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Hematophilia (It really does look black in the moonlight)

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"[...]Behavioral explanations propose that paraphilias are conditioned early in life, during an experience that pairs the paraphilic stimulus with intense sexual arousal. [...] once established, masturbatory fantasies about the stimulus reinforce and broaden the paraphilic arousal." - Wikipedia


If one was Harry Potter, one would consider it entirely normal to have continued nightmares about the Third Task in the summer after the fact. What was not normal, however, was the feeling in Harry's gut when he woke up; a tension he could not identify.

At least, he couldn't identify it at the time. Midway through the summer, however, while preparing lunch in the kitchen at Privet Drive, Harry dropped a knife and -- with his Seeker instincts -- reached out to catch it, unthinking, and caught the blade in his palm.

Then he stood, blinking, down at the deep cut, watching red well from the line and drip-drip-drip onto the floor in loud, messy splatter. Mesmerized.

That night, having managed to will his hand uninjured with magic, Harry dreamt of the Third Task again; his gaze fixed on the way the blood poured from the cut in the crook of his elbow, where Wormtail had made it, even after the vial was pulled away.

He woke up sweating, flushed, and hard.

Oh, Harry thought, biting his lip. So that's what it was.



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Knowing that his nightmares had developed into this... interest... was one thing, but Harry didn't anticipate being able to explore it any further while he was still doing backbreaking labor at the Dursleys'. He sighed internally and went on with his days, pushing the topic out of his mind, and this worked very well for a while.

Then dementors happened.


He reread the letter from the Ministry announcing his expulsion from Hogwarts. His hands were shaking with the force of his grip on the parchment. Somewhere, distantly, his aunt and uncle were talking, he thought; he could barely hear anything. His vision had narrowed to the contents of the letter.

Expelled. He was expelled. He would never return to Hogwarts.

His wand was in his pocket, soon to be snapped. He didn't even think about it, stepping over to one of the drawers in the kitchen. Everything was so very far away, right now. Harry reached into the drawer and closed his fingers around the handle of one of the knives inside, the one he had cut his hand on before; he wanted to... wanted…

He turned to look at Vernon when the man shouted his name. The knife was still in his hand, and there must have been something in Harry’s expression, because his uncle recoiled , paling, eyes wide and alarmed. He thinks I’m going to --

To cut him. To bring the knife up to his throat and slash , blood spraying out and spilling in great gouts onto the floor.

Harry shuddered with the force of his own, sudden want. His pulse was racing, excited, but when he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “I’m going to be leaving soon,” he said softly, but clearly. “I’ll be getting my things now.”

He walked past Vernon to get to the hall, the knife still in his grip, held tightly at his side, and when the man threw himself out of Harry’s path, Harry thought about what it would be like if he turned to him, if he raised the knife and stabbed its sharp point into his uncle’s bulging belly and dragged it through .

There would be so much blood if he did it. Everywhere. Even more than slitting his throat would have yielded. And -- it’d be on his hands, wouldn’t it, hot and dark, pooling on the floor. Harry could imagine it, the way it would stain his skin so red, and. And.

Someone was breathing heavily. Harry realized it was him. He let his imagination fade, turning away, and climbed the stairs to his room without a second glance at his relatives. He packed the essentials quickly, methodically, thinking about where he might go to hide. While he was retrieving food from under the loose floorboard, an owl arrived on the windowsill, and another, and Harry thought he might have been angrier about how this was playing out, if he didn’t have other things on his mind.

Some time later, he returned downstairs to inform the household of his change in plans, and a while after that, when the yelling was over and the Howler had finished its message, Harry sat on his bed with the knife in his hand, remembering what it could do.


His undefinable desire settled, for now.


(It would not be forever.)

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The knife stayed with him through the move to Grimmauld Place. In the excitement of the first day or so, Harry nearly forgot he had it, hidden away neatly in a pocket of his satchel, wrapped in clean rags he'd torn from an old shirt. It was the night before the trial, when he couldn't sleep no matter how much he tried to, that he rummaged around in the bag and found it again.

Harry unwrapped it, clutching it to his chest as he hid under the blankets; but daydreaming wasn't enough to calm him, this time. He couldn't focus well enough to imagine; should he use the knife? He sat up, and raised it to the crook of his elbow, where a thin silvery scar remained from the last time. From the ritual.

