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Chapter Text

Age: 4-5

The first time he left his body that he could remember, Harry was only four years old. One moment he was uncharacteristically and furiously angry at being slapped for burning breakfast, because it wasn’t his fault this time because Aunt Petunia had told him to bring the orange juice now and he’d done what she’d said but then the eggs burned. And the next moment… he was slithering on his belly through giant blades of grass in the middle of a forest of truly enormous trees, and the colours were all strange and washed out. He panicked of course. In his wild thrashing about he saw he had a tail, and his attempts to yell for help only emerged from his mouth as the softest of hisses. He was a snake. A small, brown snake.

There was only one logical conclusion. He was dreaming. He curled up and tried to close his eyes to sleep, but they wouldn’t close so he just slithered under a bush and waited to wake up on his cot in the cupboard under the stairs. If he’d gotten to choose what to dream, he would’ve liked to have been Batman. He wasn’t sure why he was having such a vivid dream about being a snake.

After what seemed like an endless eternity of doing nothing but watching leaves blow about on the breeze, he woke up. But he wasn’t in his sorry excuse for a bed in his cupboard. He was sitting at the breakfast table with the Dursleys, and they were looking at him so strangely – almost terrified – and there was a full plate of food in front of him bigger than Uncle Vernon’s portion. Steam wafted up from the freshly cooked fluffy scrambled eggs piled high on some lightly-browned toast, and the bacon looked crisp and inviting, and smelled delicious. His mouth watered with anticipation just thinking about getting to eat it.

He stared at the plate, and then stared at his relatives, waiting for the trick, for the threat. Because he never got that much food.

Dudley broke first, and with a whine said, “Can we eat now, Harry?”

And his mother gave a terrified glance at Harry, and with a brittle smile pleaded, “He meant please. If you’re ready.”

Harry smiled, and said, “Sure!” and started eating as fast as he could. He knew now what was going on. He was still dreaming, and it was the best dream ever because he had all the hot food he’d ever wanted, and the Dursleys were being nice to him, and that was worth slithering around as a snake for a while.

But as the day wore on, he didn’t wake up. He realised he was already awake. It had been tricky to tell, at first. The snake dream seemed just as vibrant and real as actually being awake – it was hard to tell the difference except that his eyes worked properly now.

He didn’t talk about what had happened. He knew the “M word” was banned, and Uncle Vernon never wanted to hear about any strange dreams. They didn’t talk about their strange behaviour either – the reason behind it remained a mystery to Harry.

After about a week of his relatives treating him with kid gloves, things went back to normal at Privet Drive.

Until the next time it happened.

-000-

Harry was five, and at school with Dudley in the playground. Dudley had just snatched away his drawing of a dinosaur he’d worked on all break, and ripped it into little pieces in front of him and stomped on the bits, while laughing at him and calling him a freak. At least he’d drawn his dinosaur without the wings that would have made it into a dragon – he knew better than to risk drawing that kind of attention from even the youngest of the Dursleys.

Usually placid and beaten-down in the face of bullying, Harry was tipped over the edge into rage when Dudley started taunting him about how Harry would never get his pictures put on the fridge like his mum did for Dudley, because Harry’s mum was dead, and Harry was a freak.

Suddenly Harry was a snake again, with a mouse stuck in his mouth and he couldn’t spit it out and he had to swallow it. It was really disgusting and weird as his jaw dislocated to fit it down and the mouse was wiggling, and then it was the best thing because it felt so gratifyingly warm as it went down his throat. Then he was full, so full like he never got to be at home. Not since after the last time he’d been a snake.

The sharp piercing cry of a hawk somewhere above the canopy sent him slithering into the undergrowth, though he didn’t feel especially quick about it with a mouse in his belly. He didn’t want to be eaten by a bird. What if he didn’t wake up? He found a fallen branch on the ground covered in moss, surrounded by ferns, and wiggled in between the ferns and the log to wait patiently to go back to his body. He wondered why he was a grey snake this time, and looked at his tail curiously. He wasn’t very good at reading yet – he knew the alphabet and a handful of words which was more than Dudley did – but thought maybe if he found a picture book of snakes in the school library he could try and find out what kind of snake he was. But “kind of grey-brown and boring looking” might not help much. His sense of smell was amazing. He could still smell the mouse, even though it was long since swallowed, and thought he could probably follow where it had run through the grass. It smelled delicious, and reminded him of the smell of roast beef – meaty and inviting. It was weird to feel like that about smelling a mouse. But he guessed it was sensible for a snake to like the smell of mice.

He wondered how you could tell if something was a dream. He couldn’t pinch himself – he had no hands! Maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was magic. Like in that fairytale that like Miss Jones told once during “Terrific Tale Time”, where the prince got turned into a swan. Maybe he was a prince. Maybe his father, the king, had insulted an old witch and so he got snatched away as a baby to live with the evil Dursleys and had to turn into a snake sometimes and he wouldn’t get to go home until his father apologised to the witch. It was a much nicer story than that they’d simply died in a car crash because his father had been drinking.

When he switched back to the real world he was sitting on a bench in the playground and there was a hand on his shoulder, and he hunched his shoulders and ducked his head in wary expectation of pain, but it never came. Dudley was standing in front of him, looking surly and upset.

He glanced up to see that Mr Ellis who taught the year four class was the one who had his hand on Harry’s shoulder. And even though he always took Dudley’s side, something seemed different this time.

He seemed to be halfway through talking to them both at the moment when Harry had switched back.

“…and I expect you to apologise to Harry immediately, young man. And if I see any more of this kind of behaviour it will be straight to the principal’s office for you.”

“Sorry,” muttered Dudley, and was permitted to run off to complain to Piers and anyone else who would listen about the unfairness of it all.

Mr Ellis squatted down on the ground so he could look Harry in the eyes. Harry watched him warily. “I can’t do anything about your placement this year, Harry,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll put in your request to be placed in a different class to Dudley for next year, okay? And of course I won’t tell your guardians since you asked – I understand you don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“Okay,” Harry said uncertainly. “Thank you, sir?”

With a kind smile, Mr Ellis patted him on the shoulder and walked off.

Harry realised then that the snake wasn’t him. Things happened while he was gone, that he didn’t make happen. He switched places with a magic snake. And the snake was smart and was his friend, who would look after him and his body while Harry was busy being a snake. The snake was really good at being Harry.

He found a new sketchpad of paper and a pencil sitting next to him on the slatted wooden bench. He started to draw a snake, with a great big smile to show how happy it was. Snakes were the best. Way better than dinosaurs.

Chapter Text

Age: 6-7

Over the next year Harry’s obsession with snakes blossomed. He started doing better in class at reading and writing, driven by his desire to read the library’s small selection of books about reptiles. Most of the teachers quietly agreed that being in a different class to Dudley was certainly helping him come out of his shell, and improving his behaviour too.

Harry’s Art teacher Miss Taylor was getting quite frustrated with the stubborn young boy’s obsession, however. “But don’t you want to make a lovely little vase for your aunt to put a posy of flowers in?”

Harry shook his head, and kept rolling a long piece of clay. “I’m making a snake. This one is going to be a cobra. They’re venomous, and have a hood. There aren’t any in Britain – they’re mostly found in Asia and southern Africa, and a few in America.”

“Harry, I know you love snakes, but you need to complete the task assigned, and that’s making a pot or vase. Look, Emily has made a lovely pot, and she’s planning to paint it with some violets when she does her glazing.”

“Flowers are boring,” he complained, starting to coil up his clay rope.

“You could paint some snakes on the pot,” the young teacher suggested in desperation, trying to haul this child back on track. She was soft-hearted and hating giving out time-outs or detentions, believing that kind talks and understanding solved all problems. “Wouldn’t it look nice with snakes on it? If you don’t want to make a vase, you could make a little pot for a toy snake to hide in.”

Harry paused. “Snakes like hiding. Would they like a pot?”

“They might! Don’t you think it would be a lovely present for a little snake?”

“Yes!” Harry beamed. “I can do that.”

“Marvellous! I’ll get you some new clay,” she said with a giant smile, noticing his regretful look at his half-finished cobra. “If there’s time at the end of class you can finish your cobra.”

Harry loved his new snake pot once it was done, and smuggled it carefully home inside his backpack – Aunt Petunia never saw it. He added it to a tiny shelf of treasures at the back of his cupboard, next to some pottery snakes. Drawings of snakes covered the walls and ceiling, and his favourite one was his best drawing of the snake he’d been last time he’d swapped bodies. In big green crayon letters under the drawing he’d written, “Thank you, snake freind!”

He waited and waited for another chance to be a snake, and for his life to get better while he was away. He wished for it, and dreamed about it, but it didn’t happen for the longest time.

Until one day the conditions were just right. Though he didn’t realise what had caused it until after it had happened, he had triggered the swap again – he got angry once more.

Aunt Petunia found out in passing from a school parent-teacher conference about how Harry was supposed to have given her a vase. She took the little snake pot (with a teeny tiny pottery snake hiding inside it) out of his cupboard, and she smashed it on the floor.

Then in the blink of an eye Harry was slithering off a road into some underbrush, happy as a little boy could dream of. He knew when he got back things would be better. They were last time. Maybe his aunt would be apologising to him, and giving him cake. It could happen! He spent his time as a snake studying what he looked like. The ground was quite wet, and eventually he found a puddle that he could see his reflection in. He couldn’t see very well at long distances, but close up his vision was quite good. He was a large snake over a metre long, with a creamy belly and a pattern of long dark brown stripes on his back. He hoped it would be distinctive enough to look up later! It was much better than being plain brown or grey. He wanted to know where his snake friend lived. He studied his pattern of scales carefully in the muddy mirror of water, trying to memorise it, and the details of his face.

