"William," Harry cried between moans and panting breaths.

The vampire in question rolled his eyes up to watch his mate writhe above him. Spike knelt on the floor of the train cabin between Harry's knees, tending to the Gryffindor's... needs.

"William... please... oh... I'm-" and then Harry was coming.

Sprike growled in approval as he swallowed his mate down. The brunette slumped back in the seat, eyes closed and chest heaving.

The demon and the soul both agreed unequivocally – their mate was the most beautiful thing they'd ever seen; flushed and mussed as he was.

Carefully Spike put his mate back together, fastening his pants and buckling his belt. Then he took the young man in his arms and settled back into the bench sideways with Harry sprawled across him, already asleep.

This last week had been glorious. He had taken his mate from the Great Hall to his own quarters after Fudge's failed coup and only released the brunette for classes.

Harry's need for sleep was increasing almost daily and it was good that the Christmas Holidays were starting today. So far his mate could pick and choose his nap times – to an extent – but that would change very, very soon.

Spike growled softly when the handle to their compartment jiggled but didn't open. They were sharing the train with all of the students returning home for Christmas and after four different groups of rowdy teens had stumbled into their compartment, the vampire had jammed the lock in frustration... much to Harry's amusement.

He rubbed his chin against his mate's silken curls and remembered Xander at Harry's age, big as an ox and clumsy as one too. At sixteen the Scooby had already been a head taller than Spike and he'd only gotten bigger. Harry might gripe about it but personally Spike liked his mate's small stature. The Gryffindor was all grace and beauty and innocence...

Lacing the fingers on his right hand with those on Harry's left he ran his thumb over delicate knuckles. A ring... his Little Lion needed a ring. Perhaps his mother's ring, or should it be something new?

Despite Gideon Malfoy's misdeeds, Spike's mother had instilled a healthy dose of family pride into her son but while part of him longed to see a Malfoy wedding band on his mate, another part of him wanted a symbol of their union as unique as his Harry.

The train began to slow but Spike stayed where he was. It would take at least thirty minutes for all of the children to clear out and then their Auror escort would come for them.

Buffy and the others were in the compartment across the aisle – a non-sun proof one – to help with any demonic trouble while the Aurors would handle the Wizards. Tightening his arms around his sleeping Lion he prayed nothing went wrong tomorrow.

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Twenty minutes to show time on Saturday, Spike stood behind Harry messaging the teen's shoulders as they went over the last few details with their new Public Relations person, a Mister Silvers. Lucius had contacted the Wizard first thing last Saturday morning and they'd been communicating by owl all week.

"Well Gentlemen, that's everything. The Press representatives have been made aware of what questions you are and are not willing to answer but remember the audience has no such restrictions on them. You don't have to answer their questions but think about it before you say 'no comment.' A few tidbits here and there will likely placate them and prevent them from hounding you."

Mister Silvers was looking at them both expectantly and Harry reluctantly nodded trying to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. A few tidbits his arse, from what he'd experienced they would just make up whatever they wanted regardless of what he and his mate said.

The graying man before them must have read the teen's thoughts for a positively blood-thirsty grin traveled across Silvers' face.

"Not to worry, my boy. There will be no repeat of that travesty you suffered during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. No one crosses Ignatius Silvers and goes on to write about it."

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As it turned out, Harry didn't need to worry about the press conference for the instant his butt settled in his chair on the platform – he was portkeyed away.

Intense nausea overrode all five of his senses to the point that he was sure he wouldn't even be able to tell if he were on fire at that particular moment.

After what seemed like an eternity he became aware of a worried voice calling to him.

"Mister Potter, are you all right? Mister Potter? I need you to answer me young man."

He became aware that whoever was calling to him was trying to pull Harry's hands away from his face.

"Blast it," the voice screeched, "if that Medi-Wizard isn't here in the next thirty seconds I will Crucio you all until your eyes bleed!"

Well that certainly didn't sound pleasant.