Revulsion shuddered through him, like ice water, and Harry nearly dropped the knife, shaking his head. He dragged himself out of bed and tiptoed into the hall, away from his sleeping friends, the rewrapped knife tucked into his pocket beside his wand.

The grandfather clock in the hallway read just after one a.m.; all the lights in the house were off. Harry made his way down the stairs, careful not to let the floors creak underfoot, and snuck into the dark, silent kitchen.

He whispered, "Kreacher?"

The ornery house-elf appeared a minute later with a pop, staring at him with bulbous eyes narrowed. "Harry Potter, summoning Kreacher in the middle of the night? Kreacher wonders what Harry Potter could want at such an hour..."

Harry sat down heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, running his palms over his thighs. "I need... I need some blood," he said in an undertone. "I don't care what kind, but fresh --"

Kreacher's eyes had gone wide, brightening; his face contorted into what could be considered a smile, in an abstract sense. "Kreacher is surprised, yes, pleasantly surprised." The elf drew nearer, peering up at Harry assessingly, and nodded to himself. "Harry Potter is asking Kreacher for blood, and perhaps... perhaps Kreacher can find some, if Harry Potter waits a few minutes..."

The elf disappeared without a sound, this time, and Harry glanced at the clock on the wall -- one-fifteen -- before leaning back in the chair to wait.

Minutes passed. Harry drummed his fingers on his legs. The anticipation was getting to him already -- how long was this supposed to take? Another glance at the clock -- one twenty-two. He swallowed, fidgeting, looking around the room while he waited. A few more minutes, he told himself, a few more minutes and you'll have it -- a whole jar's worth, maybe --

He realized he hadn't specified how much he needed. What if Kreacher only brought him a vial? Or what if... what if Kreacher brought more? A gallon... a cooking pot full of it... Harry shuddered, biting his lip, gripping the arms of the chair. What if it's a bathtub full?

That was an idea. A whole tub full of blood -- he could just, he could just get in, couldn't he, and feel it on his skin, all around him, all over him --

Beside him, on the table, there came the sound of heavy glass set down on wood. Harry turned, finding a long-necked bottle, corked, on the table. The lights in the kitchen began to produce a dim glow; just enough for him to see the dark liquid inside. Harry sucked in a soft gasp, pulling the bottle into his arms, and shuddered in delight to find it was still warm.

"Kreacher had not expected such a request from Harry Potter," muttered the house-elf under his breath, out of sight. "When Harry Potter needs more, he knows to ask Kreacher again..."

"What kind is it?" Harry found himself asking. It was obviously not unicorn blood, but it could be anything.

"Harry Potter says he does not care what kind of blood," Kreacher observed, "and now he asks Kreacher anyway..."

"Well?" Harry's gaze flickered between where Kreacher had appeared in the corner of the kitchen, and the cork at the neck of the bottle he was holding.

The elf let out a deranged little laugh. "Does Harry Potter want it to be something specific?"

...Did he? Harry uncorked the bottle, sticking his nose right over the top to breathe deeply of the rich coppery scent of its contents. He shifted in his seat, hastily corking it again.

"...Human," he whispered, lips barely moving.

"Then young master Potter gets what he wants," Kreacher said softly. "Kreacher is leaving young master to his own devices, now..."

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. He caressed the neck of the bottle, feeling the heat of the blood inside. He got up from the chair on unsteady legs, and made his way back upstairs, but not into the bedroom he was sharing with the others. Instead, he opened the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him, and, stripping down, got into the tub.

A single candle was more than enough to illuminate the bathroom for Harry's purposes. Fingers trembling in his excitement, he uncorked the bottle once again, and, tipping carefully, poured some out into his other palm.

"Oh," he breathed. The heat, the slow wet dripping of it down his hand, down his arm, it was perfect. He felt dizzy with it, sagging back against the porcelain. The sight of the blood on his skin was sending Harry's own blood southward; he could feel that warm, pleasant ache growing in his abdomen.

His mouth had gone dry. Harry licked his lips, thinking. What if I...?

Slowly, tentatively, Harry raised his bloody hand to his lips. He opened his mouth, just a little, and put the tip of his finger on his tongue.