When he came back to himself, he was in his cupboard, which disappointed him. Until he noticed the cardboard box half packed with his meagre belongings, including his broken snake pot. Which wasn’t broken. It was whole, fixed. But without even any marks to show where the breaks had been – better than gluing, even! It had been in a hundred shards on the floor – that it was whole again was both impossible and wondrous. Magical.

And there was a message for him. Written in pencil on his favourite drawing, underneath where it said “Thank you snake freind!” was a short response.

“You’re welcome, Harry. You are moving to a new room. If those pathetic Muggles attempt to alter this arrangement, you are to say to them, ‘Do you wish me to become angry again?’

No wizard-child should have to live as you do now. It is an abomination. I would do more to chastise them if I could, but your powers are limited.

Good luck,

Lord Voldemort”

Harry knew he’d have to look a couple of those harder words up in a dictionary later, but he was seven now, and got the general gist of the message. And it was clear now – he switched places when he was angry! But his snake friend thought it was because Harry was a young wizard, or the child of a wizard, not because he was a magic snake! But… he must be a magic snake. Snakes didn’t have names, and weren’t that smart. His magic snake friend was a fairy Lord. That was so cool. Maybe he was right. Maybe his dad had been a wizard! It couldn’t have been his mum. Boys were wizards. And if mum had been a sorceress, Aunt Petunia would surely be one too. And she obviously wasn’t. Unless she was a wicked stepsister?

After about twenty minutes spent in packing up and happy reflection, with his most precious picture taken down with extra care, Harry emerged out from his cupboard into the house. Aunt Petunia took one look at his happy smiling face full of hope for the future, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright, that’s enough games. Get back in your cupboard, and put your things away,” she said, trying to quash his joy.

Harry remembered his instructions. He would say the magic words the snake had given him. He’d practiced them quietly in the cupboard. “Do you wish me to become angry again?” he asked nervously.

His aunt twitched nervously, as she stuttered, “Wh-what?”

“I said, ‘Do you wish me to become angry again?’ ” Harry repeated, more firmly this time. “I want my new room. I was promised a new room.”

“You… you remember?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes?” Harry lied uncertainly. “A little bit more, every time. I want my new room.”

“Of course,” said his aunt, plastering on a smile. It looked a little like the one she wore when dealing with one of Dudley’s tantrums – desperate to please him and calm him down. “You’ll be in Duddy’s spare room. I haven’t finished moving his things out, though.”

“I can help with that,” said Harry.

“Whatever you want,” she promised.

And that set a new pattern for their relationship, from them on. Harry now had his own way of throwing a tantrum to get his way. He didn’t use it often, though. He had a room of his own now, and got to keep it even when Dudley cried and complained to his parents. Suddenly he got bigger portions of food at meal times, and dessert, just like Dudley did. He didn’t mind that they were still smaller, though. He felt full much faster than Dudley did, and besides, he didn’t want to end up the size of a baby hippopotamus.

-000-

It was only a month before the next switch. Dudley had been in a bad mood, and had pushed his way into Harry’s room and demanded “his” stuff back, even though there were only broken toys and books left in there. Dudley pushed him roughly and hauled back his pudgy clenched fist, and after a brief moment of intense terror triggered by being about to be punched in the face, Harry was the same snake again as last time.

He’d looked it up weeks ago, and was pretty sure it was a four-lined snake, a Mediterranean species native to Italy, Greece, and a few other countries stretching north into Europe, including Yugoslavia, Albania, and Bulgaria. He’d asked the school librarian for help, and she’d been happy to show him how an atlas worked.

Harry was fascinated to find himself halfway up a tree when he arrived in the snake’s body. He knew that the four-lined snake could climb, but it was still really exciting to actually do it! He slithered his way to a bird’s nest, and was busy swallowing an egg when he switched back. It had seemed only polite to look after Lord Voldemort’s snake body while he was gone. Lord Voldemort took good care of him, after all. He wanted to show he’d help him too.

When he came back, Harry’s arm was pointed at the wall where Dudley was stuck on the wall near the roof, as if he was held there by some invisible force, all spreadeagled on the wall like a fat lizard going for a climb who’d run into some superglue trap on the wall and found itself terrifyingly and mystifyingly stuck. Harry felt oddly tired, and blinked. Dudley crashed to the ground with a thud and a scream.

“You… you freak! It’s not funny!” he yelled. “Mum! Muuuum!! Harry stuck me to the wall and laughed at me! And I’m HURT!!”

He limped out of the room crying piteously for his mother, and Harry worried he’d get in trouble. But if anything, Dudley was the one who faced the consequences for that incident, being now totally banned from ever going in Harry’s room. His aunt and uncle seemed disinclined to enter as well, and Harry thought having to vacuum his own room and change the sheets on the bed every fortnight was a small price to pay for the luxury of privacy.

Harry searched his room carefully, but there was no new note from Lord Voldemort. He was disappointed, but guessed that he’d been too busy dealing with Dudley to write to him. He understood – there just hadn’t been time.

Chapter Text

Age: 8

Dudley still hadn’t completely learnt his lesson about bothering Harry, sadly. At least the teachers at St. Grogory’s Primary School kept them assigned to different classes in grade three as well, where they both did better, as Dudley had to actually work instead of copying Harry’s answers, and couldn’t bully him in class anymore. They both flourished, though Harry appreciated it more than Dudley did.

Dudley and Piers made a couple of new friends, Gordon and Malcolm, so Dudley was feeling braver about going after Harry again, though he was getting cunning enough to be more careful about making sure the teachers weren’t around.

Harry wished he could swap places with Lord Voldemort whenever he wanted, but it was harder than he thought it would be. Just being a bit scared or cross wasn’t enough, he had to be furiously angry, and even then it didn’t happen every time.

One time Dudley’s gang was chasing him, and Harry was running from them around the corner of one of the school buildings, irritated and a little bit scared but not angry enough. Wishing fiercely that Lord Voldemort would save him again. He wouldn’t be scared. He’d know what to do. He’d throw the bullies away with magic. Or get him up on the kitchen roof, where they couldn’t reach him. Harry closed his eyes and wished hard, and when he opened them a second later he was on the roof! If he’d swapped places it must have been super fast this time – Harry thought maybe he’d done magic all on his own! A moment of pure joyful elation filled him at the sight of Dudley’s perplexed face as he huffed around the corner.

-000-

When Dudley rounded the building with his cronies following, he was shocked to see Harry on top of a nearby roof, laughing at him triumphantly. But the embarrassment of being outrun and outsmarted somehow by his freak cousin wasn’t as bad as what happened next.

Harry’s laughter abruptly cut out like a switch had been flipped, and instead of continuing to gleefully point at him, Harry dropped his arm and looked around, then straightened up and smiled maliciously at Dudley.

“And what is it this time? Ahh, the young Mr Dursley yet again,” Harry said with a smooth drawl to his voice that made Dudley tremble with remembered fear. “Have you not yet learnt to leave your betters alone, Muggle? Do you wish to try taunting me again about being an ‘orphan freak no-one wants around’? Do you require another lesson in manners?”

Harry strode unconcernedly right to the edge of the roof, gazing down at the children below with a disturbing thin smile.

“So sorry to bother you,” babbled Dudley. “It was just a game and now we’ve found you we’ll be going. I won’t do it again!” He dragged his friends away over their protests. Once safely out of sight he explained how his crazy cousin had these moments where he’d snap and almost kill him, sometimes. This was one of them. He didn’t use the M word. Using the M word was worse than any other kind of swearing, and even his usually indulgent mother would wash his mouth out with soap if he talked about “magic”.

Out of sight, Harry jumped off the roof and floated lightly to the ground. Digging into his schoolbag he pulled out a sketchpad full of drawings of snakes, and flipped quickly to an empty page and began writing a note.

“Dear Harry,

I hope your idiot cousin will cease his attempts to harm you in future. However, Muggles are by and large brutish and stupid creatures who fear and despise their natural betters, such as you and I. Perhaps he may require future correction still before it penetrates his thick skull that you are his superior.

It would please me if you would acquire a diary in which we can correspond, as naturally I cannot easily write to you while in the body of a snake. Carry it with you always. Please record your observations of what triggers our souls to switch places. Is it an active spell or wish on your part, or triggered without conscious control in times of anger or stress?

Keep our correspondence in the utmost secrecy! Do not mention me to anyone.

Your friend,

Lord Voldemort”

Harry – Lord Voldemort – tucked the art sketchpad under his arm, hoisted his schoolbag back on his back, and returned out into the playground, gazing around curiously. He never had this freedom for long, but he cherished it while it lasted. Being a snake was very dull. It would be convenient to possess the boy permanently. But he’d found that sooner or later, and despite his best efforts to remain, his astral cord pulled him back to his own temporary snake host’s body like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far. A more permanent possession of a human host would no doubt require a ritual, with both their respective bodies touching while he cast the key anchoring spell. Unless he could get the boy to Bulgaria, it wasn’t an option. At least… not at the moment. Who knew what possibilities the future held? There were so many ways he could manipulate the boy, so young and trusting and mistreated by his pathetic Muggle guardians. A pawn might be useful, but it was a weak piece and easily defeated. A stronger and more capable young wizard would serve him better, whether it be as an ally, or a vessel. At the moment the boy’s magic was too easily exhausted, and his body too weak.

He jotted down a postscript for his letter to the boy.

“P.S. Train your magic. You must become stronger. Practice every day, and start by levitating small objects. It is simply a matter of will and focus. Concentrate!”

