Chapter Text
Harry heard the whispers from beyond the veil: a chorus of soft, breathy pleas. Calling to him, beckoning him towards it. One repeated word.
Harry… Harry… Harry…
The seductive lure of death.
His nightmares brought him to the Department of Mysteries often. When Harry Potter had lost his godfather weeks ago, the closest thing to family he had ever known, he lost himself. The fire was extinguished, his fighting spirit was gone. The Boy Who Lived was a hollow shell of a person.
The whispers of death did not fill him with fear. They filled him with longing. Yet never in his dreams did Harry actually approach the dais with the promise that, should he pass through the veil, his suffering would end. That he would see Sirius again.
Until tonight.
Harry knew he was in a dream, yet he also knew that these were no ordinary nightmares. It was a dark and powerful magic that pulled at him, and Harry felt certain that if he passed through the tattered fabric before him in this state, he would never return to the land of the living. The Chosen One would simply never wake.
Harry took a deep, steadying breath before stepping forward. The old cloth danced against his skin, surprisingly soft, moving as though it were caught in a gentle breeze. But the air in the vast chamber was still.
The whispers became faster, almost excited as he approached.
Harry… Harry… Harry…
"Harry."
The last word was not from beyond the veil. It was a piercing, high-pitched voice which called to him from behind. A familiar voice. Harry turned to face him, fearless. One who has accepted death is afraid of nothing.
Lord Voldemort approached with purpose in his step. Dark, billowing robes and pale, bare feet, crimson eyes and snakelike features. Harry felt his lips twitch in a moment of ill-suited humor. How much time had he spent fearing this man? Running from him? He felt the need to do neither of those things now. A strange calm settled over Harry as he smiled at his prophesied enemy. Voldemort's red gaze narrowed, suspicious at the lack of concern.
"Step away from the veil, Harry," the Dark Lord said. It was an imposing tenor that surely would have demanded obedience elsewhere. But not now, not here.
Harry laughed."Why would I do that? Oh, because you would like to do the honors. Right." He held his arms out wide on either side of himself, smiling widely. "Well, what are you waiting for? If you think it will work, kill me. Strike down your mortal enemy in his dream."
Voldemort, however, did not pull his wand from his robes, nor did he make any other indication that he was going to strike. "I am not here to kill you, Harry Potter," he said quietly.
"That's a shame." Harry sighed. He turned to look back towards the veil.
A sudden, vice-like grip ensnared his forearm. In a movement that was so rapid his vision blurred, Harry's was pulled from the dais and he was flung backwards onto the stone floor. His elbow slammed into the ground, instantly causing his eyes to water and a hiss of pain to escape his lips.
Voldemort loomed over him. His eyes sang of blood and rage and… something else, something that Harry couldn't place, but which burned with such an intensity that he felt adrenaline explode in his veins.
That, in and of itself, was impressive, Harry realized. For weeks, he had felt nothing. For weeks, he had been empty, cold, numb.
He certainly felt something now. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat as the Dark Lord advanced on him.
"What—"
"I know what you are, Harry Potter,” Voldemort interrupted. His voice was icy and sharp, and his eyes gleamed. “Your life belongs to me. Death will never touch you."
Harry simply gaped for a moment. "What… What are you talking about?" he finally choked out, attempting to push himself to his feet. Before he could, an invisible force yanked him upwards, and he was suspended in midair, directly in front of the Dark Lord. His feet hovered inches off the ground and his hands were bound to his sides. Trapped. Harry struggled to move them as Voldemort, crimson gaze now level with his own, approached. He was practically prowling as he came nearer, and the look in his eyes was predatory as they roamed over Harry's entire body, finally settling on his scar. Harry swallowed hard. He felt extremely exposed at the way he was being examined.
Long, spidery fingers reached for his face, and though Harry tried desperately to turn his head to escape Voldemort's touch, that invisible force would not allow it. He waited for the pain, the horrible explosion of agony that would come from his scar at the physical contact—but it never came. Instead, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, Harry felt the hair on his forehead being brushed aside to reveal his scar to Voldemort's piercing stare more fully. A soft, feather-light touch.
There was a long pause in which neither of them said anything. The pounding of Harry's heart was so loud in his ears that he was certain the Dark Lord must hear it too. Finally, those blood-red eyes connected with his own again.
"The connection between us, our bond, is much deeper than I could have ever anticipated, Harry… But I know now..."
Harry felt a thrill of anticipation as Voldemort trailed his fingertips from his forehead down his cheek, over the contours of face towards his chin—but the wandless magic prevented Harry from jerking away from his touch.
"Know w-what?" Harry managed to say, and he felt his face burn in embarrassment at his own stuttering. Voldemort's thin lips curved into a smile.
Before Harry could say or do anything else, before he could feel anything other than the briefest moment of panic, Harry was filled with the strangest emotion.
Happiness.
Happiness, or something like it. Certainly the closest thing to joy that he had felt in weeks. It was impossible, it was absurd, but it was a genuine warmth that was flowing through him in gentle, light waves. Voldemort's smile widened.
"H-how are you doing that?" Harry gasped.
"Pain, pleasure, sorrow, joy…" Voldemort crooned. Harry might have shuddered if he could move at all. "You feel what I feel, Harry. My happiness is your happiness… and right now, having you here in my grasp and seeing with certainty what you are, I am, indeed, pleased…"
Voldemort moved his hand so that his thumb was ghosting over Harry's lower lip, almost touching it, his red eyes following the curve of his mouth like he found it fascinating. Harry's pulse was racing, anticipation and that sick sense of joy coiling in his chest like a serpent.
"What are you doing?" Harry breathed, lightheaded.
Voldemort leaned in closer, choosing to ignore Harry’s question. He was examining him so intently that Harry felt like he was under a microscope; never before had he felt so helpless and frightened and utterly confused. The glint in Voldemort’s eyes was panic-inducing. Hungry, crimson irises that seemed to sear straight into his soul. Why was the Dark Lord looking at him like that?
Harry was about to try and speak again, but the world suddenly shimmered, shifting slightly around them. The whispers from the veil went silent.
"You will wake soon," Voldemort said, the madness fading from his eyes. He spoke now in a detached voice. "But know this…"
He trailed his fingers along Harry's forehead again, this time tracing the lightning bolt scar as though it were a sacred mark. "I will come for you, my horcrux…"
Harry frowned; he had absolutely no idea what a horcrux was. Voldemort didn't offer an explanation. "I will come for you, and you will come to me, whether you wish to or not… because you are mine…"
The chamber shimmered and grew brighter, and Harry knew then that Voldemort was right—he was waking up. Right, because this was only a dream, none of this was real… Soon he would return to Privet Drive, back to his horrible, numbing existence with the Dursley's and no one and nothing to do but wallow in his own misery, completely alone…
Voldemort's gaze left his scar to stare into his eyes. The last words he repeated were laced with something that reminded Harry wildly of sympathy.
"I will come for you."