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Chapter Text

Harry Potter was a huffy child.

It was an odd statement to write, and even odder to see.

From a young age, when upset or threatened, Harry would huff and puff. Bloating out his cheeks in his infantile fury.

It was cute when he was three - though his family did not seem to think so - but it was a little weird when he was eleven.

It wasn’t that Harry was doing it on purpose. It just happened.

Anytime he felt defensive or threatened, he would puff out his cheeks. Fortunately, it was often considered a sign of his frustration rather than anything too odd. Even though it would cause Aunt Petunia to narrow her eyes and scoff in frustration. Vernon would turn purple at the sight of it.

Dudley used to turn on the waterworks, but that could have been due to thinking Harry was mocking his weight.

The Dursleys at least took it as Harry Potter being a spoilt child, rather than weird or freakish, who was ungrateful for his cupboard and the meals he was taking directly away from their precious, obese child.

On the contrary, Harry loved his cupboard; it was small, and it was dark and it was safe. Perfect for hiding. It wasn’t fair Dudley had two bedrooms, but there was something about the cupboard which appealed more than a great expanse of space.

Harry understood, years later, that his feelings towards being kept in a cupboard were probably not entirely how he should have felt about the situation.

Harry had always had range of behaviours he didn’t fully understand, and as he grew more socialised when finally attending Hogwarts, he realised they were not entirely normal behaviours for wizards either.

It turned out that wizards didn’t eat raw eggs whole (they had a range of boiled eggs from soft to hard, but no raw ones. And like the Dursley’s the students ate them with cutlery, and some dipped toast or sausages in the yolk.) Harry knew enough that swallowing an egg, breaking the shell and draining the egg before regurgitating the vacuumed shell was not a party trick anyone would appreciate, so stuck to toast.

Other than that, it was fortunate that Hermione huffed and puffed even more than Harry did, especially in regard to their classmates spewing false information or mistreating books. It caused Snape to dock more points than was acceptable for ‘huffing’ - as clearly this was some kind of Gryffindor tactic or plot.

It was during his second year that it became apparent that his unusual habits may have been something else entirely than behavioural quirks.

It turned out being a Parselmouth accounted more than just being able to speak to snakes, and although the library was almost stripped clean of even references to Parselmouths, there was just enough to give hints to the nature of the skill.

Being able to talk to snakes, all snakes regardless of origin or species, came with the inherent ability to understand their behaviours and imitate them.

It predisposed Parselmouths to snake like behaviours and although Harry rarely spoke in the language itself, it felt more natural to him that anything else. Snakes did not deal with words and objects like humans did, but the language came when called upon, and both the snake and Harry knew what they were talking about.

It was disconcerting. It was scary.

And most worrying of all? Harry did not know how to stop it. It was as intrinsic as breathing.

Tom Riddle had known Harry was a Parselmouth, he had had the ear and body of Ginny Weasley for most of the year after all.

For all his fury that Harry was the cause of his elder self’s defeat, he was fascinated by the fact Harry was also a Parselmouth. He had grabbed Harry’s face, turning him side to side looking bemusedly enraptured by Harry’s threat display.

“At your age, I was imitating much more vicious snakes than this, Harry.”

That may have been all well and good, but Harry didn’t feel very vicious. He felt very threatened and in over his head.

And despite feeling so scared, and the fact Riddle wasn’t quite real yet – still hazy around the edges and a little transparent even with his solid touch – his scent in the air was similar to Harry.

People had unique flavours to them, and Harry now knew that his way of processing scents and smells was akin to a snake and not a human. But other people didn’t have the right flavour. They tasted human.

The boa constrictor at the zoo had an earthy flavour, tasted safe and older. Familiar.

And now Riddle had the same echo to him, a similar flavour, a tinge not found in other humans.

Harry got the distinct impression that Riddle was more snake-like than most other Parselmouths.

“No, don’t taste the air like that,” Riddle scolded, closing Harry’s jaw. “If I have to tolerate your presence for any more time, you will do it properly.”

Harry had been affronted. “My mouth wasn’t open that much!”

“If you are going to gape, you look even more pathetic than you already are. You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air.”

Harry’s cheeks puffed out again.

“Oh, my word,” Riddle chuckled breathlessly, “Would you stop?” He pressed down on Harry’s cheeks until Harry let the air dispel. “You’re so young. Defenceless. How did you defeat the greatest wizard who ever lived?”

Riddle had almost looked regretful to kill him, not that it stopped him trying.

***

Harry’s greatest source of information became Herpetology books, and learning about snakes themselves. Dumbledore shared a few limited theories with him, when Harry sat in his office covered in ink and blood.

It turned out his first amalgamation was an Eastern Hognose snake. Relatively harmless, known for imitating cobras by puffing out it’s cheeks to deter predators, and if that did not work; they played dead.

A common snake for young Parselmouths to align with before they got their wand and began to learn how to defend themselves.

The hognose was quite embarrassing when there were much more dangerous snakes to imitate.

The difference, according to Dumbledore, was purely psychological. If you felt vicious, you would imitate it. If you felt weaker then, you would imitate a more harmless snake. Of course, this was all hypothetical as Parselmouths were not ones to allow themselves to be studied, and the rarity of them only made it worse.

It was choices that made the difference, but not even the most vicious Parselmouth could take on a snake’s true properties.

(Harry didn’t tell him that there are certain things he has that are directly correlated to snakes, like how he can eat eggs the way he does, or how he doesn’t need to blink anywhere near as much as Ron or Hermione do.)

It was relieving Harry wasn’t going to kill anyone with venom, nor petrify them with his gaze. But also, somewhat frustrating as it was all completely useless. None of the skills that came with being a Parselmouth would help Harry survive Voldemort.

Dumbledore seemed proud that Harry imitations were of relatively docile snakes, seemed to imply that made all the difference, but it didn’t. How could it?

Harry couldn’t use any of those traits against Voldemort.

Nor did it explain the sense of kinship that Harry had felt with him. That Riddle had evidently felt too, even if he did not let it impede his course of action.

Most snakes were solitary creatures, but parselmouths were also mammals. Don’t even predators crave understanding and companionship, of a sort?

But Voldemort had killed his parents…

Harry hadn’t felt that any kinship with Voldemort last year, but all that had been in the air was Quirrell’s rot and pain.

He tasted the air around Dumbledore. Only through the slightest parting of his lips, like Riddle said. Human and congenial, but nothing like the much better scent of Riddle’s ghost.

***

Spitting was a bad habit.

One that Harry developed in fourth year, angry and attacked feeling by not only the other schools but his own friends too, he wanted to strike out defensively.

Malfoy got the first bout of it. Professors Moody and McGonagall had intervened.

“Where do you think you are, Potter?! A zoo?!” McGonagall had shrieked, her thick Scottish brogue in a higher pitch than Harry had ever heard before. Harry tried to look chastised.

Malfoy stood silently next to him looking for all intents that he had been molested, the thick frothy spit still staining the front of his robes.

Moody looked like he was trying not to rupture something maintaining a dedicated and severe frown. So severe in fact, Harry wondered if he was chewing through the skin. He didn’t taste angry though.

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry muttered, “He was going to curse me whilst my back was turned.” Something he had only known through the intent in the air, the shock and gasps of the surrounding audience.

McGonagall gave him a scouring look, turning to Malfoy, who had arisen from his horrified stupor to look affronted.

“The boy’s right, McGonagall,” Moody intervened before Malfoy could finishing opening his mouth, “I was about to put a stop to it before Potter here--” he waved his hand, seemingly running out of words to say. “I’ve never seen someone spit that distance before.” His eye rolled wildly in his head, “Handy defence that.”

“Enough, Alastor,” McGonagall strained, a few hairs escaping her tight bun. She adjusted her glasses primly, “20 points from each of you. And detention as well.” She levelled a stern finger at Malfoy, “Mr Malfoy, I have no doubt your father would not like to hear about you casting at other students’ backs – that is unbecoming. Potter,” she turned her head sharply to him, and then stopped, “I have no words for you. You are better than this. I will not have any members of my house brawling, never mind spitting at other students.”

Both of them nodded resignedly. Malfoy huffing and turning sharply on his heel, no doubt going to write a letter to his father.

“Harry,” McGonagall said suddenly, before he could leave and brace himself against the crowds. “I know this situation is unpleasant for you, but don’t stoop to this level. Hold your head high, do yourself and your house proud.”