It might even be the factor limiting his length of stay. The Ministry’s weak laws against children practising magic were ridiculous. It was blatantly apparent that they merely feared the rise of wizards and witches capable of wandless magic. Wands were nothing but a tool with which to control the populace. Remove them, and you had prisoners, outcasts, and second-class citizens like the goblins. Wizards reduced to being no better than base Muggles or Squibs. Wands were a tool, and a powerful one, but the strongest wizards were always those who could seize the reins of magic without one. Even his accursed erstwhile foe Dumbledore knew that much.

-000-

Harry obediently carried his new “Snake Diary” everywhere. He’d swapped two of Dudley’s old toys for a blank diary Dudley had never written in, a relatively amicable exchange that Dudley was happy with. He plastered the cover with a collage of carefully glued on drawings of snakes, and a couple of photos of them cut out of old magazines. He didn’t find the latter very often so they were precious keepsakes, but after some serious consideration he decided it was worth the sacrifice to decorate his new diary properly.

He wrote a babbling happy greeting at the start, then got down to business carefully listing the times he thought they’d swapped places, and his theory about how he thought it was when he was really emotional that he swapped. He used to think it was just when he was angry, but the most recent time was when he was really, really happy. And the one before that he was scared. But it wasn’t enough to feel things just a little bit. It had to be a lot.

Harry had questions for his friend. (And it was so exciting to have a real friend at last!) Lots of questions. He tried not to write too many because he wanted Lord Voldemort to have plenty of time to read them and write an answer – they never swapped for long.

Why are you a Lord? Are you a fairy who is stuk as a snake?

Why are you diferent snakes? Are you a four-lined snake now?

Are you under a witches curs – am I under the same curs?

Did you know my dad? Was he a wizard? Is he stuk as a snake too and not realy dead?

Am I realy a wizard? Did you get me on to the roof at school or was that me?

Do you think I can turn in to a snake too all on my own?

What are Muggles? Muggles isn’t a word in the dictionary at school.

Can you help me get nice clothes like in Cinderella? Because kids at school larf at my clothing because they have holes in them. But I don’t want a dress like Cinderella. I mean boy clothes of course, like trousers and shirts.

He wasn’t sure if fairy snake lords really understood about clothes, so he’d decided that part needed a bit of further explanation so he didn’t accidentally end up with a ball gown and sparkly glass shoes. While he awaited his next switch, and hopefully some answers, he worked on his magic. He started with a scrap of tissue.

He practised diligently every day for over a month before he saw real results. There were a couple of moments of false triumph where he got excited for a moment before realising it was probably just his frustrated sighs wafting the tissue fragment about with his exhaled breaths. But finally, he got a quarter of a tissue to float directly up into the air with a gentle gesture of his raised hand, as if he was pulling it up with an invisible string. He wrote about it excitedly in his Snake Diary, and after that he practiced twice a day.

-000-

It was a moment of panicked fear that caused his next swap a few months later. One moment he was in the garden where he’d been sent out to work, staring with fear at the bed full of flowers that had been ravaged to a pathetic wasteland of dirt craters and dying plants with their roots exposed by some interloping stray dog digging holes (or possibly Dudley), sick with worry about what his aunt would say, and then… he was in an old barn.

A flick of his tongue caught the delicious scent-taste of mice somewhere in the area, and so he spent a happy hour hunting for one. It was still weird to eat while a snake, but he didn’t want to let his friend down. So the mouse went down his gullet head first. It took longer than he thought it would, and the mouse felt weird stuck halfway down his throat, his jaws agape with the squirming mouthful. It was a relief when it stopped wiggling, and it felt even better once it was properly swallowed and his jaw clicked back into place. He curled up in a little nook behind some kind of mechanical farming equipment, snug and well hidden in the few inches of space between it and the wall, his tongue flicking out to catch the weirdly intense smell-taste of oil and metal, patiently awaiting his return to humanity.

He got his own body back a couple of hours later, and he found himself sitting on his bed with a pen in his hand, and his Snake Diary open in front of him. The faint aftertaste of bacon in his mouth suggested Lord Voldemort had eaten breakfast while taking care of his body. He gazed eagerly at the responses his friend had squeezed into the gaps he’d left underneath his questions, in tiny running writing which took a lot of work to read. He’d also corrected Harry’s spelling, squeezing in extra letters which Harry found embarrassing. Next time he’d double-check things with a dictionary before writing in his diary.

Why are you a Lord? Are you a fairy who is stuck as a snake?
I am called a Lord due to my acknowledged Mastery of powerful magic. Titles among our kind are granted by our peers based on one’s level of power. I am the spirit of an immortal and powerful wizard, and not a fairy of any kind.

Why are you different snakes? Are you a four-lined snake now?
I can possess other animals, but snakes are the best. I must change my host regularly or it may perish. I am not always familiar with the species names of the snakes I possess.

Are you under a witche's curse – am I under the same curse?
I am not cursed, that I know of. It is possible our connection is due to a spell cast by your mother.

Did you know my dad? Was he a wizard? Is he stuck as a snake too and not really dead?
Your parents were a wizard and a witch, though your father was from a pure-blood (better) family, unlike your mother. You must be a diligent student of magic to compensate for your mother’s blood. You do not wish to be like your pathetic cousin, do you? Your parents are, regrettably, both dead. They are not snakes.

Am I really a wizard? Did you get me on to the roof at school or was that me?
You are really a wizard. I am not aware of how you got onto the roof. From your story in this diary, I would hazard that you spontaneously Apparated there. Wizards can travel places instantly with a thought (this is called Apparition), but it requires intense concentration. You don’t wish to leave part of your body behind when travelling so you must focus carefully on your goal.

Do you think I can turn in to a snake too all on my own?
In a way you already do! But yes, it is possible you may be able to transform into an animal when you are older. It may or may not be a snake.

What are Muggles? Muggles isn’t a word in the dictionary at school.
Muggles are ordinary people without any magic. They cannot cast spells, see the future, activate magical artefacts, brew potions, turn into animals, or perceive many types of magical creatures. They are lesser creatures than our people, and it is a travesty you must live with them instead of amongst your own kind.

I would recommend acquiring a dictionary for home use, as your spelling requires attention.

Can you help me get nice clothes like in Cinderella? Because kids at school larf laugh at my clothing because they have holes in them. But I don’t want a dress like Cinderella. I mean boy clothes of course, like trousers and shirts.
I have spoken with your aunt, and you should receive some new clothes within a week to replace those rags they’ve given you. No wonder you think yourself like Cinderella.

At the first blank page, there was an extra note from his friend.

Harry, I have written a letter to a magical bookshop ordering some books for you. You must acquire stamps for it (there should be some extra money in your pocket at the moment – hide it away), and post it in a Muggle postbox as soon as possible. An owl will arrive with a delivery of books at your window within a week after sending your letter. The books will presume you have a wand, but only the lazy and weak require one for the simplest of spells – a wand should be a tool, not a crutch.

Keep going with your studies, and I am sure you will become a great wizard. Perhaps one day when you are older you can help me, like I am helping you in your life right now.

I have cast two charms on your diary. One to make it harder for Muggles to notice it, and another to discourage them from taking it away from you if they overcome the first spell or it fades.

He would! He would help Lord Voldemort when he was old enough. Lord Voldemort was the best friend ever.

A week later his package arrived borne by an owl which hooted and tapped with its beak impatiently on his window. It bore a massive parcel that he couldn’t believe it could possibly carry. He thought it must be magic. When he took the parcel at first it felt light as a feather, but as soon as he untied it from the owl’s leg, it suddenly turned heavy. The unexpected increase in weight almost made him drop it, he was so startled.

Inside were some books. Four were about magic: Magical Theory for Beginners, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, Introduction to Occlumency, and Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed. And there were two, rather embarrassingly, about how to improve his handwriting: Mastering Copperplate: A Step-by-Step Guide for Young Wizards and Witches, and Vere Foster’s Copy Books: Lettering Plain and Ornamental. He knew how to write! But… only with a pencil. It seemed that wizards used quills. He’d have to find some nice big feathers – the wizarding guide to writing had a page on how to properly select and prepare flight feathers – and then cut a quill nib.

You might think with so many repeated lessons in how unwise it was to mistreat Harry that the Dursleys would have learnt to be nicer people. But they still gave him nothing but the most grudging and fearful concessions, and as many chores as they thought they could get away with. Harry had more food, and now more clothes. But he was sneered at, hated, and ignored more than ever before.

Stupid Muggles, Harry thought resentfully, as he wrestled wet laundry out of the washing machine. They’ll be sorry they were so mean to me when I know magic as good as Lord Voldemort does.

Chapter Text

Age: 10

At the age of ten Harry still didn’t have a single friend, apart from Lord Voldemort. The kids at school either thought he was that weird loner who loved snakes, or that terrifying crazy cousin of Dudley’s who was one bad day away from snapping and attacking them all. Some of them had seen it. Last year when his teacher had yelled at him and tried to give him a detention for doing some weird fancy writing again instead of proper running writing like everyone else was doing, her hair burst into flames for no reason. The principal explained later that it happened because she had used too much hairspray, and some stray electrical spark had set it ablaze, but Dudley trembled as he whispered the secret truth to the children near him – it had happened because of Harry. If you crossed him, bad things would happen to you. Strange things. Even the weird bookworms and the lonely new kids stayed well away from Harry after that. Anyone who would attack a teacher and could frighten “Big D” (the school’s biggest bully in more than one sense) was best avoided.