Slowly Harry allowed his hands to be pulled down and cautiously he opened his eyes. He was afraid to move his head so he got a good view of the stone paved floor and the puddle of spittle he must have produced while trying to avoid being desperately ill. Very, very close to that puddle were a pair of black velvet clad knees and for a moment the Gryffindor was saddened that such obviously expensive robes were about to be soaked in spit.

Then he looked up... into slit green pupils and a flattened, serpentine face.

"Voldemort," Harry sighed tiredly, "aren't you a bit early? We're not supposed to do this until at least the last month of school."

Voldemort laughed – not the usual evil chuckle or maniacal cackle, an actually amused laugh.

"Tut-tut, my boy. I do believe we are passed all that."

Harry quirked an eyebrow but didn't move; well, moving wasn't exactly an option with the violent nausea still tickling his tonsils. Hunched over in a chair in a center of a room filled with Death Eaters and the Dark Lord was not what he would call a tactically sound position but...

The Dark Lord in question ran gentle fingers down Harry's cheek making the brunette flinch, then freeze.

"It doesn't hurt," Harry said, wonderingly.

Now it was Voldemort's turn to quirk an eyebrow, or give the suggestion of a quirked eyebrow anyway – since he didn't have eyebrows anymore, "What doesn't hurt?"

"My scar."

Harry was dumbfounded; his scar had hurt off and on his entire life and almost constantly since the beginning of his fifth year. Voldemort's touch should have the teen writhing on the floor screaming... but it didn't.

"Ah, yes. Well there is a simple answer for that Harry. May I call you Harry?" The Dark Lord didn't wait for an answer, "Your scar no longer hurts because I no longer want you dead."

Snake-like eyes looked into Harry's own with expectation.

"When exactly did you come to that landmark decision, Tom?"

The Wizard clenched his jaw, "Please do not call that Harry, you know I do not like it." The look Voldemort gave him reminded the Gryffindor of Dumbledore on the few occasions the man had actually reprimanded him.

Somehow that similarity really creeped him out.

"My 'landmark decision,' as you call it, occurred when the announcement was made about your status as a Bearer. I had always known you were special, my boy, but Dumbledore's clever manipulations kept me from seeing precisely how you were special."

"You think he knew about me all along," Harry squeaked.

Voldemort gave him a pitying look, "Has there ever been anything the Headmaster didn't know about you Harry? With the exception of your little vampire friend, of course; well done with that by the way."

The Gryffindor ignored the reference to William, "But what about the Prophecy?"

With that question the Dark Lord gracefully stood, neatly avoiding the drool puddle, and with two quick flicks of his wand, banished the offending liquid and summoned a simple three legged stool upon which he promptly sat.

Harry, still uncomfortable with the man's proximity but unable to do anything about it, just frowned at him and waited.

"The Prohecy, I now believe, is either a clever forgery or a carefully edited, and therefore useless, version of a true prophecy."

"But... but why?"

"I assume you've read 'The Life of a Bearer' by Rowena Ravenclaw or perhaps 'The Bearer in Society' by Shandy Slytherin?"

"Both actually."

"Then I do believe you have your answer, Mister Potter."

Harry furrowed his brow as he mentally reviewed the contents of those books; how Bearer's were identified at birth, the test being mandatory for all males but especially for descendants of Bearers past, as he was. They were specially educated and trained because of their ability to attract the public eye and influence everything they were involved in...

"Power," Harry whispered finally. "Power and control."

"Exactly," Voldemort said, sounding a bit like a proud parent as he perched on his stool, legs crossed, delicately sipping tea that must have arrived when Harry was distracted. "Would you care for some tea?"

Harry focused on the delicate tea pot sitting innocently on a small tray table. He concentrated on the tiny black flowers forming a net pattern over the white porcelain. He couldn't decide if they were tulips or lilies...

The pot shattered, the shards shooting across the room and making several of the masked Death Eaters flinch. Harry realized he was breathing too fast but couldn't seem to stop. The tray table was shaking violently and dust began sprinkling down from the ceiling.