Harry felt his mouth twist bitterly, ‘unpleasant’ did not do it justice.

“Come with me, Potter,” Moody said, slapping him on the shoulder, “Let’s have a chat.”

***

With a violent twist the heavy thread of magic broke, sending Harry’s wand flying and his parent’s spirits away in a puff of smoke.

It disappeared amongst the graves.

Harry watched it go with a dismay that chilled him.

He was going to die. That had been a guarantee from the moment he arrived, the moment Cedric had hit the floor with his empty eyes.

But for a moment, just a moment, Harry had hoped he could get free, get the portkey…bring Cedric home to his parents…

But now, there was no chance of that happening. The graveyard was full of dazzling brightness, sparks in the air that tasted like electricity.

Harry couldn’t run to the cup with his leg damaged.

He could have thrown himself to Cedric’s body and summoned it, but he could not get the cup without a wand.

The lights were fading, he could feel Voldemort’s anger in his scar, as well as seeing his robed arms swinging through the smoke.

And that old instinct rose in him. The one that had him drop to the ground in sight of the teachers when Dudley and his friends were chasing him. The one that struck at Malfoy hard and fast and unpredictable.

The one that Moody had told him to exploit and utilise. You’re a Parselmouth, Potter. Act like one. It might save your life.

That snake like coil of cunning that he had tried so hard to repress. To be normal.

Harry let himself collapse as the dizzying colours of the broken magic fizzled out, the blinding lights giving way to the dark of night.

There was a frigid silence in the air as Harry watched the gathered death eaters shift warily, Voldemort glowering down at Harry’s prone form.

And as Harry lay there, he wondered if this was supreme stupidity or the cleverest thing he had ever done, because Voldemort was lowering his wand.

The Death Eaters were exchanging furtive glances, the eyeholes in their masks showing their darting eyes, the whites so easy to pick out in the darkness.

Harry’s scar prickled fiercely, but he tried not to wince.

“I know you’re not dead, Harry.” Voldemort taunted, with a sneer as he tasted the air. Then the sneer gave way to a high-pitched hissed laugh, a manic baring of teeth. “I see it now,” He finally said softly. “I taste it now. What shall you try next? Will you defecate to convince me?” He prowled closer, “As amusing as it would be, I will ask that you not.”

Harry said nothing, kept himself as still as he could. He did not like Voldemort speaking to him in Parseltongue. It was much too nice.

“Rumours reached me about your odd…habits. I dismissed them initially.” Suddenly Voldemort was crouched down beside him, Harry juddered slightly and cursed himself. “I dismissed them as petulance when I saw them myself, but I appreciate what they are now.”

The man’s red eyes scoured Harry’s face with even more fascination than he had before, but with less contempt, his hand hovering in Harry’s periphery.

“Find his wand,” Voldemort demanded, standing. He pointed to two of the Death Eaters and sharply gestured in the direction Harry’s only defence had been flung to. “The rest of you, go. I will deal with you later.”

Sharp cracks filled the air as all of the gathered men disapparated, bar from the lumbering forms of what Harry imagined to be Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers, setting out to find his wand.

Harry was pulled violently back to his original captor of the tombstone, with a sharp crack of his head against the marble as ropes constricted around his middle. He cried out involuntarily, pretence of being dead long gone.

“Let me see you,” The Dark Lord demanded, reaching out with his spidery fingers, “I would have thought that at your age, you might be imitating a more aggressive snake.” The cold fingers touching his cheeks made Harry cry out in pain, his scar burning even more fiercely. “But here we are, the great Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, playing a dead Hognose.”

Harry hissed, not a word or a defence, just a petulant hiss that transformed into an anguished howl as Voldemort pressed his scar.

Voldemort’s nail trailed the scar again, “Does that cause you extreme pain?” His serpentine face folding into a faux sympathetic mien. “We shall have to explore the nature of this then, shan’t we Harry?”

All words of defiance or anger, even pleads for mercy, were robbed from him at hearing Voldemort questioning him in Parseltongue. It was soothing, it was an understanding beyond anything he had ever know. It was much worse than what he had felt with Riddle. Harry felt very…connected, despite the fact he was with someone trying to kill him.

Harry wasn’t to learn for many years how much the Gaunt family spoke in Parseltongue. How they chose to only speak Parseltongue, unless forced to engage reluctantly with the authorities.

He would understand it.

“Oh, hush now. I may not kill you yet,” Voldemort scolded, “You are no threat to me. You know it as well as I.” He tilted Harry’s head this way and that to examine the scales over his eyes, he continued to speak in a clinical manner, “You would not instinctively act like this if you did not consider yourself harmless against me.” He met Harry’s eyes with his piercing red ones, “Lord Voldemort appreciates submission and your honesty.”

Harry worked his throat to spit out that he did not care what Lord Voldemort appreciated. The Dark Lord’s spidery fingers ran along Harry’s neck, feeling the moving muscles, “Do not try to spit at me, you do not have venom. It is merely rude.”

Harry took in greedy puffs of air to breathe through the pain and anger at being scolded by Lord Voldemort of all people.

He could taste the darkness on the man, the cruelty, the spite. And yet. Snake. Kin.

“Don’t do that. You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air,” The man scolded, so much like his younger self that Harry found his voice again.

“I know!” Harry snapped, trying to kick out with his legs and wildly twisting.

“Then do not do it. You are not a fish, though by all accounts you may be a half-wit.” Voldemort’s fingers hooked around Harry’s mouth, pushing at his jaw until it gave way. “Unhinged jaws too. My, my, little Potter. We really do have all the traits.”

He let go of Harry’s face, watching as Harry shook his head and neck in a distinctly snake like manner and hissed venomously at his manhandling.

There were muffled footsteps as the Death Eaters returned, lumbering through the gravestones and foliage.

“I have rarely seen other Parselmouths. Especially one so young.” The Dark Lord took the proffered wand from the nameless Death Eater, dismissing him with a glare. He held it loosely between his long fingers, “With a wand so…similar to my own. And my own mark upon his brow.” He smiled, lipless, at Harry’s squirming. “Stop your theatrics.”

Maybe it was because the order came in Parseltongue, but Harry did, his body freezing and trying to coil up.

Voldemort smirked, “You and I will have some fun, Harry. We shall find out what stroke of luck made you survive that night.” The man pocketed his own wand, continuing to fiddle with Harry’s and watching him unblinkingly, “If you are a good boy, I may let you live to propagate the Parselmouth traits you have.”

Harry finally had enough, spitting at Voldemort with desperate fury and fear. He didn’t miss.

Voldemort didn’t look impressed, turning Harry’s own wand on him, “Crucio.”

It was awful, but it was quick. A few moments of searing agony before Voldemort released the spell. Harry panted and heaved against his bindings; and had the crazy thought it was rather a reprimand than serious punishment.

“I told you, Harry. That is rude. I will not tolerate that behaviour, even from kin…However we may be related, be it blood or something more interesting.”

Harry glowered up at Voldemort through his dirty, sweaty hair and perhaps rather fittingly considering his dishevelled, injured and pathetic state, he reverted to his M.O. – he puffed out his cheeks.

Surprisingly, Voldemort smiled. “I have never met a snake I cannot tame, Harry. You are young and can be wrangled into a sense of order. You will be my creature.”

Chapter Text

The terrifying thing about being with one of your own kind, was how easy it was to bond with them.

The terrifying thing about Voldemort was how good he was at manipulation, of humans and snakes alike.

And the terrifying thing about Harry? He wasn’t entirely opposed to being kept, not when he had been denied affection and belonging his whole life.

#

Harry flopped in his bounds, still squirming slightly and awaiting the ominous follow-up to Voldemort’s previous statement.

The Cruciatus Curse had shaken him, a low-grade tremor running through his limbs as the combined pain of his previous injuries and exhaustion from the duel had finally worn through his adrenaline stores.

Harry could hear the gentle swish of the Dark Lord’s robes as he walked up to Harry again, the pain in his scar increasing to dizzying proportions.

Through his blurry eyes, he squinted at Voldemort, tensing as he saw him raise Harry’s own wand, and cast something at him. There was the feeling of liquid ice on his skin and the scar numbed slightly, aching fiercely still, but with a duller edge.

“Does that help?” he was asked,

Harry worked his jaw consideringly, his face almost completely numbed by the cold, even as the scar broiled deep under the surface like it was chipping away at his skull. He could see Voldemort’s own jaw tighten in anger at his delayed response.