It was Dudley’s birthday, and Harry was busy frying up a massive pile of pancakes, bacon, and eggs for a special birthday breakfast for everyone to share, while Dudley got stuck into opening up his mountain of gifts. He whined about there not being as many as last year – typical. Harry barely got a quarter of the gifts that Dudley did, and his were almost always practical things like clothes and books. Last Christmas Harry had been briefly excited to see an enormous present waiting for him under the tree, but it had turned out to only be a large green blanket for his bed. They’d watched him a little nervously, but he hadn’t kicked up a fuss about it. He really had needed a new blanket – that winter had been a particularly cold one. And underneath the blanket was something very awesome – linen for his bed with a cobra snake print on it. He’d felt a brief surge of gratitude… before it was promptly squashed by resentment and envy as he watched Dudley ripping the shiny red wrapping paper off a brand new Apple computer, and his own new television for his room. Whatever. He didn’t need computers. He was going to be a wizard, and wizards didn’t care about electronics. Or parrots in cages – they had owls instead of stupid parrots like Dudley’s one he’d traded away. A snake would be a better pet than a bird, anyway. They could’ve gotten Harry a real snake for a pet instead of just pictures of them on sheets, but no. He was just the unwanted freak, as they reminded him as often as they dared. They’d stopped doing that lately, ever since he’d mastered two wandless spells at last. Wingardium Leviosa was the first, which was good for floating Aunt Petunia’s treasured fragile knick-knacks threateningly in the air. His second spell was the Stinging Hex, which didn’t hurt very much but was enough to remind his relatives of his potential - it had scared his cousin off trying to punch him no matter how much he was provoked. His uncle and aunt seemed much more subdued in their treatment of Harry these days too, through a combination of Lord Voldemort’s repeated “lessons in manners”, and Harry’s own burgeoning skills in wizardry. It was true that without a wand he could only do a few weak beginner spells, but it was enough to get him by for now. The Dursleys had learnt their place and treated him better, and Lord Voldemort was proud of him – one really couldn’t ask for anything better than that in life!

Dudley had a zoo outing planned for his birthday, which Harry of course wasn’t invited to. He was scheduled to stay with Mrs Figg, the crazy old cat lady whose house smelled like cabbage. But wonder of wonders, her leg was broken and no-one else was available to watch him, and the Dursleys didn’t dare leave him at home on his own (for the house’s sake more than Harry’s). It looked like he might get to go to the zoo if he was lucky or persuasive!

“I want to go to the zoo too,” Harry pleaded. “I won’t be a bother.”

Dudley was crying crocodile tears as he tantrumed about how he didn’t want Harry along. “I don’t want him t-t-to come! He always sp-poils everything!” he sobbed to his mother. “It’s my birthday, mum!”

 “We could leave him in the car if he agrees,” his Aunt Petunia suggested slowly. “He could listen to the radio or draw in his sketchbook.”

“That car’s new, he’s not sitting in it alone. What if he has one of his turns?” Uncle Vernon worried.

“If you take me to the zoo, you can leave me at the reptile house until it’s time to go,” suggested Harry optimistically. “I only really want to visit some real live snakes anyway. I won’t be a bother there at all. If you leave me in the car or at home, though, who knows what could happen…” he trailed off deliberately, with an evil little smile. Vernon’s angry beetroot red face showed the implicit threat had been understood, and the plan to leave him in the car was dropped. They’d learnt their lesson that sometimes inexplicable and frightening things happened when Harry was unhappy, even if he hadn’t had one of his “turns”. They still didn’t use the M word, but there was a tacit understanding about what was going on.

Half an hour later they hadn’t been able to come up with a plan to better Harry’s suggestion of leaving him at the reptile house, so Harry was sitting excitedly in the car with a backpack stuffed with his ever-present Snake Diary, a sketchpad and pencil set, and a generous packed lunch that he’d packed himself (since the Dursleys didn’t want to waste their precious time fetching him for lunch, nor the money to pay for his meal).

The reptile house was cool and dark, and Harry went around all the dimly lit windows and read up on most of the exhibits. He skipped the crocodile and the turtles though – they were boring. He wasn’t especially interested in lizards or frogs but read up on them anyway in a dutiful fashion because they were good snacks for a hungry snake and you didn’t want to accidentally eat a poisonous one. He’d studied them a little already and it was useful to see them live. Of course, it was the snakes he really wanted to see – you didn’t see them in the wild around the bland and manicured urban sprawl of Little Whinging, so this was his first and best chance to see a real snake. Well, a real snake that wasn’t himself.

A lot of the snakes were still and unmoving, but despite the fact that their eyes were open Harry knew that many were most likely sleeping – snakes didn’t have proper eyelids to close like mammals did. Those were the easiest to sketch so he did them first, carefully outlining his pictures in pencil before adding in the shading and detail. It was a little tricky in the dim light, but he did his best. He wondered how his friend was going, trying to possess his follower like he’d said he was planning to last time he’d written. He hoped it went well for him – he knew Lord Voldemort found it very dull being a snake most of the time, but he hadn’t had energy to try to possess something larger until recently. A volunteer was also much easier to possess than an unwilling victim, which should make a big difference.

Harry thought it would be weird if he switched bodies into another human instead of a snake. Lord Voldemort thought it was possible that they might not switch at all any more if his soul was anchored to a human body (even if it wasn’t really his to keep). They’d just have to wait and see – triggering a body swap still wasn’t under Harry’s conscious control, and relied on a genuine burst of strong emotion. On just one occasion so far Lord Voldemort seemed to be the one to trigger the swap. Once Harry had popped away from calmly eating breakfast and found himself in the body of a wounded snake being chased by a snarling dog with a snake bite on its leg. Fleeing at top speed through some long grass and into some bushes he had managed to hide safely from it, much to his pained relief. In his notes left in the Snake Diary, Lord Voldemort during his swap had tried to pre-emptively convince Harry that he’d been very angry at the dog, but Harry quietly suspected he’d been terrified of being eaten alive. He’d found it scary too.

While the swap was still triggered accidentally, they were both better at staying swapped for a longer or shorter period of time, however, if it was important to one of them to switch back later or earlier for some reason. Lord Voldemort said he thought it was because Harry had been getting much better control over his magic, and that it also might be because he had built his body up to a healthier state with a better diet and regular exercise. Harry was about an inch taller than Dudley, and a much healthier normally lean weight than his obese cousin.

An assistant curator for the reptile house stopped by at one point to make sure Harry wasn’t lost, so Harry explained that this was his meeting point where his family would come and find him, and he was just fine on his own until then. They had a nice little chat about some of the snake exhibits before the man left, quite satisfied that Harry would behave himself as a young but enthusiastic amateur herpetologist who knew better than to tap on the glass.

The king cobra was up and moving now, which was exciting to see! Harry grabbed his sketchpad and moved over to sit in front of its display, hoping to see its hood. But it didn’t seem agitated enough to display it. Most pictures in books had the hood flared out – which was due to the expansion of its ribs. But when it was just sliding around in its little enclosure behind glass its body was one smooth line of tan-brown scales – it looked surprisingly non-threatening!

“It’s a pity I can’t see your hood,” Harry said, not noticing the sibilant hissing sound of his voice as he spoke. “I’m sure it’s very impressive to see. But it is marvellous to get to see you all the same. You’re a very good climber, and bigger than I expected! Of course, I knew you’re the world’s longest venomous snake. Not counting magical varieties of serpents. I guess I just thought a zoo snake would be smaller, but you’re very large!”

“Yes, I am magnificent, aren’t I?” said a voice. Harry turned around, but there was no-one else within earshot of him in the reptile house.

“Do you still wish to admire my hood, Speaker?”

The voice was coming from the snake. “Lord Voldemort? Is that you?” Harry asked incredulously. Not because a snake had talked to him. But because he hadn’t ever expected to find his friend in a zoo!

“Who?”

A little discussion later, they’d determined that the snake’s name was “me” (not terribly helpful), and that it definitely wasn’t possessed by Lord Voldemort. And Harry had gotten a lovely sketch done of the king cobra hissing threateningly so he could admire its flared hood.

He got out his Snake Diary and wrote a quick excited note in it, “I talked with a king cobra and we could understand each other!” and shortly afterwards added an addendum to it, “I talked with many other snakes in the zoo, too!” He’d tested his ability worked on other snakes as well, including an inland taipan and a boa constrictor.

He felt so very thrilled about his discovery that he thought he might switch bodies with his friend but it didn’t seem to be quite enough happiness. Either that or he was blocked from swapping places. He sighed a little regretfully. He’d be happy for Lord Voldemort if his plan he’d written about to possess Mr Quirrell had worked, but it would be a shame to not be a snake again or swap places any longer. He hoped his friend was alright. He should find out soon – his Hogwarts letter was due any time now, and after that he’d get to see Mr Quirrell at Hogwarts. Lord Voldemort had promised that even if the possession didn’t work, his teacher would certainly be able to covertly pass messages between them at the very least, and would be a good ally for him at school.

-000-

The Dursleys wouldn’t let Harry have his Hogwarts letter at first. Uncle Vernon snatched it from his hand, and then he and his wife locked themselves in the kitchen to discuss the matter in private, while Harry and Dudley silently jostled to listen in at the door. With a couple of judiciously applied weak Stinging Hexes (he’d had to whisper the incantations and that made them less potent than a louder incantation), Harry got the prime spot at the keyhole, while Dudley had to content himself with lying on the floor to listen at the crack between the door and the floor.

“Vernon, what if he gets worse?” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering hesitant voice. “They’ll teach him even more magic… with a wand he’ll surely be twice as powerful. Maybe worse. But on the other hand… he might be so angry if he doesn’t get to go there…”

“We could ignore the letter. Rip it up. Send the boy to Stonewall High as planned,” muttered Uncle Vernon. “Keep him away from all that stuff. Keep him as normal as we can, like we have been. We’ll just tell him it was a mistake – the letter wasn’t even meant for him.”