Flavor bloomed instantly -- metallic, slightly sweet, a hint of salt -- over his tongue. Harry moaned around the fingertip, throwing his head back against the lip of the tub, and took the finger deeper, licking and sucking it clean. He did the same with the other fingers, one by one, and trailed his tongue down in between them, over his palm, down his arm --

He wanted more. Fumbling one-handed for the bottle, Harry popped the cork off with his thumb. He didn't care if it was wasted -- he upended the bottle over his neck and chest, feeling and hearing the blood pour down and over with little 'glug-glug-glug' sounds from the bottle. Warm, wet, and sticky, oh Merlin he loved it, the bottle was empty and it was all over him, sliding down and down.

He followed the red path with his fingers, finding small puddles of it left behind in the hollows of his collarbones, a sticky smear in his belly button that -- oh, fuck -- dribbled down lower when he jostled it. The muscles of his stomach flinched and twitched under his slippery touch, when he dared bring them lower; he quickly plunged wet fingers into his mouth again to stifle a moan.

Finally, he could wait no longer; Harry's toes curled against the bottom of the tub as he reached to take himself in hand. He closed his eyes, gripping lightly, then more firmly; with each slow stroke from base to tip, displaced blood trickled out of the way in thin, warm streams, down the outsides of his thighs and lower between his legs. He wanked faster, vague fantasies forming and collapsing with each ecstatic slide of his slickened palm.

What if someone caught me like this? came the thought deep in the haze of his arousal. He gasped, shuddering, back arching at the idea. He couldn't imagine any of his friends catching him at the moment, not Sirius or an Order member. The vague silhouette of a stranger, maybe, standing, looming, over the tub and watching --

"Nngh!" Harry bit his lip, thumbing the slit, and came in great spurts all over his stomach and chest. His limbs splayed out, exhausted, in the next moment; he lay there, chest heaving, in the afterglow, until his legs had stopped trembling and he could run the hot water to clean himself up.

Another hour later, he towelled off, pulling on a robe that had appeared on the door, and stumbled back to his room with his clothes bundled in his arms, the knife among them. He'd rinsed out the empty bottle and left it beside the tub.

He was asleep almost the minute his head hit the pillow.

Chapter Text

When he awoke some hours later, jarred out of a deeper sleep than he usually managed, Harry realized that he had forgotten to wash the blood out of his mouth. Its sweet metallic taste lingered pleasantly on his tongue, in the crease of his lips, between his teeth -- when he dragged himself out of bed, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, he saw, in the bathroom, the traces of red his indulgence left behind.

He regretted having to brush the evidence away.

Some time later, having washed up and made the daily attempt to comb his hair, Harry returned to the room he and Ron were using. Ron was, as usual for this time of day, unconscious, undisturbed, and sprawled over his own bed against the opposite wall. Harry turned to his bed, intending to neaten it up, and found the job already done; Mrs. Weasley must have done it when she laid out the freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt which sat at the foot of the bed.

But as he reached for the T-shirt, Harry's hand brushed against dark, silky fabric laying atop the Muggle wear: a set of robes, nearly invisible in the dim ray of sunshine that made it past the window drapes. Curious, Harry lifted up the robes instead; shiny buttons glittered when they caught the light. Underneath the more flowing outer layer of the robe was a pair of trousers and a button-up shirt, in black and dark grey, respectively, and a pair of long socks. He squinted at the floor by the foot of the bed and found a pair of shiny boots there.

The ensemble was nothing Harry owned, that was for sure. But it looked like it would fit him. Had... had Kreacher laid this out for him?

That was when he noticed the knife sitting on his pillow, its blade gleaming. Polished. Cleaned. Harry realized he had lost track of it sometime in the course of the night -- Kreacher had found it, then, and done Harry no small favor in returning it before any of the Order might have. Harry reviewed the set of robes laid out before him and felt the need to respond in kind.


It was as he was doing up the last of the complicated fastenings on the sleeves of his outer robe that Harry glanced over at Ron's still-sleeping silhouette in the morning light, and had the abrupt and nerve-wracking realization that if the hearing went badly, he wouldn't be joining the redhead at Hogwarts. The very idea of being kicked out -- wand snapped, magic taken from him -- sent a bolt of anger down Harry's spine that had him clenching his fist around the handle of the knife and stuffing it in his pocket. He would leave it behind when he went to the Ministry, but until then, it was staying where he could keep a hand on it, as needed.