“Yes,” Harry finally slurred, the lack of feeling causing his lips to not move properly.

“I will leave it on as long as you behave. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, tugging futilely at the ropes and suddenly hating the constriction with a primal hatred. They were too tight.

The ropes dissolved, allowing Harry to tumble from the tomb into Voldemort’s grip instead.

Harry thrashed in the hold, his feet skirting the grass as he was partially held up by an unknown spell but secured by Voldemort’s hands, held close to his body.

Skin. Warmth.

It was something different to be in Voldemort’s arms, his tight, confident grasp made Harry less likely to strike, but it was deeply uncomfortable.

The numbing on his face came away with brutal speed, a whip of searing heat like he had been struck.

Harry attempted to strike at him, all pretence at humanity gone with wordless hissing and spitting. The hands tightened brutally, enough to bruise and the Dark Lord’s nails sunk into the gaping wound on Harry’s arm.

It added to Harry’s struggle, despite knowing he could not break free.

Eventually he settled again, hanging in Voldemort’s secure hold with a huff. He took in great gasping breathes, unable to help himself as his vision swung.

Voldemort didn’t taste angry. Perhaps a little impatient with Harry’s behaviour, but somehow, he also was pleased. “Finished with our tantrum now, little Potter?” His tone was somewhat caustic. He began to walk towards the large manor house crumbling in the distance. “It does not do to strike at the hand that will be feeding you. At your family, no less.”

Voldemort was not his family.

The numbness began to return to Harry’s face, creeping like fingers across his cheek and seeping into his scar with blessed relief. He found some of the coiled tightness of his muscles unravelling.

The house was in great disrepair, dilapidated and broken as Harry recalled from his dreams. The restrictive grip was loosened once they arrived in what must have once been a study, though the bookshelves were empty, and the few muggle books that remained were broken and tasted damp.

There were a few scattered armchairs in the room, and Harry could taste which one Voldemort had mostly occupied in his little homunculus form, even though he already knew what it looked like.

He would not touch that chair.

The air lingered with small traces of peculiar smells, but material was so much better at holding them. There was something reminiscent of Professor Moody about, but Harry dismissed that quickly. The overwhelming smell was of Voldemort and Pettigrew. Snake and rat. Predator and prey.

Voldemort would have a better den under normal circumstances. But when one was hiding, there was little choice, Harry supposed.  

It doesn’t do to disturb another’s territory and despite Voldemort having been so physically little previously, the impression left in the material of the chair was overpowering. 

There was another chair, that was bereft of scent with half the padding falling out of it.

“Sit down.”

Harry chose the partially collapsed chair without a word. He hobbled over on his throbbing leg, keen for distance and to take the weight off the torn muscle.

There was a part of Harry that wanted to do as Voldemort told him. Harry had never understood the way that Hermione would flush with pleasure under McGonagall’s stern but approving gaze, or how Malfoy would preen under one of Snape’s nods, or even the way that Ron would squirm under Snape’s glower.

But there was a want to please Voldemort, deep down and subtle.

“I’m glad to see you’re behaving. I had heard of your insubordination and rule breaking, but at the time I thought I was dealing with an insolent pest of a boy.” Insolent had always been a word prescribed to Harry. No matter what he did, he was considered insolent. Voldemort evidently picked up on Harry’s thoughts, as he scoffed, “What human authority does a snake respect?”

He sat down in his previous chair with a look of distaste, fastidiously adjusting his robe over his knees. “I am an authority figure that makes sense to you. Of course, you will do what you’re told,” Voldemort continued, “I expect you to.” His red eyes scorched into Harry, his scar peaking in pain for a moment. “I will not tolerate any teenage rebellion.”

Harry tried to take in subtle tastes of the room. Voldemort was serious, a dangerous edge to his authoritarian words. And even though Harry should not behave, should be as rude as Snape always claimed he was, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to disappoint Voldemort. There were too many unknown variables. “I won’t.”

He was trapped without a wand, with the most powerful dark wizard in the country, potentially even the world. Harry had never been held in a situation like this with Voldemort before, in the previous two meetings, it had been fight or flight. There had been no choice in the matter. Robbed of that impetus, Harry was robbed of the necessary fuel to fight. He wanted to run, to flee…to hide, but how could he? What could he do? Back-chatting Voldemort would not keep him reasonable, and Harry had lived with his muggle relatives long enough to know when it was easier to keep them reasonable than rile them.

Voldemort nodded, “Good. We have some ground rules to cover. You will learn what mercy I am giving you, what leniency I am letting you have, and you will appreciate it.”

Those were dictatorial words that Harry was used to, what he expected.

“You are only receiving this as a courtesy, until I decipher how you are what you are. If you behave well, I reiterate, I may let you live. Is that clear, little Hognose?”

Harry nodded, the cold in his face shuttering his left eye, whilst his leg became hotter still, throbbing with the inflammation.

“The long and the short of it is; you will mind your manners and your tone around me. I expect to be addressed as My Lord or Master, though—” his mouth twisted wryly, “—I suppose you may address me according to species. Rather simple, isn’t it? Your comfort depends on your behaviour.”

Harry nodded again, because what could he say to that? He would love to be able to say that he did not care about comfort, he did not need it – because that was true. He did not need it, but what could he really protest about Voldemort’s terms?

He was not being asked to give up secrets (not that he had any) nor was he being asked to compromise his friends lives…bar from being imprisoned, what was he actually protesting against?

This man had killed his parents.

He had killed Cedric, who was lying out there in the dark, alone and cold.

Cedric whom he had promised to bring home.

But this monster also was…like Harry.

 “I’ve inspected my family tree, and in my pruning of it, I am the last of Slytherin’s line. The last Parselmouth in the West, so begs the question, where have you come from, Harry?”

Harry tried to bolster himself but felt a sudden shyness under the inspection, scared - for the first time in his life - to be found wanting. But this was a snake’s authority, not a human’s.

“Parselmouths are an unusual combination of human and reptile, a most unfortunate marriage. Most of us fall on one side more than the other, my family were particularly reptilian. Others I have met are more like yourself, a bit softer in the bite.” Voldemort inspected Harry with a rove of his sharp red eyes, starting with Harry’s nervously jiggering leg, all the way up to his burning scar.

“Tell me what you’re feeling in your scar.”  A quill suddenly floated over, standing upright, looking attentive and Harry soured thinking of Skeeter’s Quick Notes Quill. “Don’t worry about the quill, it’s under my control--” Voldemort smirked, “—and I am hardly going to run to the Prophet with salacious details.”

That was hardly reassuring, but Harry didn’t delay in answering, “It hurts. It burns.”

“Hsss,” The man spat at him, “Obviously. Just the scar tissue itself? The flesh?”

Harry had to think, because certainly it was the flesh itself, but somehow also, more. “That’s…the worst bit, I think. But it hurts…everywhere. Deep.”

“Deep? Throughout your entire skull? In the bone itself?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “It’s...”

“All consuming? Hmm.” The man drummed his long fingers against the arm of his chair, the serpentine features contemplative. “Look at me,” he demanded.

Harry wanted to say he was, but the moment he skirted over the man’s features, and met those red orbs, the pain in his scar seared even worse than before. The pressure burst through his eyes, ruptured the sinuses in his nose. His ears popped.

Memories flashed before him, too fast for Harry to truly process. He may have let out a cry. When the memories stopped, the room swayed in front of him, a distorted echo wailing in the air.

Voldemort was glowering at Harry with a detestable fierceness, but then mellowed after a few moments. He was clearly thinking about something and Harry hesitantly analysed the air for any clues for how it would pan out. He couldn’t run far with his leg, and now his head throbbed with a different pain than that of the scar.

He might vomit.

He wanted to lie down.

Sweat was cooling on the back of his neck, his whole face awash with it. He wiped his nose distractedly, was alarmed to see if come away streaked with blood. Harry could barely taste it above the rest of his own pain in the air.

He swallowed, his head bobbing as the aches made him experience a peculiar sense of vertigo.

“I do wonder,” Voldemort finally murmured, tracing Harry’s scar with his eyes again. The English was jarring, and so terribly awful in Voldemort’s voice.

Riddle’s voice a couple of years ago had been pleasant and smooth in English, the beginning of a deep timber, nothing like this high and cold voice he now possessed.

The snake tongue sounded exactly the same and was much more soothing to the ear. Harry only wanted Voldemort to speak Parseltongue rather than hear that terrible coldness.