“But he knows already… Remember how he yelled, ‘I want my Hogwarts letter!’ at you? And he hadn’t even looked at the letter yet, just the envelope. I thought for a minute he was going to have one of his turns, he looked so mad. How does he know, Vernon? You haven’t been telling him about any of it, have you?”

“Don’t be daft, pet! Of course not. It must be one of their kind, meeting with him in secret.”

“I’ve heard him muttering spells already, but I’ve never seen him meet with anyone. I thought maybe he’d found some old assignment or book of Lily’s, but I’ve looked and there’s nothing like that in the whole house. I think you’re probably right Vernon – he’s met someone and they’ve told him about it already, and he knows,” Aunt Petunia said, letting out a shuddering fearful sigh as she spoke. “And if we don’t send him he’ll tell someone - they’ll come here and insist he goes. Then he’ll end up there at Hogwarts anyway. You know what they’re like, Vernon. They don’t care about Muggles’ opinions on anything, or else the boy wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”

There was silence for a moment, then a grudging decision from Uncle Vernon. “Nothing for it, then. We may as well give him his letter. Cheer up, pet. Look on the bright side. At least he’ll be gone for most of the year.”

Aunt Petunia’s voice held a hint of hopefulness as she said, “They let them stay there at Christmas too, if they ask to.”

“See? It will all work out. And maybe he’ll find some other relatives amongst his kind who’ll take him in, and we’ll never have to see him again.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully. They don’t want me. Well, I don’t care, he thought with a mixture of truth and bitter resentment. I don’t like them either! And maybe I will find someone else to live with. Someone who wants me. A wizarding family, not stupid unappreciative Muggles.

They gave him his letter at dinner time, accompanied by his aunt’s grudging admission that Hogwarts was the best place for him.

“Your parents both went there. You’re a wizard, so you should go too, we decided. You want to go – so go. Don’t blame us if you meet a sticky end just like your parents, though. The magical world is dangerous, but if you want to go, well…” Harry had a feeling his aunt wanted to add “good riddance” to the end of her sentence but had thought better of it just in time. So, she just kind of trailed off and thrust his letter at him to read.

“He’s a wizard?” gaped Dudley, used to his parents more usual reticence on discussing anything to do with the M word. “So that’s what’s wrong with him. His parents were wizards too, then? I thought they were just ordinary people who died in a car crash. Could they do the things he does as well?”

Harry shrugged. “It wasn’t a car crash. They died from magical curses. They chose the wrong side. It was a war, and they were casualties. It was very unfortunate, but such things happen to people on both sides.”

He knew the truth. Lord Voldemort had explained it to him very honestly, lest someone else try and shock him with a “distorted and biased view of the facts” later on in life. He’d been angry at first that his friend was responsible for his parents’ deaths, but Lord Voldemort had written gentle and persuasive explanations about how it wasn’t personal and he’d tried to spare them, but Harry’s parents were trying to kill him at the time. But Lord Voldemort didn’t hate them for that, or blame Harry for how he’d ended up a disembodied spirit – he urged Harry not to feel guilty about something he had no control over (though Harry did feel a little newly guilty despite his friend’s kindly meant words). Lord Voldemort had explained that’s just what war was like – chaotic, with deaths and suffering on all sides, not all of it intentional or desired. He had never wanted to kill any wizards or witches – his war was meant to be with the Muggles, not his own kind. Harry had forgiven him quickly enough. He could never hate his best friend in the whole world, who’d done more than anyone else in his life to look after him. He’d apologised and atoned for his actions more than enough, in Harry’s opinion. And his cause was the righteous one – his parents had been a bit dumb about that.

Muggles were dangerous to wizards, and wizardkind must stand strong together and be ready for a war with them, like Voldemort had patiently explained. Everyone that Harry had ever known who’d even suspected that Harry was freakish in any way – family not excepted – had hated him and been frightened of him. He gazed bleakly off into the distance, remembering the Dursley’s constant punishments and their never-ending rejection and hatred, and the shunning at school.

He didn’t notice his aunt and uncle’s exchange of fearful looks over his head at his words and his subsequent distracted expression as he then immersed himself in his thoughts and his letter.

Albus Dumbledore. Hmph. Harry knew all about him – Lord Voldemort had warned him about how manipulative, hypocritical, and uncaring the old wizard was. He didn’t recognise the Deputy Headmistress’ name, though. All he knew is that she wasn’t one of his friend’s main followers.

“They say they’re awaiting my owl,” he said, looking up after finishing reading his letter. “But we don’t own one. How are we going to respond?”

Aunt Petunia’s face screwed up in distaste like she’d bitten into a lemon. “You don’t need an owl, and I’m certainly not buying one for you. There’s a normal postal address that will get mail to Hogwarts eventually. Our family wrote to Lily that way occasionally. You should know that I can’t take you shopping in Diagon Alley for your school things, I can’t even see the entrance. So you’ll have to tell them to send someone to help you, for I’m certainly not doing it.”

Harry’s acceptance letter was promptly mailed off to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry via the intermediary of the Muggle postal system. Then on the morning of the first of August, someone sent a giant to Privet Drive to escort him into the magical world.

Chapter Text

Age: 11

If Harry had ever doubted Lord Voldemort’s account of Harry’s fame, his reservations would have been instantly put to rest by the enthusiastic reception he received after the bartender in the Leaky Cauldron announced his identity for everyone in the pub to hear. He shook hands with the bartender, Doris Crockford (three times!), and Dedalus Diggle, along with a number of other people he’d never met and wasn’t interested in meeting, but whom seemed very interested in meeting him.

But then at last there was someone he was genuinely interested to be introduced to. A pale young man made his way forward, with a tiny shy smile on his face.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of yer teachers at Hogwarts.”

“D-delighted to meet you at last,” stammered Professor Quirrell. “I have heard all about you, Mr P-P-Potter. I look forward to t-teaching you this year. D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts.”

Harry grinned widely. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you too, sir. I hope you’ve been having a pleasant summer? Got everything done that you needed to, to be ready for the school year?”

Quirrell smiled broadly at him. “Y-yes thank you – all my m-most important j-jobs have been c-completed. I have only one or two extra items to p-pick up – thus my shopping expedition t-today.”

Harry really wanted to sit down and have a long chat with Quirrell, but the crowd of people pressing in on him were anxious to have their own celebrity encounter with the Boy Who Lived. Quirrell was elbowed aside by a woman with a large handbag who wanted to shake his hand too, and shrank timidly out of her way. Clearly any kind of private conversation would be impossible in this environment. It was another ten minutes before the crowd thinned enough that Hagrid felt they could make their escape.

“D-do see me again before you d-depart D-Diagon Alley, Mr Potter,” encouraged Quirrell.

“You could come shopping with us, Professor!” encouraged Harry.

“Yer Professor’s prob’ly a bit busy,” apologised Hagrid on his behalf.

“Not at all, not at all! I c-can’t stay all day, b-but I c-can spare an hour or so?” stammered Quirrell with a tentative smile that broadened to a cheerful grin when Hagrid agreed to him joining their party.

-000-

The mounds of shining coins in his Gringotts vault impressed Harry, but Quirrell – or perhaps to be more precise the Dark Lord wearing him like a suit of clothes – looked at Harry’s wealth with a frown.

“Is this all of it?” he snapped at the goblin, forgetting his stammer in his irritation. “There’s not much here.”

An unpleasant snarl twists the goblin’s face into something angry, “Are you accusing Gringotts of embezzlement, wizard?”

Quirrell subsided into meekness, stammering his apologies for the misunderstanding as he wrung his hands nervously. “I j-just thought,” he added, “that s-some of his parents’ things would be in here. Their wands and r-r-rings, at least. Furniture from P-Potter Cottage, or more money from its s-sale.”

“Dumbledore looked after yeh right, Harry. He sorted it all out after You-Know-Who…” Hagrid started, trailing off with an uncomfortable cough before continuing. “An’ everythin’ is in here, Harry – every Knut. Dunno what happened to yer mum and dad’s wands, though. I reckon maybe the Ministry took ‘em for evidence or summat like that.”

His friend seemed extremely interested in the You-Know-What that Hagrid collected from vault seven hundred and thirteen, though he affected an air of indifference. Hagrid wouldn’t tell Harry what it was though, he just exchanged a look with Quirrell and in a loud whisper explained that it was secret school business between him, Dumbledore, and a few of the teachers.

One wild cart-ride later they stood outside blinking in the sunlight, with Quirrell insisting Harry keep a careful hold of his golden vault key and his new sack of coins. Harry was dispatched to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions to buy Hogwarts robes, while Quirrell eagerly accompanied Hagrid back to the Leaky Cauldron for a pick-me-up drink, hands a-flutter with anticipation.

A pale-haired boy at the dressmaker’s seemed keen to make friends, chatting about wands and Quidditch. Harry was politely receptive and interested in getting to know another wizard his age.

“…Know what house you’ll be in yet?” the boy asked.

“I can’t imagine I’d go anywhere except Slytherin,” Harry said decisively.

The boy smiled in pleased agreement. “I’m sure I will be too, all our family have been. Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’d rather be at Hogwarts learning magic than not there at all! Hufflepuff would be good enough for other people, I guess. Some people should be loyal and hard-working – those are the house’s best traits and they’re pretty good ones. It just wouldn’t suit me. It’s the house of ambition, the house of snakes for me. Do you like snakes?”

“Sure, I don’t mind them,” the boy answered. “There’s some on our family crest. Dragons are my favourite animal, though. Father took me to the reserve in Wales last year to see some Welsh Greens, have you been there?”

“No,” Harry said shortly.