Taking a deep breath, Harry made his way quietly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Muffled voices reached him through the wood of the door; unsure of their identity, he opened it, finding Ron's parents, Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks at the table. They looked up from their breakfasts, varying degrees of exhaustion obvious in their faces; Mrs. Weasley rose to her feet, brows jumping as she saw what he was wearing.

"Oh, Harry, you look lovely!" The Weasley matriarch bustled about, adjusting his robes. Harry flinched at the sensation of cold water on the back of his neck; she was attempting to comb down his hair. "Smartened up very nicely, dear!"

"Are those my old robes?" Sirius wondered, peering at Harry across the table. He grinned, looking years younger for the expression. "I s'pose it'll leave an impression, won't it?"

Mr. Weasley side-eyed Harry's godfather, murmuring something about 'making the right impression'. Sirius, if he heard the man, ignored him.

Tonks yanked a seat out from the table for Harry. It collided with the seat beside it, toppling it; Harry picked it up and then sat down beside her.

Immediately, before Mrs. Weasley could finish listing off the breakfast options, Kreacher popped into the room and laid a plate and silverware out in front of Harry. It was on significantly fancier china than the Order normally used for meals -- and bore a spread the likes of which Harry had only ever seen in magazines. Glistening green beans almondine; thin potato crisps that smelled fresh out of the oil; a scrambled egg with tomato mixed in; sauteed mushrooms in a rich sauce; and several dark slices of a coarse sausage that Harry immediately recognized as... black pudding.

His mouth watered at the scent wafting off the dish. Harry didn't even notice the curious looks he was getting from the others present; he lifted the silverware that had appeared beside the plate and cut a piece of the black pudding, bringing it up to his lips.

It was unfathomably delicious. Harry bit back an actual moan at the taste.

His eyes closed, briefly, in rapture. In that moment, Harry remembered what Kreacher had said in the night.

Young master gets what he wants.

And black pudding... was made with blood.

Harry had the most wonderful image for a moment of a place setting at a feast, with the goblet at his plate full of deep, rich blood, and repressed a delighted shiver.

Only after he'd polished off the last of the food on his plate did Harry look up and realize he was being stared at. Sirius looked vaguely envious; the others, just confused.

"I remember when we used to do full breakfasts," his godfather sighed, reaching for a piece of bland toast off Tonks' plate. "S'pose Kreacher is getting back at me by showing me how good I could have had it."

"I could... share next time?" Harry offered, insincerely.

Sirius snorted. "Eh, let him spoil you 'til he gets tired of it. Keep him distracted while we clean the rest of the house."

Harry shrugged, reaching for the glass of water that had just appeared by his empty plate. Around him, the adults resumed their conversation as if he weren't there, and not long after that, he and Mr. Weasley were departing for the Ministry.

Chapter Text

Frankly, Harry was glad they decided to use the Floo instead of going to the Ministry 'the Muggle way' as Mr. Weasley had apparently intended. (It occurred to Harry to wonder why that would be considered a smart move, when just days ago they had made a production of getting Harry out of Privet Drive.) He could only imagine what it would have been like trying to take the Tube into London with Ron's father -- they would probably have stopped several times just to admire the machinery.

Instead, owing in part to the likelihood of getting unwanted attention from Muggles while Harry was dressed in the robes Kreacher had tailored for him, they took the Floo. It was no less bothersome an experience as any other time; Harry stood up from where he'd fallen out onto the hearth, brushed the soot off his robes with no small embarrassment, and -- realized the knife was still in his pocket. He'd forgotten to leave it at Grimmauld Place.

He was... carrying a weapon into the Ministry of Magic. In his pocket.

Swearing loudly within the confines of his own thoughts, he let none of his reaction show on his face. Harry let Mr. Weasley guide him through security, wondering what would happen when they caught him with the knife the entire time -- but the golden rod the security wizard waved over him passed right by his pocket without reacting.

Either his pocket was somehow magical, or wizards didn't consider kitchen knives dangerous enough to raise any alarm. Harry rather doubted it was the former -- and given that wands exist, it would make sense not to be impressed by a knife.

Though it would be best not to question the weapons policy out loud.