The man stood briskly, “You will stay here, I think. Malfoy Manor will serve me well in the coming months, but the ministry will be keen to search it when neither that other boy nor you return to the school.”

“How long will I be here?” Harry asked, tightening his grip on the arm rests. He didn’t want Voldemort to go. He didn’t want him to stay either. Harry didn’t want to be trapped in his house by himself.

He wanted Sirius. He wanted Hogwarts.

“Until I have decided what to do with you and until it is safe to move you to a different location.” The man started to wave his wand and Harry could hear furniture upstairs screeching and shifting.

Dumbledore would find him, Harry thought, and Voldemort must have caught some scrap of it in his scent or his face because he snapped angrily, “Do not presume to take my kindness for weakness, Potter. You will see how generous I am being to you when you see what I will do to Lucius for his abandonment and his misplacement of my property.”

Harry found himself rearing back in defensive anger, cheeks distended and hissing “I want to go home.”

“You will do as you’re told,” Voldemort snapped, at Harry’s coiled hissing. The Dark Lord hissed back, and somehow it seemed deeper and louder, like it came from right in his chest. Unlike Harry’s, which sounded high-pitched and tinny in comparison.

They stared at each other for a long time, hissing until Voldemort suddenly moved from his position in a false strike. Harry darted back, trying to make himself smaller. His hissing trailed off as he came to awareness of how ridiculous the situation was.

He drew himself up, cutting himself off as though he had pulled a zip closed.

“I will not repeat myself, Harry. You will do as you’re told.” There was something so definitive in that statement and Harry hunched his shoulders. There was a gentle touch to the crown of Harry’s head, “And will be rewarded for your good behaviour. Little Hognose, you do not need to fear me.”

Every sense Harry possessed, human or snake, told him otherwise. But there was an element of truth there too. For now, if Harry did as he was told, then he had nothing to fear.

What that meant for later, Harry was not sure. But his reluctant expertise on living on one’s feet was useless now he was in a cage.

How he longed for his wand, even if only to be able to shoot sparks at the Dark Lord. Something was better than nothing, but it had long disappeared into his voluminous robes.

“Do you understand?” Voldemort prodded, his sharp nails pressing into Harry’s skin warningly.

Yes, Uncle Vernon. No, Aunt Petunia.

“Yes, sir.”

“How did I tell you to address me?”

“Yes—” Harry hesitated as his tongue felt twice the size, he couldn’t address him as he asked. But he couldn’t address him as a snake. He just couldn’t, “—My Lord.”

“Good,” The Dark Lord practically purred, “Let me see that leg before I leave you.”

Surprisingly, the man knelt down gently to inspect the wound, his wand poised to cast. He looked at it for a long moment, pulling the material away from the clotting blood, Harry squirmed and tried not to make too much noise.

Eventually, the man cast a spell, and some of the inflammation left the wound, the brewing infection dispersing.

The wound was not too deep, even Harry could see that, but its placement meant movement tugged and pulled at the open, abused flesh. Voldemort placed a tight compression bandage around it. Before similarly doing the same to his forearm.

“I am not a healer, Harry,” Voldemort chided, tasting his despair, “They will keep.” The man smiled, and despite his demeanour, it was rather soft. He laid what must have been some kind of belt or sash from his robe around Harry’s shoulders. “You will have free run of most of the house. I will see you soon.”

“Please!” Harry suddenly found the room to speak, unable to insert it the conversation earlier and panicking now Voldemort was about to leave, “What are you going to do with Cedric’s body?”

“The boy?” Voldemort queried with nonchalance. “Feed him to Nagini, I suppose.”

“Please don’t!” Harry begged, “Please, send his body home.”

“And why would I do that?” The Dark Lord looked bemusedly incredulous, as though Harry had requested green eggs and ham instead of returning a body to its loved ones.

“H-his family--”

Voldemort let out an ugly scoff, “Will mourn him with or without it.”

Then he left.

One moment he was there. The next he was gone.

The only lingering taste that he had ever been there was the chair and the material he had gifted Harry. Only the slightest ‘pop’ and displacement of the air as he left indicated he had occupied space.

Harry trembled now that he had left, pulling at the material and screwing it into a ball and throwing it in the opposite chair.

Shock. This was shock.

The placidness. The lack of fight.

Harry shouldn’t have needed the rush of a battle, life or death hanging over him to fight.

But still he sat in the chair and shook.

He let out almost a sob, but there were no tears. His trembling hands pressed against his numb face. Pulling off his glasses, smeared with blood and dirt as they were, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to breathe.

Tried to ignore that god-awful stench.

Because, as much as it had tasted like kin. It was kin. It was so much more dangerous than that.

Harry was a Hognose.

But that other smell belonging to Voldemort? He had smelt it before. That was a Basilisk.

And Harry was locked in a Basilisk’s abandoned den, waiting for it to return to decide if he was dinner or not.

He took great heaving breaths. He had to remain calm. He had to get away from the smell.

Because it was terrifying, and it was comforting.

And all the more terrifying because it was comforting.

He stood as quickly as he was able and stumbled out of the room. He grit his teeth against the flair of pain in his leg, the rush of warmth suggesting it was bleeding again.

Voldemort had given him free run of a massive house.

But what use was any of that, when he could barely walk?

Of course, free run of the house was a poor turn of words. Because there were very few unlocked rooms, and it was almost completely barren.

Harry hobbled instantly down the corridor and tried the front door, but it was locked. It was not unexpected. The windows were sealed.

A reptilian part of his brain scolded Harry - Voldemort had left him alone, with a measure of trust. A chance to prove himself. One must wait to strike.

He went upstairs, only one door was open with light illuminating the hallway.

Harry had been given a decent sized room, stripped of most things considered unnecessary, but clean and tidy. The windows were sealed shut, the doors were locked up here too, but Harry supposed if he were to be in a cage then a gilded one was better than a cell.

He had a four-poster bed, much like the one in his dorm, with thick and heavy curtains to enclose it. It made a perfect hide. The bathroom was functional, in an old-fashioned way.

Harry didn’t want to wash, he felt to tense. Too scared. But he needed to. He was caked in filth. In the smell of snake and blood.

Harry was not by nature a scared child - or at least, would carry on regardless of his fear - but he found himself very unsettled by the house.

He was trapped alone and defenceless. He peered down the hallway from his room, the house was silent, so silent that it rung. Everything was large and dark. Harry decided to go back to his allocated room, which was well-lit and warm.

He shut the door.

The whole house smelt disused and dusty, bar from certain areas which tasted like Voldemort and a different snake – which must be Nagini.

Even when Harry burrowed under the covers of his new bed, it didn’t taste right. It wasn’t Hogwarts.

Voldemort was a master at manipulating men; manipulating snakes must be much easier.

A snake likes to be left alone.

Harry’s imprisonment was almost a guide for getting a new snake. Leave them alone in their new habitat for a while so they get used it, do not handle them too much until they’ve settled.

But Harry? He was, as Voldemort said, softer in the bite. He was here alone, and already craved company.

It once again occurred to Harry that he should be fighting more on this. Should have stood up to his parents’ murderer. Maybe he should have been throwing himself at the doors even now, though he knew they wouldn’t open.

Next time. When he was rested and not so injured. Next time. The smell of family would not distract him. Next time.

But just when he resolved to do that? He did not see the man for a long time. For surely, it had been months by this point. His wounds had healed, slowly but cleanly.

The ravens visited the graveyard for weeks. They evidently received Nagini’s meal instead.

Harry regretted asking for Cedric now, felt his eyes burn and his throat become tight. Leaving him in the summer sun to be picked over seemed worse than being one meal for a snake.

Harry had tried to get out of the house, had petulant tantrums, broke things. But after a while, the anger had burnt out. Voldemort was aware of what Harry was doing, sometimes his scar would burn so fiercely that his eyes would water, but the man never came to the house to stop him.

Never sent anyone to punish Harry in his stead.

And after seeing Lucius Malfoy’s punishment for the diary, Harry tried to curb his temper.

In fact, Harry didn’t receive any form of stimulus from Voldemort at all. He was deprived of everything.

And in its absence, he found a peculiar fragility.

In fact, if Harry didn’t receive three meals a day, with a range of healthy foods to keep him full, Harry would think he had been forgotten about. It could have been sent by anyone, but there was always with raw eggs available if he wanted them and only one person knew about that.

New clothes were provided for him, clothes that smelt like kin and den and safety.

