shuddered. “He is too strong, too powerful. I just—I need him dead.”
“And he will be, finally and completely,” Harry soothed, stroking his hair. “Minister Scrimgeour is surely doing something. And the Order—“
“Works too slowly!” Octavian countered, pushing himself up. “I know they view me as a child; they won’t take me seriously.”
“Dumbledore knows you’ve seen things,” Ginny Weasley countered. “Surely he will take you at your word.” She seemed doubtful, but the words were welcome, all the same.
“I fear a war is coming and it is too great for all of us,” Octavian whispered. They had climbed the stairs and now were in the drawing room with a happy looking Flo. “I wish to the old gods I had never gone to the Malfoys’!” He remembered the time with Draco, spent Curling since Octavian couldn’t fly, and how little Io had clung to him desperately. Everything else had been horrible. Halfway through, Lucius had started insisting he call him “Father” and then there was the Dark Lord. There was forever the Dark Lord.
“Come,” Flo said, standing from where she is sitting. “Let us not think on that. Everyone, clear the room. It’s time for Harry to court Octavian.”
“With you being our chaperone,” Harry said, eyes twinkling. They’d spent almost every night together for the past three weeks, and had come to a sort of understanding. On Octavian’s seventeenth birthday, they would be married in the old rites, and hopefully, Octavian prayed, the war would be over by then.
“I must serve some purpose during these wonderful meetings I host while not being the hostess. I cannot invite any of the well-to-do families because the house is under Fidelius and my sisters won’t return my letters.”
“Why?” Ron asked. “That seems rather strange.”
“I am a third daughter, a nobody. I had no dowry to speak of and still I managed to capture the attention of a Lord. Granted, he is a reluctant Lord, but I am making him see to what benefit he can use his title.”
“Jealousy,” Hermione said. “Understandable. My sister is jealous that I’m a witch.”
Everyone turned to her. Ron, however, was the first to speak. “You have a sister?”
“Yes, Elissa. She’s fourteen now. I think she wrote about having her first boyfriend.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention.”
“How could you have a sister and never mention it?” Harry asked incredulously. “We’ve known each other for five years!”
“It never really came up,” Hermione defended nonchalantly. “Anyway, she’s more of a bother than anything. My mother thinks it’s so wonderful to have a beautiful daughter,” she scoffed. “I think I cleaned up quite nicely for the Yule Ball.”
Octavian detected a hint of jealousy in her voice.
“Right, Henri Jacques, with me now,” he declared. “We can fight over Elissa Granger later.”
Ginny hesitantly went to the door with her brother and friend. She turned, her ginger hair all around her and stated, “Remember what I said, Harry.”
“What did she say?” Octavian asked once the door was closed, blessed quiet with them at last, the only sound was of breathing and the lullaby.
Flo had taken a seat and seemed to be knitting something. He had never known her to knit before, but then again, witches tended to do needlepoint and knit to pass the time.
“Nothing—it’s just—she wants me to break the courtship and start dating her. She says she can give me children.”
Octavian became livid. “You can give me children. There will be no need to have children any other way! Horrible blood-traitor.”
“Octavian!” Harry said, startled. “Please don’t call her that.”
“It’s what she is—a blood traitor. Don’t worry, Henri Jacques, I would never say it in mixed company. Only to you or my parents.”
Harry did not look convinced. He kissed Octavian’s brow (Flo cleared her throat). “It’s just, I don’t like hearing you say it. I know you think that Mum was a common Muggle-born, but it’s painful to me.”
“We can never change our blood status,” Octavian whispered quietly. “But you know I don’t hold it against you, Henri Jacques.”
“Yes, I know,” Harry answered, seemingly truthfully. “I just—I feel so inferior sometimes.”
Octavian leaned up and whispered into his ear. “I would not come to your bed if I believed you to be inferior.”
Harry smiled. “There is that. But you haven’t come lately. I’ve been worrying slightly.”
Sighing, Octavian looked at Harry with wide black eyes. He would let Florence decode this if she could. “Father has the floo alarmed after a certain time. I’ve been trying to get around it, but can’t quite seem to. You know we can’t use our wands outside of Hogwarts.” The music was there again, stronger, and Octavian smiled. It was so familiar to him, it reminded him so completely of Harry and the love he was beginning to feel toward him. For this was love, wasn’t it? Not even the Dark Lord with all of his tricks and potions could change that.
