Property

Harry woke up feeling sick and nauseated. And cold. He was so cold that his muscles were aching, his nose and ears stinging sharply as if little animals were biting at his skin. Considering where he was, it wouldn't have been a surprise if there were creatures gnawing at him. He made a groggy effort to swat any possible night-time intruders away, his knuckles scrubbing at his face, and found nothing but his own skin and the freezing chill of morning. The ground under his cheek felt damp, and there was a twig digging insistently into his side. He tried to roll onto his back to relieve the ache at his hip - and was stopped by the press of a blade at his neck.

"Are you planning to go somewhere?" asked the voice. It sounded amused. "You can answer, boy."

"No sir," the boy whispered, because that was what he was meant to say. "I just woke up, sir."

"So I saw." The blade lifted, and the voice chuckled. He heard the snick of metal against leather as the knife was placed back in its holster (the inside of the boot of the voice, him, sir). "You can get up then, boy. We have a long way to go."

A long, long way. In the last few weeks Harry had travelled more than he ever had in his life. He'd been raised in a small, uninteresting village in the south, where it snowed rarely (only for a month at the most, and never heavily, just a light fall of white flakes that made the cobbles slippery like butter). His aunt and uncle had sold him. He had not been surprised. Poor families often sold their children into slavery. His aunt and uncle were not poor, but they were not rich either, and the boy had always been their unwanted little fostering - and a danger, at that. They had been more than happy to accept the man's offer to buy him - at a good price, of course. Ever since then the man had been taking him northwards, through ever-increasing cold. The boy was not used to the cold, and his clothes were ill-suited to the weather, but that man did not seem inclined to provide him with anything new to wear. Harry was too afraid to ask.

Harry shuffled to his feet, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with his sleeve. He curled his toes inside the creaky leather of his boots. Then he rubbed the dirt off his cheek and stared at his owner as the man paced about. Their stop for the night had been shorter than usual. It was still barely daylight, the sky all pale and misty with dawn. The boy was hungry, but food was growing scarce and the man rarely fed him anyway. When the man gave him another look - cracked teeth bared in a grin, his eyes narrowed - the boy moved swiftly to work, gathering together the man's bedding and supplies and putting them together ready for transport. They were travelling by horse and cart. The cart, of course, contained all the things the man needed: his canisters of alcohol that the boy was strictly forbidden from tampering with, the small ointment bottles he used when his skin became cracked from the cold, and other assorted things.

Once everything was sorted the boy hesitantly clambered into the cart. It was almost too full for him, which meant he had to bend his legs and huddle in a ball to fit. The man looked at him, with a sidelong glance of amusement, before turning back to his own preparations, ignoring Harry entirely. They left nearly a quarter of an hour later, because the man decided to take a leisurely drink out of his whiskey supplies. Harry watched him, swallowing occasionally just to test the cold-induced soreness of his throat, and tried not to think about how cruel the man could be when he grew drunk. It hadn't taken him long to learn.

They travelled for hours. By the time they stopped Harry had fallen asleep, and the man had to hit him to wake him up. He hit him again when the boy had to pause for a few moments to stretch his cramped limbs, but that was the last bit of abuse of the evening. After that he took Harry to a small inn, settled him into a warm corner, and ordered him food. It wasn't good food. In fact it was very cheap food, but the boy hardly noticed at all. He was so hungry, he would have eaten anything. The man nursed another drink, hardly looking at him. Once Harry had finished there was silence.

"Thank you sir," he said finally, though he really wanted to ask why he was suddenly being treated so well. So much like a, well... a real person. The boy stared down at his empty plate, and the cutlery piled by its side.

The man took a swig of his drink and settled it onto the table. He wiped his mouth and looked at Harry as he cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his seat. "I'm going to introduce you to someone," he said lightly. Too lightly. "A Mr Riddle. And you're going to be a good boy, because if you're not I'll gut you like a fish. Understand?"

"Yes sir," said Harry. Then he bit down on his tongue until it bled. He wished he hadn't just eaten. He wished very hard.

I'm like one of the animals they kept in the farm at home, he thought. I've been fattened for the slaughter

It was just beginning to snow when Mr Riddle entered the inn. He did not appear cold - his face wasn't even flushed. He spoke to the man in a familiar manner, calling him by his name and taking a seat at the table where Harry and the man were seated. He did not glance at Harry at first. And then when he did look at Harry, the boy was struck into silence by the sharp, perfect angles of the man's face: too perfect, too smooth, too charming.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Harry," he replied, with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the bruise on his cheek and his ragged shirt. "Harry Potter."

"Ah, Harry Potter." Silence. Mr Riddle smiled. "And why did you become property, Harry Potter?"

"My aunt and uncle sold me," he said promptly, because he was meant to be obedient, and he had no doubt the man would gut him if it came to it. "They thought I was..." he hesitated. "Gifted."

The man laughed. Mr Riddle's expression didn't change.

"Gifted," said Mr Riddle. "Of course. And how are you gifted?"

Harry didn't reply. His heart was pounding and his skin was hot with fear and the man was staring at him, angry. Mr Riddle drummed his pale fingers against the wooden tabletop.

"They don't burn monsters in this part of the county," he said idly. "Not like in the south - you came from there, I assume? Of course, no need to respond." He leaned forward. His breathe was warm, and smelt of spice and hollow things. "They drown them, or choke them, or cut them to pieces. They use their imagination." His smile deepened. "But some of us have other uses for children like you."

"I'm not a monster!" said Harry, shouted it practically though he hadn't meant to. "My aunt and uncle hated me, they would have said anything to get rid of me -"

The man hit him again, Harry's head snapping to the side. He could see flashes of light beneath the closed lids of his eyes, but this time it wasn't enough to settle him into obedience. He scrambled to his feet, the chair falling to the floor, and made a dash for the door. Someone grabbed him and forced him to the floor. He could taste the dirt.

"Stupid slave," hissed the man. Mr Riddle's footsteps were a quiet whisper in the distance. "Stupid fucking slave, do you think he'll buy you now? Do you -"

"He's mine," Riddle said, no laughter in his voice now. "I'll buy him."

The commotion did not overly disturb the other people in the inn, despite a few mutters here and there. Slaves were far from uncommon - and often far from obedient. The man stood, dragging Harry up by the hair, his thanks towards Mr Riddle lavish and profuse. But Riddle's focus was fixed on Harry, his amusement cruel and languorous, dark eyes gleaming red in the murky light.

"I won't be your slave," Harry said, no longer afraid of the man's knife or his hands. Maybe he was going mad or the fear had fogged up his common sense, but he couldn't seem to quiet himself or feign the obedience he was expected to have. "I won't give you - I won't give you everything." He said the last word with a harsh, savage little voice, thick with pain from the man's tightening grip.

"Oh, I don't want everything," Mr Riddle said kindly. He took a step forward and touched his fingers to Harry's cheek. Suddenly a strange exhaustion overcame the boy, vision growing dim and his legs crumpling beneath him. "Just your body," said Riddle. "That isn't too much to ask, is it?"