Voldemort wanted him dependent. Lonely. Desperate.

And even with Harry’s awareness of that? It didn’t stop it being effective.

#

The massive snake Harry had seen in his dreams watched him sleepily from her place by the fire in his room. How she had gotten in without waking Harry was concerning.

“I’m not supposed to eat you,” she stated, somewhat bitterly.

Harry found himself struck dumb, before responding in a childish petulance that had rarely struck him before, “And I’m not supposed to eat you.”

She stared at him languidly, “We are not equals, little Hognose. Perhaps once master has fed you some more, but you’re not like Nagini.” Her coils shifted languidly, “You’ll never be like Nagini.”

Harry didn’t want to be like Nagini.

But he was exceptionally relived to have her there. She was strong and powerful.

She was company.

His face was still perpetually numb, but the scar prickled letting Harry know Voldemort was in the house.

When Voldemort entered the room, there was a large green egg clasped in his long-fingered hands. It instantly drew Harry’s attention.

Voldemort smiled pleasantly enough at him, “Good evening, Harry,” he greeted congenially, “I apologise I wasn’t able to come and see you earlier. There are many complications that come with a thirteen-year absence. I’m sure you can imagine.”

Harry nodded, all that steely reserve he had tried to build up rapidly being lost under the shifting sands.

Harry hadn’t missed Voldemort, he had missed company. And now company was here, and said company wasn’t angry; he was smiling. He had brought food as some kind of peace offering.

Harry felt relief.

Harry wondered if this is what Dudley felt when he saw Vernon and Petunia when they picked him up from Smeltings.

Harry almost winced when he realised he must have been leaking all those feelings like a faucet; Voldemort chuckled. “Ah, little Hognose. It does me good to be amongst kin again.” He stood before Harry, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from his scar. “We are so rare.”

The numbing held up admirably, though the warmth that heralded the true pain was still there.

Being so close, Harry could appreciate the egg much more, and his embarrassment at the relief of Voldemort’s return prompted him to blurt out, “Why are you keen for me to eat an egg?” in a demand. He would have winced, but Harry was surer that Voldemort would let the tone slide when asked in Parseltongue. His temper was much better speaking in the snake language. Nagini was never mishandled like Voldemort’s servants.

“Do you not like eggs?” Voldemort held out the green egg carefully, pointedly staring until Harry begrudgingly took it. He continued to give Harry a level look before coming to some kind of internal decision. “Do you recall what I did to you on the first night you stayed here?”

There were many things, but Harry thought he was specifically referring to the memories he seemed to have pulled out of Harry’s head – very painfully at that. Harry gave a jerky nod, unconsciously stroking the egg. He took in its scent. It was a good egg.

“That was called Legilimency. It is a magic that allows the caster into the mind of another. I wanted to see your past, Harry.” He strode over to the window, glancing down into the empty, barren garden with a bored detachment. “We have history, Harry. We have both defied death, only we do not know how you did it. I have some ideas now, which we will explore later.” He turned back, strangely deigning to sit on the window ledge in a move so casual Harry found himself shocked, “I also wanted to see what traits you have shared with snakes. There are so many to choose from after all.”  

Harry nodded to show he was listening, and Voldemort smiled, leaning in slightly as though he was going to share a secret, “I have never imitated an egg eating snake.”

“You haven’t?” Harry asked, bringing the egg away from his face. Voldemort looked amused.

“No, Harry. I have not. I never was presented with the option of only an egg to eat, and no means in which to cook it.” He scoffed loudly, “I would not have tolerated it if it had been offered me. For Lord Voldemort, it was fundamentally unnecessary.”

Harry parsed over the words for a few moments, before speaking cautiously, “Pardon?”

“I have travelled far and wide. Been in wildernesses that you could not imagine, little Hognose. I have eaten a whole range of foods, but I always had my wand. I could summon anything I needed, transfigure anything I desired. And by that point, the need to ever imitate that particular snake was long gone.” He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl, examining its skin with feigned interest. “Even as a child, I was possessed of my own uniqueness.” He gave Harry a disapproving look, and Harry shrunk under it, “You seem to revel in your ignorance, denying your abilities even as you turn your teacher’s hair blue or Apparate onto the roof of your school.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“When I was a child, I was not allowed near the kitchens. Especially not the raw food. I was given my portion and kept away from the rest of it.” There was something insidious about Voldemort’s smile. Harry would bet he had been a nasty child too, it was right that wherever he had lived, he had not been allowed close to such a valuable resource. Harry didn’t know a thing about Voldemort’s past, and he could see the petty meanness that permeated from him even at this age. “You, on the other hand, know how to eat an egg like a snake. That tells me, Harry, that at some point in your young life, the only thing you had available to eat was a raw egg.”

Harry felt cold.

He hissed wordlessly in response, turning his head to the fire.

“It is quite alright, Harry. I am not going to pry.” Voldemort shrugged artlessly, interlocking his fingers. He tapped his nails together almost pleasantly, the sound of the nails scraping together forming a buzzing rattle to Harry’s ears.

How could he pry? He had seen everything, hadn’t he? He knew about Harry’s strained relationship with the Dursleys. Harry had a brief moment of worry for his family. He did not wish them dead nor harmed even though they didn’t get along.

“You just want me to eat an egg for your entertainment,” Harry returned scathingly, clutching his egg closer, protectively.

“Has Lord Voldemort been cruel to you?” The Dark Lord asked, “Has he not provided a good egg for your consumption?”  

No, and that was the problem. Harry did not know what to do with all this kindness. This…restraint. “You could eat one yourself,” Harry offered.

“I could, but why would I?” Voldemort shrugged, placing the apple down delicately. He stood from his slouched position and came closer to where Harry had huddled in his chair. “I have no appetite for raw egg. You have a taste for it now.”

“I don’t,” Harry denied, petulant.

“Come now, Harry, I have seen you tasting it from the moment it was in your hands.” He laughed, “When it was in my hands even. Assessing it to see if you could safely imbibe it. You let all the others go bad, even though you wanted to eat them.”

Harry’s cheeks inflated.

“Come now, Harry. None of that.” The Dark Lord’s giant hands smoothed down Harry’s hair, pressing gently on his cheeks. “We are kin, aren’t we? Kin look after one another. Eat.”

Harry glowered at him cautiously, hands smoothing over his prized food. He darted a glance at it, before returning to meet Voldemort’s gaze.

It was a very good egg.

It was an emu egg. Beautiful and dark green with its speckles. It was fresh.

It was large though, but when Harry was very small, he had eaten a chicken egg and managed. It was instinctive to know his neck could stretch, that he would be able to breathe during the process. The shell would be tough, but he could pierce it.

He tasted the shell again.

He wanted to eat it.

The warning prickle of his scar even through the preventative spells also helped him make his mind up.

“It will take me a while,” He finally murmured in concession. An egg of this size would take him at least forty minutes.

The pain in the scar died down again to a bearable level.

Voldemort stroked Harry’s hair back from his face, eyeing the scar with a great deal of fondness, “Take your time, Lord Voldemort will spare it for you.”

#

After Voldemort’s first proper visit, things became worse in Harry’s prison. The loneliness bit at him even more.

He wasn’t given any form of entertainment, and so he slept quite a lot. Nagini would oftentimes be left with him, taking up the majority of the bed even when Harry would curl up in her coils.

No one ever approached the house, and even when it looked like there may be people in robes nearby, their eyes seemed to skip right over the manor as though it wasn’t there.

They instead focused on the little shack down the hill, but even then, they merely poked at it for ten minutes before leaving.

Harry knew it must be around school time now, as the beautiful summer heat had reached its peak, began to cool slightly and Nagini complained that the scared boy in master’s den was getting ready to leave again. Who was she to chase when he did? The rat-man was too fat and slow to be fun if she couldn’t eat him.

Voldemort would come and eat with him some nights, or merely visited and spent some time with them both.

He had done something with Harry’s scar recently, and the lack of pain was so relieving that it made this bizarre solitary confinement almost tolerable.

Harry’s only company was the man who murdered his parents. He should revile this.

But most snakes leave their young very quickly, left them to fend for themselves. And Harry had been at the Dursley’s.

It might have been easier to clasp onto that hatred and fear if the pain had remained, if the man had tortured him continuously.

But he didn’t. He had gone out of his way to make Harry comfortable, as pain free as he could (though let him remain hobbled for weeks to counteract any strenuous escape attempts). He had fed Harry well, had an understanding of Harry’s needs as both a snake and a child.