Harry heard Voldemort calling him but all he could see was Dumbledore's face, smiling with twinkling, lying eyes. "He knew," Harry gritted out, "he knew and he sent me to those... people!"

"Harry," Voldemort yelled but the teen was too caught up in his rage to notice. In fact he didn't notice much of anything until Voldemort thumped him sharply on the forehead – right on his scar.

"Owww," Harry screeched, rocking back in his chair and clutching both hands over his, now swollen, blemish. "What was that for?"

"Look around you Harry."

It was only then that the brunette saw the shattered porcelain, the splintered tray, and the Death Eaters gingerly picking themselves up off the rubble littered floor. He blinked.

"What happened?"

Voldemort gave a gentle smile that raised the hairs on the back of Harry's neck, "You happened, my dear boy. Your anger at Dumbledore's manipulations caused your magic to try to find a release for your pent up rage."

"Oh."

"You very well could have brought this castle down on top of us if I hadn't distracted you."

"Oh."

"I apologize for the pain I caused you, but I'm sure you'll agree it was quite necessary."

"Sure."

"Together we'll be able to tap all that raw power inside of you, my boy. Together we'll make Dumbledore pay for all his lies and manipulations, for all the pain he's caused us both."

"Excuse me? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about our future Harry. I'm talking about you joining me."

"You're kidding right?"

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If it weren't for Angel still having all the strength and speed of a true vampire then the British Magical Government would have been short one Minister of Magic. Spike was one of the strongest vampires alive and it was only Angel's connection to the blonde through their blood that allowed the taller man to stop the bloodbath Harry's kidnapping had sparked.

The two Aurors that had been unlucky enough to be standing between Spike and Fudge had not escaped the blonde's wrath. Angel had only just managed to divert the vampire from causing further deaths but it hadn't been easy and the brunette was much the worse for wear.

Spike was a Master in his own right and the Head of the Order of Aurelias, a position that came with its own mystical accoutrements; if the blonde's demon had not instinctively recognized Angel as 'Sire' then the brunette wouldn't have posed even the slightest challenge to Spike – he'd have been as dead as those Aurors.

Luckily the Minister had barricaded himself in a storage closet and the crowd had fled in screaming panic during Spike's initial attack. If the pompous little man wanted to live, he'd better stay there.

Angel was relieved to hear Spike's growls and snarls finally become quiet cursing; the demon receding enough to allow the more coherent soul to take control.

"Spike?"

The blonde threw a chair at the heavy door between him and his quarry, it shattered and the vampire just stood there panting unconsciously, his back to the other man.

"Spike?"

Slowly his former childe turned and Angel unconsciously took a step back.

Power rolled off the blonde – Angel couldn't believe how much. It was then, looking at the seductive violence of his demonic progeny that he had a stunning realization.

He had known that, contrary to popular belief, when a person became a vampire, they did not loose their soul. In the simplest terms, the soul was the power plant for the body; remove the power and you get a dead husk and if you changed the type of power you'd burn out the body in a mater of minutes. When a vampire inhabited a body it simply locked the soul away and used the demon's own energy to augment the human vessel; which makes the vessel stronger and faster than normal humans.

Spike hadn't actually gotten his soul 'back' when he'd completed the demonic trials in Africa, the soul had merely been released from its imprisonment and the demon prevented from entrapping it again. Granted, Angel had always thought Spike's demon hadn't done the best job of neutralizing the soul from the beginning anyway since the blonde had always had a tendency to display such maddeningly human traits at the most irritating times.

In Angel's case the Powers That Be had merely locked the demon away permanently and his soul continued to augment his body with the demonic energy allowing him to keep all of the vampire's strengths but none of its weaknesses.

Now looking at the blonde before him Angel saw something that he hadn't though possible. Instead of a soul and a demon in a single body struggling for dominance, there was now a single presence. Spike had merged the two parts of his being.

"We're going to find my mate," the blonde growled.

Eyes wide, Angel could only nod and follow Spike out of the building – into daylight.