The boy looked at him a little oddly in response to his snippy tone. “Your parents… they are our kind, aren’t they?”

“They were – a witch and a wizard if that’s what you mean. They died in the war, and so someone sent me to live with Muggles. So the only dragon I’ve ever seen is the one I just glimpsed down below Gringotts.”

“Muggles!” the boy cried, horrified.

“The worst kind,” Harry said, his mouth screwing up with distaste. “I live with my aunt and uncle – my mother was a Muggle-born. My father was pure-blood, however. They’re hoping I’ll find wizarding relatives to stay with now I’m mixing in wizarding society, though.”

“I’m sure you can find some,” he said, sympathy evident in his voice. “I can help you there – I know all the best families. What’s your surname? I’m Draco Malfoy, by the way.”

“Are you really? I’ve heard of your family,” Harry said, pleased to meet someone from a family who’d loyally supported Voldemort right to the end. Draco puffed up proudly at the recognition. “I’m Harry Potter.”

Draco’s jaw gaped before closing with an audible snap as he gathered himself together. His eyes flicked up to Harry’s fringe-covered forehead, and Harry pushed the hair aside so he – like the gawkers in the Leaky Cauldron – could see the brand of his fame.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Potter.”

“Harry is fine, if we’re going to be friends?” Harry asked tentatively.

“I… yes, I’m sure father would… You wanted to be in Slytherin, right? I’d be happy to be friends.” He finished his broken sentence with a smile, and more certainty than he’d started it with.

“That’s you done, my dear,” said Madam Malkin, before Harry could answer, so he hopped down from the footstool. Looking around he didn’t see any sign of either of the adults who had been escorting him, so he settled down in a plush butter-yellow sofa chair to await their return.

“Sorry about that, I was just a bit surprised,” Draco apologised. “You’re not what I expected. Have you got your wand yet? You could join me if you like – my mother should be back soon. Say, who’s showing you around? Not the Muggles, I hope? No offence.”

“None taken,” Harry said with an easy shrug. “They certainly didn’t want to come here, and I didn’t want them tagging along, so that works out well for all of us. Hagrid has been taking me around Diagon Alley – he’s the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. And Professor Quirrell has been helping – he’s awesome! Don’t mind the stutter – he’s going to be great at teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, just wait and see. You’ll want to be polite to him and get on his good side.”

Draco nodded in understanding. “Yes, you certainly don’t want to get on a teacher’s black list before classes even start. Very cunning,” he said approvingly.

Harry thought that grades would be secondary to unknowingly offending Lord Voldemort, but any explanation that elicited courteous behaviour would suffice. He knew he wasn’t allowed to gossip about his friend’s possession of Professor Quirrell.

Narcissa Malfoy returned for her son before Hagrid or Quirrell reappeared, and after a quick whispered conversation with her son and a few assessing looks in Harry’s direction, she invited Harry to join them in a trip to Ollivander’s – wizarding Britain’s premier (though not only) wand shop.

“Madam Malkin, if Professor Quirrell or Mr Hagrid come looking for me, could you let them know I’ve gone to Ollivander’s please?” Harry asked politely. The lady in question was happy to agree to pass on the message.

“And after that, I think a break for ice-cream at Fortescue’s might be in order, so you boys can get better acquainted,” Narcissa added with a smile. “So your tardy escorts can catch us up there.”

-000-

Harry turned his new holly and phoenix feather wand over in his hands admiringly as Mr Ollivander told him about its brother. It seemed very fitting.

“…I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope I shall do great things too.”

“Do you not know that he killed your parents?” Draco asked, brow crinkled in confusion.

“Draco!” his mother cried, appalled by his bluntness. “I’m so sorry, Harry.” She nudged her son in the side.

“Uh, sorry,” mumbled Draco. “I just thought maybe you didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Harry replied, with an uncomfortable shrug. “I don’t remember them. It was a war, such things happened on both sides, I’m sure. I’m not angry at anyone, just like I’m not angry at whatever German soldier it was that killed my mother’s Muggle grandfather in the second World War. You have to forgive things sometimes, and I’m trying to. I’m just sorry it meant I ended up with the Dursleys.”

He startled at the unaccustomed touch of a gentle arm around his shoulders, and looked up to see Narcissa smiling at him, though tears glistened unshed in her eyes.

“Don’t worry Harry. You’re among your own kind now,” she said softly, pulling him into a hug. “You’ll be safe with us.”

Harry knew who his true enemy was. It wasn’t the war leader whom his parents had fought against, sad though that loss was. His enemy was the person who’d dumped him with relatives who’d mistreated him instead of treasured him, and who’d never bothered to check on him. Not even once. It was the man who’d let them deprive him of food and clothing (until bullied into doing otherwise) and who didn’t notice or didn’t care that his relatives preferred to treat him as a slave rather than as a son. His enemy was the same as his Lord’s – it was Albus Dumbledore, the betrayer and slayer of Lord Grindelwald, and the nemesis of Lord Voldemort.

Quirrell and Hagrid found them at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour eventually, where Mrs Malfoy alternated eating dainty spoonfuls of honey & cinnamon ice cream and asking Harry politely probing questions about his current living situation and his hopes for Hogwarts.

At one point Harry froze up briefly while eating. From Mrs Malfoy’s point of view it looked like Harry had lost his train of thought as an oddly triumphant look briefly crossed his face.

“Harry? I was wondering what those Muggles of yours told you about magic,” she repeated, with her best charming smile.

Harry looked around briefly, taking in his company and the melting raspberry ice cream sundae in front of him in one quick assessing glance. “More than they wanted to, and less than they should have,” Harry said smoothly, stilling his expression into a calm mask with an ease Mrs Malfoy would’ve thought came only with years of practice. He dodged the next few questions like he knew she was fishing for information, though he did seem willing to share his distaste for his guardians reasonably openly.

“You must be looking forward to going to Hogwarts then,” she prompted.

He looked oddly thoughtful at that, steepling his fingers under his chin as he gazed at her in a gesture she found eerily reminiscent of someone long lost to the wizarding world. It made her shiver despite the warm summer air.

“Hmm. You know, please do avoid informing Hagrid or the Headmaster at this early date, but I think I might also look at Durmstrang before I make a final decision. It is best to keep one’s options open.”

“I want to go to Durmstrang too, father says it’s the best,” Draco complained to his mother.

“A fine idea worth further consideration,” agreed Harry, over Mrs Malfoy’s protests that their choice of Hogwarts was quite a settled thing.

“Ah, here they are, excellent,” Harry said in a satisfied tone as he saw Quirrell hove into view with a cheerful smile, followed by Hagrid who had somewhat of an unsteady gait as he lumbered along.

As Harry and Quirrell’s eyes met his teacher paused momentarily in his stride, and the two wizards blinked in unison. Then Quirrell’s expression smoothed out into something blander, while Harry smiled cheerfully.

“I h-hope you had a nice t-t-time eating ice cream and t-talking about your f-family and Hogwarts with some new friends?” Quirrell asked quickly.

“Yes, sir. Did the two of you decide it was time to finish up my shopping?” Harry said, with his eyes widened meaningfully as he looked at his friend. “It’s lucky you found me again so fast.” Now he was back in his own body again after a brief sojourn in Quirrell’s, he followed his friend’s lead in quickly acquainting each other with what they’d been up to, since there’d been no opportunity for either of them to discreetly leave notes.

Hagrid was looking at Mrs Malfoy woozily with a furrowed brow as if trying to remember who she was, and she and Draco excused themselves after extracting a promise from Harry to write. Harry promised he would, though he didn’t know how.

“Well I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present,” Hagrid mused as the family of two Apparated home. “I’ll get yer animal. Owls are dead useful, carry yer post an’ everythin’, they will.”

“Well, that sounds nice, but I was hoping for another pet animal, if they were allowed?” Harry said, glancing between the two adults with a pleading expression.

“Yeh could have a cat if yeh really want, but toads went outta fashion years ago,” Hagrid said doubtfully. “D’yeh want a cat?”

“An owl would be an excellent choice to promote your c-c-correspondence,” Quirrell said, remembering his stammer by the end of the sentence, as he patted his robe pocket with a distracted and satisfied air. “Let’s g-g-get you an owl, then f-finish your shopping as quickly as p-p-possible, shall we?”

“Alright Professor, if you think an owl is best,” Harry agreed obediently. He’d really wanted a snake, but the Hogwarts list was both specific and highly limited. Snakes probably weren’t allowed, and he certainly couldn’t trust the Dursleys to look after one while he was away at school.

After ten minutes of browsing in Eeylops Owl Emporium Harry left the store as the proud owner of a beautiful snowy owl in a large cage.

They went to Flourish and Blotts next to collect his textbooks, where Quirrell made a birthday gift of his own of a book Harry had been eyeing while browsing the shelves – Curses and Counter-Curses (Bewitch your Friends and Befuddle your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and much, much more) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

The remaining items were gathered without much fanfare – including his cauldron, scales, telescope, and a selection of potions ingredients. Then it was time to farewell his friend, which Harry was reluctant to do even though he knew he’d see him again in another month.

Hagrid was going to send him home on the train, which Harry thought was wise given he looked too unsteady to be driving a car or Apparating. Quirrell wasn’t helping matters either - he seemed keen to buy Hagrid a “little something” from the barkeep before they left, and Hagrid accepted a bottle of golden-coloured alcohol in a paper bag with a murmur of thanks to his Hogwarts colleague.

“Ogden’s f-finest,” whispered Quirrell conspiratorially. “You d-deserve a little extra nip of something after s-such a long day.”

“I s’ppose I do!” Hagrid agreed cheerfully.