So they went on to the lifts, Harry with both his hands in his pockets. Mr. Weasley explained about enchanted windows and animated flying memos and conversed with Kingsley Shacklebolt under his breath while they more loudly held a detached conversation about Ministry things; and Harry let it all wash over him without really listening, losing himself in the calming, repetitive slide of the pad of his finger over the flat of the blade.

Perkins, Mr. Weasley's coworker, met them midway down the corridor to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office to inform them of the schedule and location change for the hearing. Harry briefly wondered if they would have ended up being late to the hearing, had they arrived via Muggle transit -- when he wasn't internally panicking and rushing back to the lifts.

A man called Bode joined them on the way down, who stared unblinkingly at Harry once Mr. Weasley mentioned him. He stared, and stared, and Harry let his own gaze see through the eerie wizard, casting his thoughts back to the fantasy of slitting Uncle Vernon's throat -- and the much more vivid and enticing memory that followed, of the blood Kreacher had brought him just last night.

( Does Harry Potter want it to be something specific? The rush of warm metallic sweetness on his tongue. Licking his fingers clean of red. Human, he'd admitted in no more than a whisper. The burbling noise of the bottle emptying, the splash of heat over his chest and down. Then young master gets what he wants. Tickling trickles of blood down his thighs, the tension in those muscles as he got close --)

Mr. Weasley's urgent voice jolted him from the reminiscence. Harry took one last glance at Bode as they departed the lift.

The wizard winked.


Curiosity about Bode slipped from Harry's mind nearly as quickly as the blood had slipped through his fingers, once he opened the doors into Courtroom Ten. The room was all too familiar to him from the Pensieve memory he'd seen in Dumbledore's office less than a month ago, and less intimidating by its familiarity, he thought, or else he'd probably have been trembling when he took his seat in the chained chair before the plum-robed witches and wizards in assembly.

As the trial -- not a hearing, a trial, and no one had informed him of that -- went on, Harry grew more and more annoyed with the proceedings: pointed lines of questioning, being interrupted before he could explain anything, the stares he was getting from the assembly, having to crane his neck up to look at them at all. It was all such utter bollocks, and Fudge was the worst of it, Harry thought, flapping his jowls about. What if I slashed at them, though? came the considering thought. Jowls, or maybe forehead -- the blood would run down Fudge's flabby face, running along the creases like a stream between cobblestones. Weren't head wounds the ones that bled the most? Oh, yes, he could smash Fudge's skull with the handle of the knife, or just with his fist even, and watch red leak out --

Dumbledore chose that moment to sweep in like a whirlwind, turn Harry's situation around, and sweep out, all without looking at him. Harry couldn't find it in himself to be disappointed at the disinterest; he rose from the chair and left the courtroom when he was dismissed, feeling light on his feet and giddier than he had in days. He grinned at Mr. Weasley in the corridor outside, telling him the good news, and they walked together back to the Atrium so he could Floo to Grimmauld Place again.

Except Lucius Malfoy just had to be in the corridor to ruin Harry's good mood, didn't he? The annoying, pointy berk just had to open his mouth, as bothersome as his scrap of a son, and deliver taunting words to Harry's ears that didn't really parse.

Here, Harry thought, was someone he might particularly enjoy bleeding dry. If I slit your throat, Lucius, would you bleed as blue as you think you should?

From how Mr. Weasley's grip on his shoulder tightened, and the older Malfoy faltered, widened eyes betraying his alarm, Harry discerned he must have spoken that last thought aloud. He gave a slow, lazy blink, staring Lucius directly in the eyes, challenging. "Ah, pardon me," Harry murmured in a high, breathy voice. "Slip of the forked tongue, and all."

Soundlessly, the wizard mouthed, 'forked?'. Harry stared a moment longer, just to unnerve him, before breaking eye contact and continuing down the hallway at an easy pace.

Once out of earshot, Mr. Weasley asked in an undertone, "What on earth gave you the idea to say that, Harry?" He seemed the most overtly alarmed out of anyone so far, from his tone.

But Harry couldn't have explained it if he'd tried. Rather, lacking an answer, he just shrugged.

Chapter Text

A particular suite of rooms on the third floor of Malfoy Manor had lately resumed their occupancy by Lucius Malfoy's most feared houseguest. The Dark Lord had laid His claim upon the rooms since Lucius' grandfather controlled the estate; and Lucius had approached the doors to His study with fear ever since he was a child. The decade of their disuse had not changed this; indeed, the magnitude of Lucius' fear had doubled in the Dark Lord's absence and subequent return.