He didn’t punish unduly, and Harry knew that was unusual from his horrid dreams of blood and torture and Nagini eating and eating…

He educated Harry, through words and through scent.

And Harry began to miss him when he was away.

It was following this realisation that Harry’s skin began to itch and feel tight, like he had terrible sunburn. He scratched and scratched until his arms bled and it still wouldn’t stop.

Nagini scolded him for it, holding his hands tightly as she constricted around his form to stop him ‘harming his scales’. He did not like feeling like prey.

He hid the wounds, until Voldemort scented the blood on him. He had snapped at Harry, reeling him in close despite Harry’s squirming and hissing.

Harry was disgusted that he had settled quicker than before, that something reptilian now knew Voldemort was not going to harm him, that Voldemort kept him warm and fed and safe, it became much easier to trust him.

“You seem to be having an allergic reaction to something,” Voldemort mused, pulling up Harry’s sleeve and eyeing the scratches. “How odd.”

“I’m not…shedding or something?” Harry asked, embarrassed and concerned.

Voldemort laughed, surprisingly merry, “I doubt it. You are a human being; you have no need to shed your skin to grow. Perhaps if you get particularly rotund in your middling years you may have need too, but I would doubt it.” He gave Harry an appraising look, “I believe you’re scratching at your skin for psychological reasons.”

“Psychological reasons?”

“You would be surprised, snakelet, how much one’s psychological state can affect our physical state,” Voldemort informed. His gaze was almost concerned, “Is Nagini not enough company for you?” Said snake’s massive head peered out from the closed bed curtains; she gave Harry a piercing, accusing look. “Then again, she is hardly a brooder. Parselmouths are both man and snake.” Voldemort looked like he found his next words distasteful, “Muggles, for all their faults, are more established in their understanding of evolution. We have both traits from snakes and from our primate cousins.”

The bulk of Nagini’s massive body landed on the floor as she left the hide, seemingly deeply affronted. She ignored them both pointedly, parading deeper into the house through the open door.

“Parselmouths are not the warmest of creatures. But most do seem to crave some form of bonding or intimacy. Sociality comes in many forms, including grooming for humans. Tell me, Harry. Do you think you could get all this shed off by yourself if you were moulting?” Voldemort seemed perversely delighted. “You are looking for enrichment and interaction with your own kind.”

“No, I’m not!” That could not be true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t.

“It is alright.” Voldemort soothed, “Why, Harry, are you upset that I am not staying in the same den as you? I am not a viper.”

No, he was not. Though Harry thought the man might share a few traits with them, he was much more dangerous.

He certainly seemed to petrify his victims with his piercing gaze. Despite that, the more Harry was around him, he had begun to assimilate the taste of the man and his snake with being safe.

Even though, Harry knew Voldemort also had no trouble imitating King snakes either from his previous history with other Parselmouths.

“I could braid your hair, if you would like?” The man continued, viciously cruel in his baiting even as he ran his hands over Harry’s irritated skin, with brisk motions to pull off some of the flakes that Harry had scratched at. His scent wasn’t half as cruel as his words.

Harry wanted to pull away, but the warmth generated from the touch was nice, the itchiness of his skin soothed at the touch.

His protests died, and instead he let out a sigh.

Voldemort smiled slightly. He pulled Harry to sit down next to him. “You ought to be grateful, Harry. Lord Voldemort never had company nor anyone to do this for him.”

His hands cupped Harry’s face, massaging his cheeks and sweeping under his eyes.

Harry found his own lidded slightly, doubting Voldemort ever truly craved sociality. “You’re not a garter snake,” Harry said unintentionally, but fortunately Voldemort made an amused sound.

“No, I am not. How on earth did I end up with one in you?” It sounded fond, almost.

Every stroke of Voldemort’s hands left trails of his own scent on Harry’s skin. Undetectable to a human nose, but to a snake’s tongue? Undeniable.

Something settled in Harrys chest. A tight ball of lead unwinding and relaxing. He lent into Voldemort’s secure hold.

For all the snake-like features, Voldemort was very warm. He radiated heat, much like any human would, Harry supposed.

Harry had never been particularly cold. Like all humans, he was warm-blooded, but he did love warmth and would actively seek it out. He liked being near an open fire, the summer sun on his skin, even the pipes that ran along the skirting board of his cupboard had been amazing to get close to.

He loved being hugged by Mrs Weasley and Hermione, clasping his teammates after winning a Quidditch match. They radiated heat that he did not need but wanted anyway.

And so, he lent into Voldemort’s hands. Let him bear Harry’s weight.

He could sense the other’s surprise, slight irritation even that Harry was being so cheeky. But then Harry let his eyes close.

He could have kept them open, even if he did not maintain eye contact. But he shut them.

Closing one’s eyes to a predator was stupid.

Voldemort’s thumbs rested gently against his eyelids. He could gouge out Harry’s eyes if he so chose to. Instead there was an indelicate huff of breath, the gentlest disturbance of the air as Voldemort leant in a little to taste the air. Unnecessary.

“Silly child,” Voldemort scolded, “You have long shed your egg-tooth. You should not trust so easily.” He sounded warm. Of course, he did. He had Harry where he wanted him to be. “Perhaps we can be like vipers. You shall come to my den for the winter months.”

Chapter Text

The thing about snakes is you’re never going to win their affections. They aren’t like mammals. Give them food. Give them shelter and they shall like you as much as they are inclined to like anything.

Children on the other hand, are a little trickier. They need a little more tenderness, affection.

Parselmouths, being a combination of the two, were a prime example of the old theory that children bonded with those that fed them, that satiated their needs. Selectively handled and appropriately treated, they would be yours.

Voldemort had utilised that with a killer instinct.

The next major problem with Voldemort was that he was ‘reasonable’. Despite how he acted to his Death Eaters and other humans, he was a ‘reasonable’ person to Harry.

He freely acknowledged he was not being fair to Harry, that he had no intention of stopping. That he would kill people, people Harry knew, people who were completely innocent, and that he would not stop doing so just because it was ‘unfair’ or ‘cruel’.

But he rationalised that it was war. That was the cost of war.

In his view, Harry should hope he won, and won quickly for then there would be less lives lost.

How could Harry fight against a man who was so reasonable about being unreasonable?

He discriminated against those with less than pure-blood, despite not being one himself. But it was his wizarding blood that made him special, and in his case, the very specialness of that wizarding blood made him exempt from his own discrimination.

It didn’t make sense to Harry, but Voldemort had an uncanny knack of making Harry feel like it was his fault for not being smart enough to understand.

Harry felt there was so much wrong with the Dark Lord’s philosophy but could never articulate it in a way that would stand up to Voldemort’s robustness. Not that the man often let the conversation be steered towards politics.

He would sigh, his scent taking on a deeply irritated and dangerously predatorial air. His fingers would rapidly twitch, as though he were restraining himself from taking his wand and cursing Harry.

Even though Harry hated what Voldemort did, he also became keen to avoid the topic as it was only going to resolve in straining Voldemort’s patience.

Harry had avoided strenuous periods under the Cruciatus Curse, but with the increased time spent with the Dark Lord, that would only become more likely.

There was a part of Harry that didn’t want to rock the boat. Whatever about him being a Parselmouth had kept him alive thus far, was still doing so, and as much as Harry disagreed with what Voldemort was doing - with what he stood for - he was also painfully aware that Voldemort was not going to let him engage with it.

Somehow, his supposed enemy was now acting as he de-facto guardian and he was not allowed to fight in a war.

And that was frustrating.

But it was also (oh so shamefully) relieving.

“My little serpent, you will never see the battlefield if I have anything to do with it. You are…fifteen now? You will not be of age for another couple of years in the wizarding world, never mind the restrictions Parselmouths tend to keep on their offspring. Either way, I will have won this war before you will have reached adulthood. And if I have not yet won, you will still not be allowed to join.”

Parselmouths were independent from a young age, but as Voldemort archly informed Harry, most liked to stay in family groups. Even if they hated one another, the weaker snakes tended to cling to their own kind.

In most cases, breed with one another too, causing their lines to weaken.

Of course, Harry would be allowed to leave the den when Voldemort judged him to be grown and capable. If he ever did.

Maybe a little part of Harry actually liked having Voldemort looking after him. He wanted to push him away, but at the same time, press close.