“Oh. That’s understandable. Disappointing, but understandable,” Harry said, drawing Octavian from his thoughts.
It was just before term and Octavian felt awful. In fact, he’d felt awful for weeks. He’d been vomiting every morning and could barely keep any food down. Dionysia had checked his temperature twice a day, but it had remained normal.
Still, it was clear that Troy was getting worried. “I will not have my heir die,” Octavian overheard him say to his mother. “I couldn’t bear to go through it again.”
“It’s just a trifling stomach flu,” Dionysia answered. “It will clear up.”
“I’m still calling for the Healer,” Troy decided.
The Healer was an Asian witch with her hair back in a bun and the most startling eyes that seemed to see right through him. She asked Octavian far too many questions and then, finally, asked Troy and Dionysia to leave the room.
“Mr. Prince,” she began cautiously. “Have you engaged in sexual intercourse where you have been the recipient?”
Octavian’s eyes widened and she nodded.
“Have you taken the Gnascum Potion?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“No! I would never!”
She nodded. “Mr. Prince, I need you to think now. Is there any reason why you might have been slipped the potion? In a drink perhaps just before the—occurrence.”
Octavian sighed. The Dark Lord was a bastard. “We were drinking before it—happened. I went into a craze where I needed—and then I woke up. I know he must have slipped me a potion then. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got all territorial and slipped me the Gnascum Potion as well.”
“Line rape,” she said quietly. “And you’re so young.” She stood from where she was sitting and ran her wand over his abdomen. It turned pink. Performing a few other spells that confounded Octavian, she sighed. “I’m afraid that you’re about three to four weeks pregnant, Mr. Prince. I’ve saved the evidence in case you wish to go to court.”
“What are you going to tell my parents?” he asked worriedly.
“The truth. I will make sure they are calm before they see you, or as calm as they can be. I will tell them that it was not your fault. You’re so young, that it couldn’t be anyway. However, I want you to rest. I will recommend a diet of nutritious foods and vitamin supplements. Do you wish to know the gender of the child?”
“It was pink. It must be a girl.”
“Yes, and she seems healthy. I know it’s anathema in pureblood culture, but if you wish to terminate the pregnancy—“
“I can’t, I can’t think of that right now,” Octavian said, exhausted. “Please send my mother in once she knows.”
“Of course, Mr. Prince.”
She exited the room. It seemed like an age, but finally Dionysia came in, her eyes red rimmed and her hair slightly in disarray. “Oh, Octavian,” she whispered. “Was this done to you while you were at the Malfoys?”
Sighing, he nodded.
“I don’t want—I’m not sure what I want,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I can care for an infant. I’ll be due in May and that’s just before exams, and, oh by the old gods!” He started wailing. “I thought it was over, that it was all over, but it’s not. He did this to me! I just turned fourteen!”
“Hush, now, everything will be all right,” Dionysia soothed. “Is it a girl or a boy?”
“A girl,” he answered quietly, all the life seeming to have been kicked out of him. “Harry and I talked of names for children for when we one day marry. We decided on Lavinia Rose. Lavinia for my side of the family, and Rose for his. Now I suppose I’ll have to change it.”
“Not necessarily, dear one,” Dionysia said quietly. “This may all work itself out in the end. But who?”
Octavian looked at her with sad eyes. He couldn’t tell. He knew he could never tell.
She sighed. “Well, you’re never going to the Malfoys’ again. Your father’s furious. He’s trying to calm down before he sees you.”
“I am sorry I am just like—her—like Lucrece. I never meant to be.”
“You’re not,” Dionysia said, smoothing out his hair. “She was never the victim, not really. As far as she is concerned, she willingly slept with a married man while being engaged to another. You, little firefly, were forced, and that’s the truth, you know. They’re two very different things.”
“Henri Jacques won’t want me anymore,” he said, vocalizing his worst fear. He would only ever hear the lullaby play when they were passing each other for class and then it will be gone. Gone forever. “It will all be over.”
“You don’t know that; you can’t know that,” Dionysia soothed. “If he’s worthy of your affections, he will stand by you. And I know he’ll stand by you, Octavian. He’s not some callous wizard who will turn you aside just because the child is not his. He will love her, just as he loves you. I would bet my fortune on it.”
Octavian smiled, tears in his eyes. Hopefully, she was right. He prayed with all his being to the old gods that she was.
Excentryke's Musings 