But it was a different emotion that the Malfoy patriarch now felt, standing shakily before the handsome wooden doors to the Dark Lord's office. The usual intimidation had not quite gone anywhere, per se, but become the background to a new and unwelcome unsettlement.

"Enter, Lucius," came the voice projected from within, and he did. The Dark Lord had changed the color of the study again since his last report: the walls were a deep red, now, uncharacteristic of His usual tastes.

“Have a seat, Lucius,” the Dark Lord gestured to a chair opposite His by the fire. “Tell me, how was the Ministry today?” Lucius recognized his lord’s good mood, and did as he was told, relaying the day’s progress with the Wizengamot and the Ministry’s internal restructuring and budget changes. But he faltered, having reached the Potter incident, and the atmosphere of the room shifted, less welcoming now. Lucius carefully kept from shivering at the change.

“Something has clearly left you unnerved, my servant,” the Dark Lord murmured, eyeing him with curiosity. “What has gotten so thoroughly under your skin?”

“Well, my lord,” Lucius began.


Voldemort listened with a growing interest as his follower explained what had happened. Harry Potter, making such a direct violent threat? He could not ever recall hearing such things about the Boy-Who-Lived before; and even the direct violence against him had been only in the moment. Never premeditated.

“Then he attempted to pass it off, my lord, as a ‘slip of the forked tongue’,” Lucius was saying, distressed, when there came a distinctive pattern of knocks on the door and one Broderick Bode slunk into the room still dressed in his Unspeakable robes, bending into a deep bow when the door closed. Voldemort held up a finger to forestall the rest of Lucius’ fussing over what Potter might have meant, and to his satisfaction, the blond shut up immediately. Then he gestured to his other servant to rise from his bow and join them at the fireplace, conjuring another chair.

“Bode,” the Dark Lord murmured in greeting, raising an eyebrow. “It has been some time since you made a report in person. I imagine it must be quite serious.” Bode had been, after all, one of his earliest spies among the Unspeakables, preceding even Augustus Rookwood; unfortunately, his oaths had taken much more strongly than to Augustus, and he had become largely useless of late, barring the occasional ‘gift’ of classified artifacts or notes. ‘Some time’ since his last visit was more accurately termed ‘several years’.

“Urgent, but it may not be quite so serious, my lord,” Bode amended in his low, sad voice. “I had a strange encounter at the Ministry on the way to my department, with the Boy Who Lived —”

"Did he threaten you too?" Lucius exclaimed. Voldemort threw a scathing glare at the blond for the interruption; Lucius quailed beneath his gaze, falling silent once more.

"I was not threatened," Bode answered, gaze unwavering from the Dark Lord's as he spoke. "But my lord recalls this servant’s heightened sense of smell?” Voldemort nodded. “Potter had… traces of blood on his breath. Human blood, my lord.” In the background, Lucius failed to stifle his shocked gasp. “There were no elements of vampirism in his scent; but his eyes were… odd, somehow. I could not piece together just what about them…”

“The memories, then.” Voldemort retrieved his basalt Pensieve from its place on the shelves, and his servants obeyed the order, pouring wisps of silver into the basin. The Dark Lord bade them wait while he perused the memories for himself.

Bode’s first: the Ministry lifts, brief greetings to Potter’s Weasley escort, and — how peculiar.

Voldemort was decades and kilometers removed from life on London’s streets, magical and otherwise; but he had not lost his keen eye for people. He had once been more than capable of determining the contents of a passerby’s pockets at a glance; and he still was, so he could say with certainty that —

“Potter had a knife in his pocket,” he informed the two wizards as he rose from the Pensieve. Lucius paled, no doubt realizing the legitimacy of the boy’s threat. (Did he notice, Voldemort wondered, that he had been standing within range of the blade, as well?)

He returned to the Pensieve to view the rest of the memories, then replay them; and it was on his third watch that Voldemort placed the source of the ‘oddity’ of which Bode had spoken, regarding Potter’s eyes.

Very briefly, in both encounters, the Boy-Who-Lived’s green irises had threaded through with a vibrant, almost luminescent red .