He knew Voldemort would never reject his affection seeking, the imprint of protection from his basilisk scent.

So, when the Dark Lord would get that deeply irritated scent, Harry would hunch his shoulders, ducking his head and shuffle closer despite wanting to run away. He would sometimes end up pressed against the elder man’s side, physically touching him.

It was terrifying, but the man would stop looking like he was going for his wand. Would place his hand on Harry’s head, or his face.

Voldemort’s scent would calm. Sometimes to mild amusement, sometimes to something akin to affection or warmth.

And it would help Harry. That constricting fear would unwind, his heartrate would cease its galloping.

It resulted in a terrible, conflicted guilt.

Harry should not be falling into this trap. But he was.

Voldemort smelt like family. Nagini smelt like family.

Not even Sirius smelt like that.

When it was time to leave the house he had been kept in, it was an autumn day. The leaves were turning orange and red, just beginning to fall, floating in the wind before littering the graveyard.

Although Harry was not displeased to be leaving his uniquely awful prison, he was quite scared to be moving to Voldemort’s place of residence.

He knew the man had originally been staying at Malfoy Manor, vengefully looming over those who had failed him so soundly. Nagini’s mutterings seemed to corroborate that he hadn’t left it yet.

Harry wouldn’t be expected to socialise with anyone, of that he was sure, but he still found himself nervous. He wanted to hide behind his bed curtains, oddly reluctant to leave what he knew. What had become home.

“Come,” Voldemort held out his hand. “There is no need to be cautious, little one. You’ll be with me. No one enters my den bar from our kind.”

They apparated straight into what Harry assumed was Voldemort’s quarters. Side-along apparition turned out to be singularly unpleasant.

The rooms were ridiculously ornate, especially compared to what Harry had left behind. The grandeur of the estate would have clued Harry in that it was Malfoy’s home before anything else.

He looked around, hunching in a little on himself. It smelt strange. Like Voldemort, which was comforting, but the space was so much larger. The ceilings arched even higher than the ones in the old house.

“This will be your room,” Voldemort said. “I expect your continuing good behaviour, or I will send you back to your old den without even Nagini for company.” He gently tugged on Harry’s arm, encouraging his movement, “I will show you the expanse of the safe areas you can move freely between. You are not to leave my quarters, do you understand? There are many in this house that would do you harm.” Harry shuddered, and could only imagine the type of people Voldemort would entertain. Nagini had even made mention of plans for Voldemort to release his followers imprisoned in Azkaban. “I have no use for kin who are stupid and allow themselves to get hurt for no justifiable reason.”

Harry nodded to show he understood, shuffled his bare feet against the carpet.

Of course, he was not allowed shoes. Not only would it hinder escape attempts, but also the sweat from feet left a blazing trail of scent for a Parselmouth and a snake to follow.

He was shown the many rooms that Voldemort had cordoned off for his own personal use. The Dark Lord had taken quite a sizable amount, more for Lucius’ failure than any great need of them Harry suspected, as he could taste Voldemort’s preference for only a couple of rooms.

They ended up in a small library, one of many available, Harry began to think. This may have been the Dark Lord’s personal collection. The books here certainly bore down on Harry, the air felt dense with it.

“You’re not to touch any of these books, Harry. Some of these are very nasty for even the experienced reader,” Voldemort stated, pointing to a pre-prepared desk. “You have missed only a few months of school. I am going to give you some work to make up for the lost time.”

Harry would normally not want to do schoolwork, but he was grateful to have anything to do after spending months sleeping. He imagined he would need the stimulus here too, as there was nothing else he was going to be allowed to do.

Voldemort ushered him into the chair, smoothing his hands over Harry’s bony shoulders. He summoned a large stack of books, setting them on the edge of the table. He plucked the first three of the pile and set them in front of Harry, one at a time.

“Occlumency,” Voldemort’s hand splayed across the first book, “the art of protecting one’s mind. You will need to learn this.” A couple more books were placed in front of him, “It would be your OWL year at school. I do not want you to fall behind. If you are to return to school at some point, you’ll want to remain with your year-mates, I imagine.”

“Will I?!”  Harry gasped at the opening offered to him, “Be going back to school that is?”

Voldemort gave him an assessing look, raising a hairless eyebrow. Harry ducked his head under the soundless admonishment. “Perhaps, little snake.”

Harry cautiously smiled at the desk, trying not to squirm, “But, I’m not taking Ancient Runes or Arithmancy,” he said instead, fiddling with the cuff of one of his robe sleeves.

Voldemort’s hand gently took a hold of his fiddling fingers, pulling them away from his sleeve, “No, don’t do that. You’ll pull the material.” His long fingers straightened out Harry’s cuffs almost absentmindedly, “These are beginner’s books, for those starting the courses in third year. Your previous electives will not do, Harry. You’ll find little use for Divination in this world unless you have a genuine gift for it, or enough faith to believe what you see. And you’re hardly going to become some kind of animal keeper with our heritage.” His now free hands came up and pulled Harry’s gaze up to his burning red eyes, “I want you to study these instead. I know you’ll do well.”

Harry had never had an adult want him to do well or have faith in him that he would succeed. He didn’t know if it was lies, and he deeply suspected it was, but it was galling and flattering to hear.

He could see how legions of followers had fallen under the Dark Lord’s charms. To have such confidence and faith in someone would make them more inclined to listen…to obey.

And so, he set to work.

(--Perhaps the only other person to look at Harry in a similar way was Vernon’s own mother.

Grandma Dursley was an odd woman. The only one in the Dursley family who had seen Harry as a boy and not a pest.

She had given him a hard look the first and only time she had ever seen him. She didn’t really look like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Marge, though she was quite plain. She was thinner – though by no means thin - and shrewd.

Apparently, she had wanted to be a doctor, but then marriage and Marge had come along six and half months later (premature, they had said) and had shot that dream to dust.

A mother and housewife instead of a doctor. How she had despaired of the travesty of her life.

She drowned the runts of her bulldog litters with an almost personal feverous intent.

Grandma Dursley also looked upon Petunia with a peculiar amount of disdain. She looked on them all with disdain.

“Oh yes, Vernon. Chores are a good way to sort out a boy like that,” she had conceded, words sharp and cutting as she looked Harry up and down and then Dudley. “It is rather peculiar – he does not look the type to be stealing. Rather shy. Especially compared to Dudley.”

Vernon had made an ugly scoff. Petunia looked like she was sucking on a lemon, “They never do. They fit in quite well, his parents were the same. Complete con-artists and confidence tricksters. You would think they were normal to look at them.”

Grandma Dursley’s cold eyes raked over the children again. Dudley was making no attempt to hide his boredom, shuffling from left to right foot, sighing loudly – he had not been paid by anyone to suffer this attention like he did for Aunt Marge.

Harry, used to this kind of piercing assessment, waited patiently to be dismissed.

“Boys, go and do your chores,” Grandma Dursley finally dismissed them.

Harry returned to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner that night, Dudley ran upstairs to do his ‘chores’.

Harry got a full portion of dinner that night, not as large as Dudley’s or Vernon’s, but of a similar size to Petunia’s. “The boy helped make it, he deserves a portion. You do not beat a dog constantly and expect it to learn a lesson,” Grandma Dursley lectured, smacking Dudley’s hand away from the extra roast potatoes and ensuring Harry had a couple, “Punishment and reward. If he does as he should, he should be treated well. I can see nothing wrong with this meal.” Vernon was turning a shade of puce that heralded true anger. Grandma Dursley skewered him with a look, “I saw him with Petunia, he did nothing that could be considered insidious – do not try that with me, Vernon.”

Harry looked down at his relative mountain of food in shock, staring up in awe at this fierce woman. She was glowering at Vernon with a look that Harry has so often directed at him, from his Uncle.

Did Grandma Dursley hate her own son?

“I do not judge the house you keep, Vernon. But do remember, I am not Marge, nor your father, from whom you both inherited your brains. No seven-year-old should be that thin.” Her shoulders roiled under her suit jacket, “Especially when your own son has portions of that size.”

“Oh no, the boy takes after his father. A thin and mean looking drunk,” Petunia sniffed, trying to defuse the tension gathering around the table.

Grandma Dursley gave Petunia a cruel kind of smile, eyeing her up with a long stare, “Oh no, Petunia, if he has inherited a thin and mean look from anyone, it must be your side of the family.”

