"Move," he orders, the high, slightly-hissed sound echoing throughout the room. His new jaw is strange, feeling slightly too big for his mouth, but he has examined himself in detail and ensured that he does not look at all ridiculous. Lord Voldemort looks more powerful than he ever has before, and so he should: he will be soon. His servants move swiftly into their positions, ordering themselves in a neat semi-circle around Lord Voldemort's throne, and he reclines slightly within it, keeping his back straight and his posture utterly perfect.

The nail on his index finger clicks quietly upon the arm of the chair in a rhythm until it is the only sound in the great dance hall, barring the near-silent breathing of his servants. Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters stand perfectly inclined to the middle, and only three spaces remain unfilled. Lord Voldemort's new lips do not ever need wetting, but when he presses them together in a thin line, they rub so strangely against each other, too rough and too smooth both at once.

"Antonin," Lord Voldemort says, eyes flitting to the left. "How is Bartemius healing?" He notices some of the Death Eaters are shivering slightly for the cold, but he ignores it entirely; such meager concerns of temperature do not affect Lord Voldemort any more, and it is not his concern if these people cannot recall how to cast upon their own robes a warming charm. The dance hall here in Malfoy Manor is high-ceilinged and wide, and with none of the fires lit, the chill permeates the room.

"Well, my lord," Dolohov says, dipping his head in a respectful bow. They do not wear masks here: the majority of his servants have been in Azkaban so long they barely remember their own faces, let alone each other's, and Lord Voldemort knows he has offered sufficient punishment to those who had walked free without displaying proper loyalty to him - all except two, that is. "He declares himself fit to stand and serve now, though that is not yet true. He begs your audience, my lord, to prove his fealty." Once upon a time, this might have affected Lord Voldemort to smile, or to smirk: now, it does not. He merely notes it with the quietest of satisfactions.

"Bartemius will see me when he can make his way to my feet of his own accord." Lord Voldemort's eyes flit to the right, and he meets Bellatrix's hungry gaze. "And Bellatrix, Thadeus, how fare your plans?"

"Well, my lord," Bellatrix cuts in immediately, before Thadeus Avery can say a word himself. He does his best to school his face into neutrality, but his eyebrows have always been overtly expressive, and Azkaban has not fixed this long-standing issue. Avery's eyebrows are forward on his face, scowling even though his lips don't. "We have taken our research upon the five of them, and we believe they've taken on a cave in the mountains about Hogsmeade! It is enchanted, certainly, to be unseen, and I suspect-"

"I followed Arnett himself, my lord, to the very entrance of their hideout, I'm certain," Avery interrupts, and Bellatrix immediately raises her hackles, but Lord Voldemort raises a flat, white hand in her direction, quietening her down. "I believe they are making use of the Fidelius Charm." Lord Voldemort keeps his blank gaze on Avery's hairy features. After a few more clicks of Voldemort's nail upon the arm of his throne, Avery stumbles through continuing: "We performed a variety of charms in the area, my lord, and we could not find the barest inkling of an entrance."

"They've hidden it! Hidden it, and-"

"Thank you, Bella," Lord Voldemort says lowly, and she stops short, a beam spreading across her features and brightening her dark eyes. She's so excitable, even now, despite her focus on proper sensibilities. Bellatrix is undoubtedly the servant who has changed least in Lord Voldemort's absence, barring the singular, obvious exception.

Lord Voldemort feels the clicking of his finger stop, and he looks down to it, staring. It is his habit to continue the noise throughout meetings, drawing the focus of his servants, but he feels pain in the joint - pain! - and he cannot move it. Curling his scaled lip, Voldemort waves his arm, dismissing his servants without a word, and then-

What is that?

---

Harry is violently sick in Dumbledore's office, clutching a wooden bin tightly to his belly and letting himself retch and retch. He's trying to force up his Occlumency shields, but he can feel Voldemort right there, as if he's right beside or behind Harry, as if they're sharing the same skull. He'd tried so hard to get some vestige of control, trying to move maybe one finger, and now Voldemort has thrust him back to his own body. Harry can feel it from just outside his skull, putting pressure on him: there's anger, yes, but there's amusement, a sense of power.