“Well… I guess I’ll see you both later,” Harry said slowly, dragging his feet in the Leaky Cauldron in the vague direction of the door to Muggle London.

“See you later, Harry,” farewelled Quirrell, waving farewell and settling down at a table in the inn with a bland air of indifference that Harry found frustrating, even though he knew his friend couldn’t act like they knew each other well.

“I’ll help yeh with yer trunk, Harry,” Hagrid said, escorting him all the way to the train station with overly careful steps.

Harry moped for the first part of the quiet train ride home on his own, ignoring the stares of the ignorant Muggles who looked curiously at his new owl. Eventually he shook off his attitude and got out his Snake Diary to update it with his experiences in Professor Quirrell’s body drinking in the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid and being thanked for buying him so many drinks. It hadn’t been particularly exciting apart from the novelty of being a grown-up – Harry thought he would rather have been a snake. He’d been curious to try the “Firewhisky”, but despite its golden appearance it had tasted exactly like water which frankly had been a little disappointing.

The fact that he suspected it was Lord Voldemort who’d triggered the swap rather than Harry himself was unusual, however. This was only the second time that had happened, and he hadn’t been able to spot any dangerous or frightening situation or anything that he suspected had been the cause. He thought they had both been too calm to cause them to switch places and speculated about meeting each other in person being a possible factor in influencing things.

Even if I have to go back to the Dursleys, it’s only for a month. It has still been an absolutely fantastic day, he reminded himself sternly, trying to drag himself up out of his disappointment at having to leave the wizarding world and not getting to talk more with Lord Voldemort. And Mrs Malfoy hinted she’d help me find a new home, so that’s a possibility to look forward to.

Ignoring the other train passengers resolutely, Harry spent the rest of the trip reading through Curses and Counter-Curses.

When he reached home at last he was a bedraggled mess as he’d puffed and panted carrying his trunk and his caged owl all the way down the streets from the train station to Privet Drive. He didn’t have money for a taxi and he cursed quietly the whole way home that Hagrid had left him to his own devices after putting him on the train in London. Not being able to carry both things at once, he quickly devised a method of alternating which item to carry. He staggered a distance down the footpath with his trunk in both hands, then he put it down and doubled back for his owl cage, then put that down on the ground next to his trunk. He repeated the process the whole way home, swapping which item to leapfrog forwards at a time. There were too many people and cars passing by to risk using magic even if it had been legal, and he wasn’t confident about wandlessly levitating something as big as his trunk even under the best of conditions.

The Dursleys were waiting up for him with the lights on when he got home at last. He entered with a stubborn scowl, braced for their biting reprimands. But they didn’t come, for his aunt and uncle were busy with a visitor - Professor Quirrell.

Harry’s scowl fell off his face and an amazed grin dawned in its place.

“Your Professor will be taking you off our hands,” Aunt Petunia said abruptly. “I’m told you’re acquainted. We’ve signed custody over to him so he can represent you at school – it seems to be some kind of new policy for those without living wizarding relatives.”

“Purely a f-formality,” Professor Quirrell stuttered, smiling at Harry. “If th-that’s alright with you of course, Mr Potter? Now, go and pack up. Orientation month starts tomorrow.”

“Really?” Harry said, disbelievingly. “We’re just… going now? Not in September?”

“Yes, yes. It’s a n-new initiative for the Muggle-raised. Do be quiet and h-hurry up,” Quirrell said, flapping his hands in a dismissive wave for Harry to get a move on.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” his uncle said cheerfully as Harry slowly dragged his trunk upstairs. “Best get you packed as quickly as we can, hey boy?”

Harry came downstairs with his possessions packed into his new trunk and a large black suitcase of Uncle Vernon’s, with twenty pounds for a taxi tucked in his pocket courtesy of his remarkably jovial uncle.

His owl – still in her cage on the floor – hooted insistently at him as if reminding him not to leave her behind.

“Don’t worry, you’re coming too, Hedwig,” he promised. Professor Quirrell took his trunk in both arms, leaving the suitcase on wheels and the birdcage for Harry to take out to the footpath where a taxi awaited them.

His aunt unhesitatingly closed the door behind him as they walked to the footpath, not bothering to wave goodbye.

“Won’t someone ask questions?” Harry asked tentatively. “And where are we going?”

“I didn’t use any magic, so there’s nothing for the Ministry to spot. They won’t be eager to talk to the Muggle authorities either, with the bribe I gave them,” said Quirrell. “Besides, I’ll have a follower tidy up after me later with an Obliviate or two once we’re well away from here.” He shrugged unconcernedly.

“You and I, my new ward, are off to the Continent to explain to my old friend Igor Karkaroff why he’d be delighted to accept you as a new student at Durmstrang. He’s the Headmaster there.”

“But I thought you’d be teaching at Hogwarts?” Harry asked tentatively as they wrestled Harry’s luggage into the taxi’s boot.

“Thanks to that oaf’s drunken habits that I was happy to indulge to excess, and my rather nimble fingers that thankfully haven’t lost the tricks I learnt in childhood, I have already acquired everything that I desired from my planned attendance at Hogwarts. I think it’s best to be long gone before its absence is noticed.”

With a covert glance around to be sure they were unobserved, Quirrell reached into a pocket and drew out a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper tied with string. He peeled back a little corner of the paper to expose a large red gem that glinted in the street light.

“A ruby?” Harry guessed.

“Much more precious than that,” Quirrell said, tucking it back away again with a mysterious smile.

“Heathrow Airport,” he ordered the driver, as they got into the taxi and buckled up their seatbelts.

“I don’t really take pets…” the taxi driver said dubiously, looking at the owl cage they’d strapped into the front seat next to him.

“I’d wager you might for an extra fifty pound tip,” Quirrell said with a bored drawl.

“Quite right you are, guv’nor!” the man agreed cheerily, moving out into traffic. “I’m sure it’ll be no trouble at all in that cage. Exceptions can be made for what is clearly a companion animal.”

“I don’t have a passport,” Harry whispered.

“Easily fixed with the right spell and a lot of concentration,” Quirrell whispered back, keeping his wand down low and out of the driver’s sight should he happen to glance in the rearview mirror. A passport appeared out of thin air in Harry’s hand with the tap of a wand and some whispered mangled Latin.

“It’s blank,” Harry said, peeking inside.

“Well you need a new name. I thought perhaps Henry James Riddle?”

Harry thought about it. Harry was a nickname people sometimes used for someone called Henry, so that worked and wouldn’t be a problem if he slipped up. James stayed the same – in memory of his pure-blood father, of course. “Why Riddle? Because it’s mysterious?” he asked in a whisper.

“No. It’s because it’s my real name. I keep my birth name secret. Tom Marvolo Riddle.” With a tap of his wand the letters of his name appeared on the blank pages of Harry’s newly forged passport, then rearranged themselves magically into a new sentence.

“I am Lord Voldemort,” Harry whispered gleefully as he read it aloud. “That’s cool!”

“I thought so when I made it up,” Quirrell said. “I was still quite young at the time, of course.”

“So I get to share your name?”

“Well, you’re going to be my son. It seemed fitting.”

Harry hugged his new father. “I am? I’m so glad! I’d hoped… but I didn’t want to bother you. So we’re really going to Durmstrang?”

“Yes, it will be a much better school for you, and safer too. The school year in Norway runs from mid-August to late June the following year. We shall have a couple of weeks to sort matters out to our satisfaction.”

“It’s a shame I’ll miss seeing Draco again, but I think you’re right. I’m sure it’s a better choice, if a friend of yours runs the school.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll see to it that Lucius and Narcissa send their son to Durmstrang as well. Perhaps a couple more fitting children from other families to be your loyal companions. We want you to have suitable friends.”

“You’re going to be the best father ever!” vowed Harry, his eyes wide with excitement.

Voldemort smiled. He rather hoped he would be. And if the prophecy explained their entangled souls as being a problem, or the boy ever turned against him despite being showered with attention? Well… he wouldn’t be hard to locate and deal with should it come to the worst. But he hoped it wouldn’t. He was a good lad – loyal and intelligent. Harry should make a fine heir, and it was a guilty pleasure to be able to rescue an orphan child in the way that he himself had once dreamt of being saved. His moment of salvation had been left in the hands of a judgemental man determined to cow and terrify him from the outset with the magical destruction of every pitiful belonging he’d owned in the whole world. Dumbledore had been a fool, and Voldemort was smart enough to learn from his poor example.

“And you, Henry Riddle, are going to be the best son ever.”

“I will! I really will be! I promise!”

Lord Voldemort smiled in satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Age: 14

A large cluster of students clad in blood-red robes and thick fur cloaks waited in their designated section of courtyard in the hidden wizarding section of Oslo in Norway, their breath misting in the freezing cold air. The clouds were grey and thick overhead, and the students chattered in a mix of languages about their guesses as to whether they could expect rain or snow later. Two teachers stood by as sentinels in watchful silence, watching for the incoming trickle of parents collecting their respective charges for the winter holidays.

Some of Harry’s friends – like his best friend Draco – had already left via Portkey, but there were still plenty of children still waiting to be picked up and soon enough it was Harry’s turn to leave. A chorus of farewells in English, Norwegian, and a handful of other languages rang out as Harry caught sight of his dark-haired adopted father and waved eagerly to him.

“There’s my dad!” he cried out happily. “Bye everyone!”

“Bye Henry!” called one of the larger and stockier of the boys in his group.

“Hadet, Henry! Ha en fin ferie!” a smaller brown-haired boy said with a friendly smile and a wave.

“Bye Greg! I’ll see you at the Malfoys’ for the Yule Ball!” Harry said, grabbing his pre-lightened trunk and hefting it easily with one hand as he moved towards to his father who was patiently chatting to Herr Johansen and getting Harry’s name marked off their list of departing students.