Voldemort is laughing at him, and Harry can do nothing about it.

Harry can hear Dumbledore speaking to him, but he just ignores it, closing his eyes tightly and focusing on suspending himself in darkness, forcing himself into the calm that Occlumency brings him. He is floating in blackness, in a cloud of dark fog, and he is alone. There is no one pressing on him, and he is in complete control of his emotions, of his mind, and of his own bloody head. He visualizes the spider's web of Voldemort's presence, and as best as he can, he sweeps the sticking pieces of web from within him, against him.

As soon as the last strand of white silk is gone, so too is the pressure, and Harry breathes in.

He hadn't realized he hadn't been breathing.

"Harry?" Dumbledore says, and Harry looks blearily up at his headmaster through the fogged glass of his spectacles. Blaise and Hermione are stood together. Hermione is clutching the strap of her schoolbag so tightly it looks like it might tear between her fingers, and while Blaise stands composed, Harry realizes he has one hand behind his back - with two fingers and his thumb, he has hold of the back of Hermione's robe, reminding her not to run forwards like she obviously wants to.

"It was Voldemort," Harry says, spitting immediately afterwards, and a glass is pressed into his hand. He rinses his mouth before he drinks, and he mumbles an apology for the bin that Dumbledore completely ignores. He stands, settling himself weakly in the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, keeping the bin close to him just in case.

"Tell me, Harry." Harry does. Harry talks, and he talks, and as he does he feels his own face, checking that there are no scales on his lips and that his eyebrows are where they ought be, checking that he has a nose and ears and his own, smooth skin. It had been so real, and so complete, and he wants to believe that he is in his own body. Dumbledore is watching him, concerned, and when Harry reaches back to touch Blaise's hand, he meets Hermione's instead: Blaise pushes her to take it.

Hermione's hand is cold and slightly clammy; there is a callous on her index finger and the shiny burn of an old potions scar on the heel of her hand. It isn't like holding Blaise's in the least. Awkwardly, Hermione takes a step forwards, giving Harry's hand a squeeze, but then she releases him. He can't decide whether he's glad about it or not.

"Where's Professor Snape?" Harry asks. He sees the barest flicker of something he doesn't know in Dumbledore's eyes before the older man speaks.

"He's in Diagon Alley this afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore says quietly, pushing another glass of water towards him. "Buying ingredients to restock the NEWT cupboard. Unfortunately, he cannot replenish stock via owl, and he will return late tonight."

"He's going to be in Diagon Alley until late, just for buying some powdered unicorn horn and some moon moss?" Blaise asks sceptically. Dumbledore smiles in a gentle, grandfatherly fashion.

"Although you must never admit to Professor Snape I have told you this, Mr Zabini, he is as inclined to imbibe as any individual might be. He is only your Potionsmaster day to day." Blaise' lip twitches, but he does not laugh, and he silently refuses the offer of a lemon drop from the dish on Dumbledore's desk. "I believe, Mr Potter, you might begin further study of Occlumency." Slowly, Harry looks up to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"Further, sir?" he queries, tilting his head to the side and forcing his face into blank incomprehension. "I don't know what you mean." Dumbledore's smile widens.

"My mistake, Mr Potter," he says amusedly, like Harry's lies are some private joke between them, and he adds, "I will fashion some kind of schedule, and will offer you tutelage in the art myself, if you should like to take it. I won't pretend to understand the exact bond between yourself and Lord Voldemort, Harry, but it is obviously becoming stronger."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees reluctantly, and he nods his head. He stands with Blaise and Hermione, and as soon as they're out of Dumbledore's office with the gargoyle closing the entrance behind them, Blaise allows Harry to lean on him to support his weak knees.