Harry waved farewell to the smaller boy with his free hand. “You have a great holiday too, Lars! Ha en fin ferie!”

“Hello Henry,” Lord Voldemort said with a smile. “Your Norwegian sounds like it’s improving.”

“Hi dad!” Harry said, hugging him with one arm – the other being encumbered with his school trunk. Voldemort stood stiffly, tolerating the friendly hug but still not terribly good at returning them. He patted Harry awkwardly on the back.

“I prefer father.”

“I know... dad,” Harry said, with a grin that dared him to make a scene about it in public.

Lord Voldemort huffed in irritation but didn’t bother trying to correct him again. “Well, shall we head home to Riddle Manor straight away, or do you want to visit the Christmas Markets again this year?”

“Just straight home. I did my shopping for Yule gifts in the wizarding section already.”

“Much better. Did you know that the etymology of the name ‘Oslo’ is that it originally meant ‘meadow of the gods’? That’s us, son. We are far above the Muggles, remember, and need not mingle with them.”

“I know, dad.”

Lord Voldemort nodded, his blue eyes alight with satisfaction at his son’s obedient agreement. “Here, take hold of the teacup, it’s time to go.”

“A broken teacup?” Harry said, looked at the proffered chipped and grubby formerly-white cup disdainfully as he took a hold of one side gingerly.

“Ministry-issued.”

With a great tug originating from behind his navel and a whirlwind of magic around him, Harry reappeared with a thud on the grassy lawn outside Riddle Manor, which a lightly Imperiused Muggle kept in good condition. Relatively accustomed to the sensation albeit still having trouble with his landings, Harry got back on his feet fairly quickly. “Ministry-issued? Does that mean…?”

His father smiled smugly. “Yes, I’m officially acknowledged at last. I have impeccable paperwork establishing myself as my own son. Being known as Lord Voldemort’s son has of course been somewhat of a social hindrance, but I’ve been suitably aghast and apologetic at my father’s actions… in the appropriate circles. Allegedly, I never knew that Tom Riddle was the feared Lord Voldemort while I was growing up on the Continent. Dumbledore is widely regarded as a senile crackpot for his wild and unsubstantiated theory about the charming young Marvolo Riddle being You-Know-Who himself, newly rejuvenated.

“Additionally, the scorn he continues to face for placing Harry Potter in an abusive home he clearly felt compelled to run away from like evidence showed – lost to the wizarding world for good – also continues to hamper him socially and politically.”

“I’m glad Uncle Vernon lost his job over that,” Harry said with remembered satisfaction.

A young man in black formal wizarding robes opened the front door of the manor as the duo approached, and a giant patterned snake slithered out past him through the door and onto the grass to meet them. “You were gone forever,” she hissed in outraged complaint to Harry, winding around his legs so he couldn’t walk.

“I’m here now, Nagini,” he soothed. “I had to go to school again.”

“I deserve a rabbit. It was forever,” she insisted once more.

“Hush, Nagini. You can play chase-the-rabbit with Harry later. Harry and I have to talk first. Let him go,” Lord Voldemort hissed commandingly. “Barty, take Henry’s things upstairs.”

“Yes, my Lord,” his servant said with a respectful bow.

Lord Voldemort and Harry settled down in front of a roaring fire that had already been lit in the parlour. Nagini slithered in to coil up in her favourite corner of the room under a coffee table.

Harry shed his cloak and gloves and held his hands out to the crackling flames to warm up. “So what’s the local gossip from Hogwarts? How is the Tournament going? They say we’re winning, but that could be local bias.”

“I don’t know if he can really be said to be winning after only one task, but Krum is in the lead and representing your school very well – you can be justifiably proud of your schoolmate. Quirrell continues in his role of mild-mannered Defence teacher, and Snape continues his recruiting of the students and spying for our cause. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

His father paused and leaned forward as he said intently, “Son, I believe I know why we continue to switch places when our emotions run too high.”

Harry straightened up and listened with rapt attention. “Well? What is it? Aside from accidental magic, of course?”

“You remember of course how we determined that your scar may be acting as one of my Horcruxes? Created unknowingly after the death of your mother which caused a tiny portion of my soul to splinter off?”

Harry nodded. He knew that already. Snape had seemed much nicer towards him after he’d found out and relayed that snippet of speculation from Dumbledore, and had stopped his theoretically subtle hints about how Harry might prefer to study at Hogwarts. His hints and comments about his Lord had verged on disloyalty at times, and Lord Voldemort had been watching him carefully. Lately he seemed much improved.

“Oddly enough it was something that Dolohov said that gave me the clue: ‘I thought you were dead.’ It reminded me that I died at your hand, back in 1980.”

“Huh. Really? Well technically you didn’t die-” started Harry.

“Perhaps not precisely. One could say ‘vanquished’ if one wanted to be pedantic about the matter, but the point remains that my body was destroyed when you rebounded the killing curse at me, leaving nothing but a drifting spirit. Close enough to death by most definitions. Close enough to a murder for the accidental creation of a Horcrux of your own. The precise equal of mine.”

Harry blinked.

“The thing we have been overlooking is that you too created an accidental Horcrux that evening. Our souls are inextricably linked to each other. There are few records of that kind of bond that aren’t sentimental and inaccurate rubbish. And there is no speculation at all on what happens when a living vessel is used for a Horcrux. It simply hasn’t been done before – or if so it hasn’t been recorded. The whole point of a Horcrux, after all, is to pick a non-living and enduring container that will last for centuries. Mortal flesh is logically a poor choice to host a Horcrux.

“The closest and most reliable comparison to our situation can be found in an ancient technique of bonding with a familiar and seeing through its eyes while in a trance state. It is accomplished through blood magic rather than Horcrux creation, but the element of mutual and shared sacrifice through blood-letting is very similar, magically. Both the master and the familiar are cut and bled, and the blood shared.”

“So unaccustomed and strong emotions trigger accidental magic-” Harry started summarising, before being interrupted.

“Previously accidental. I have noticed a distinct trend of ‘accidental’ swaps this year – two duels and an exam. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. But the third time it’s enemy action, Henry,” his father said sternly.

“…I panicked?”

Lord Voldemort glared at him. “I will ensure you fail any future test miserably if you ‘panic’ in an exam again. You are a smart and magically talented boy, and skilled at duelling as well – you can succeed on your own account.”

Harry slumped resignedly. “Alright, I won’t do it again. I just didn’t want to get an E.”

“An exception can be made for duelling if your life is in actual danger, not just your pride.”

“Sorry. But you know… you did it to me first. That boring meeting about property taxes with the pink woman who wanted to talk about cats, remember?”

“That was an accident,” Voldemort said smoothly. “It was an emotional overload of unaccustomed deathly boredom. Or possibly it was helped along by my urge to kill. In either case, the swap was purely accidental.”

“Sure it was,” Harry said sceptically. “I spent a whole hour dutifully admiring her plate collection with kittens on them.” His father was too good a liar to really tell for sure, but Harry had his suspicions. Listening to stories about taxes and cats wasn’t much of an emotional trigger. “Maybe I was deathly bored in my exam too, dad. It was History and Geography.”

“Father.”

“Dad,” insisted Harry. He was wearing him down, he knew it. Lord Voldemort used to get much more irritated at the informality. “Anyway, so as I was saying, when accidental magic triggers it tends to make us swap because I’m like I’m your familiar? Is that right?”

“Essentially correct, though we are in a way something like each other’s familiar – that is why the swap can be activated from either end. It has always been more common for you to trigger it, due to young children being more prone to outbursts of both strong emotions and flares of uncontrolled magic. I see you have increasingly begun to master both of those elements. What prompted your mastery?”

“It was something from Transfiguration class. Our teacher explained how most spells have an emotional component, and with sufficient training casting a spell becomes a more automatic act of pure will and then you don’t need the emotional trigger any more,” Harry explained. “That was my big revelation.”

“I told you to get control of your emotions years ago,” Lord Voldemort snapped with irritation.

“Yes, but I didn’t really understand it then,” Harry apologised. “I was just trying to not get upset or angry at things, I didn’t really understand it was connected to magical control.”

“Of course it is! And in our specific case, if we are not focused emotionally on achieving a magical goal when feeling something intensely, the unfocused magic runs into its default path triggering something like a more powerful version of a familiar bond, and we fully inhabit the other’s body instead of just merely seeing through the other’s eyes temporarily. With an ordinary familiar bond by the way, the wizard stays in a trance after they have triggered the link, and thus the animal’s mind is asleep while present in the wizard – unresponsive and unaware.”

“Well I think it’s a good thing you stay awake instead of napping after ending up in my body,” mused Harry. “Or the other way around. I can think of a few times that would have had things go very badly.”

“Like when I showed up on the school roof long ago,” suggested his father.

“True. Or when the Jötunn almost ate me.”

“I still don’t understand why you went into the giants’ territory. Ridiculous.”

“I was trying to hammer out a treaty for you,” Harry mumbled. “They would make good allies for your war. I thought you’d be proud. I didn’t realise they’d become so bloodthirsty when they started to get hungry.”

Lord Voldemort’s expression softened. “You make me proud every day, son. You don’t need to prove your worth as a Death Eater with me by acts of valour or cunning. It’s just like how we discussed that you don’t need to earn your place at home here by doing chores. Just be patient, and stay safe – that’s all I ask. Study hard at school. One day, when you are fully grown and trained, you can join me in our cause. Together we’ll do great things indeed.”

“Yes, father,” Harry promised. “I’m studying as hard as I can.”

Voldemort looked at him with a proud smile. “…I suppose you can call me dad, if you really want to.”