Petunia blanched, and Vernon seemed to swell in size. “Now, Mother!” He cried out, “That is no way to talk to Petunia – my wife! She is a respectable woman. Her family were, even if her sister fell in with a rough one.”

Harry feared to pick up his cutlery, but under Grandma Dursley’s fierce blue eyes he did so, with a hesitant smile.

“I am sure she is,” Grandma Dursley commented drily, “Do not get so worked up, Vernon. You have your father’s weak heart. Mind you, he could never remove himself from the fridge either. You’ll kill yourself and my grandson if you continue eating like he did.” She cut into her meat with surprisingly delicate motions for her strong hands. “I suppose you’re still in that dead-end, talentless job that enables you to sit down all day.”

“Vernon is not in a dead-end job!” Petunia snapped, “He’s the director at Grunnings. He’s doing exceptionally well.”

“Yes, selling drills.” Even Dudley could tell exactly what Grandma Dursley thought of that job. Harry idly wondered what it must have been like to want to be a doctor. Maybe to her, nothing else would be enough.

Vernon blustered, “It’s a perfectly respectable job.”

“And Marge, well on her way to being a bloody drunk,” Grandma Dursley wasn’t finished it seemed, and Vernon seemed to hunker under it, bowing to absorb the emotional blows that he never had a problem dealing to Harry. “Boy? Are you having trouble cutting your food?”

Harry startled, looking up with big eyes at Grandma Dursley in worry. He puffed out his cheeks defensively, because yes. He was.

Grandma Dursley set her cutlery down with a clutter, and briskly took Harry’s away from him to begin cutting up the meat, “Typical that you would choose such a fatty cut of meat to serve, Petunia.  You have flushed money away on this. I bet you went to the supermarket, and not the butchers.” She shook her head despairingly, grey hair catching the light, “Tight and mean, indeed.”

It was unfortunate that Grandma Dursley died shortly after that visit, quite sudden and unexpectedly and all so very peacefully as her heart gave out in her sleep.

Harry would have liked her to visit again.)

Every time Harry felt that urge to rebel against Voldemort’s rules, he ruthlessly quashed it. He tried not to look at the books, even as he felt their dark magic trying to pull him in, to open them.

He stuck to the rooms he was allowed to be in, and often studied in them too, if only to avoid the oppressive air of the Dark Lord’s book collection.

His existence did not truly change that much from when he had been interred at the other house.

Nagini often popped in and out, but had a secret task she had to complete for Voldemort. One he had forbidden her to speak with Harry about.

She got snippy if Harry pushed, so he didn’t.

He tried his best to not ask undue questions of Voldemort either, except for on his schoolwork. Voldemort was very pleased with Harry’s progress, pushing him harder than any of his other teachers ever had.

Harry found himself wanting to do better as well, now that he had some encouragement, someone to ask questions of and (rather embarrassingly) someone to impress. 

It was nearing Halloween when Harry noticed the large doors that somewhat unofficially heralded the beginning of Voldemort’s wing were left wide open. The winter sun was glaring through the windows, highlighting one of the manor’s many corridors.

There was no physical barrier there and the corridor was completely empty. Harry stopped and stared, book dropping to the floor with a muffled thump.

Could he leave?

Could he just walk out right now?

Voldemort would have surely put up wards, some kind of safeguard.

But he had also stated he wanted Harry to behave and that meant keeping within the rooms.

It was a test.

Such a blatant test that it should not have set Harry’s nerves aflutter as it did, make him feel so nauseous.

He dithered in the doorway; the ornate doors wide open to the long corridor. To freedom.  

Harry shuffled closer, sliding to the side to touch the frame. To clutch at it like it might support him and give him strength. He cautiously held his hand out. There was no resistance as his hand breached the open air.

No tingle of magic or anything tactile.

He pulled his hand back, worrying his lip. He could walk past them. He could run. He could try his hand.

He hadn’t a clue how to navigate Malfoy Manor. It was stupid.

Part of him didn’t want to go either, despite knowing he should go. He should at least try.

But…Voldemort was expecting him to do his homework. And wasn’t that the stupidest excuse Harry had ever heard?

But the reality was that Harry understood the only way he was ever leaving this place was with Voldemort’s trust. The only measure of freedom he would ever be allowed would be when Voldemort could at least know he wouldn’t run.

He didn’t have that right now. This was such an obvious test. But an effective one.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to move. Forwards or backwards.

He rolled his head against the wood.

What would be the consequences if he did try his hand and lost?

He could go back to the spooky old house if that was the extent of his punishment…couldn’t he? But what if it wasn’t?

Harry wasn’t stupid; he had heard the screams, the torture. Sometimes the whole manor felt saturated with the anguish.

He had seen Voldemort’s malice through his own eyes.

Harry had been treated well. Better than even some of Voldemort’s most loyal servants.

He was treated like a pet. Like Nagini.

That was galling.

But perhaps he looked at it wrong. He was treated like a snake.

The consequences of falling into such an obvious lure…to spit in the face of what he had been offered…

The first step back was the hardest. It broke something inside him to do it. But he didn’t know the way out. Didn’t even know where Malfoy Manor was in the country, or how far he would need to go to get help.

Could he use the Floo? Or would he have to run to the nearest town? Would he get more people killed?

Would he be punished? Tortured or killed?

Would he be sent back to the other den? Kept alone and friendless. His senses had been conditioned so much that feared Voldemort’s displeasure more than he feared the more physical consequences of being caught.

He picked up his book with shaky hands, glad the spine wasn’t bruised, nor the cover damaged in any shape.

Harry worried he had left sweaty finger-marks on the doorframe, but didn’t dare go any closer to investigate if he had.

He had left his scent everywhere. Sweat was a fantastic fingerprint even if there was nothing visible on the startlingly white doors.

A few hours later, Nagini returned, slithering over the expensive rug to him, “You taste like prey,” she remarked to him.

“No, I don’t,” Harry countered in a weak voice, clutching his book like a shield. He imagined he did. Frightened, scared, nervous. He must reek.

He could hear the swish of Voldemort’s expensive robes as he approached, and Harry had to stop his leg jiggering in his nerves. Had to stop the whimper in his throat.

Voldemort entered Harry’s room and stared at him buried in his bedsheets, imperious and cool. But not angry.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Harry stared up at him pleadingly, robbed of words, but the man said nothing. His scent was as cold as his stare and Harry tried to sink into the relative safety of his own bed. He puffed out his cheeks, before letting the air dispel – that wouldn’t help nor endear him to Voldemort now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered instead.

The man’s cruel eyes bore down on him for a long moment, before he gestured briskly with his head for Harry to approach him.

Harry did so cautiously, detangling himself from the safety of his bed reluctantly. He was not expecting to be enfolded in Voldemort’s arms. “Silly child. I’m proud of you.” Proud? Harry felt confused. He had done nothing to be proud of. “You have done the right thing, I would have been so worried if you had gotten yourself into trouble. As would Nagini, she would have been so upset not being able to see you anymore.” Voldemort’s fingers carded through his hair, snagging in the wild mess, “You’ll not consider it again now, will you?”

No, Harry shook his head, pressing against the robes.

There was a gentle tug on his hair, “Say it then, little one.”

Voldemort did not need to use cruel words or actions anymore, Harry realised. He expected Harry to read him through scent, and act accordingly.

The man tasted like venom. Like the burn as it corded through Harry’s arm when the diary had set Slytherin’s beast on him.

“I won’t try it again. I promise.”

“Good boy,” Voldemort soothed, “I am pleased you did not leave. You did the right thing; it was cruel of me to tempt you.”

It was cruel, and Voldemort’s enjoyment of it was plain as day to Harry’s tongue. He clutched at the other’s robes with shaking hands.

#

One thing that became apparent to Harry was that Voldemort did not sleep. Or at least did not sleep as much as other people.

Harry didn’t know why that was. Whether he just needed less sleep naturally, had performed enough dark magic that it was no longer necessary for him to function, or kept himself dosed up on a variety of potions to be sharp and intelligent all hours of the day.  Either way, Harry never saw Voldemort needing rest, him still being awake when Harry went to sleep and rising before Harry too.

Harry was almost certain that it was nothing to do with being a Parselmouth. Mainly because Harry could sleep all day if left to it.

He had never had the luxury of doing that before his imprisonment, but now he slept in abundance. Nagini and he favoured naps wherever they could find the time to have them.

But as the winter drew in and the days became shorter and the nights colder, Harry noticed a change in Voldemort’s behaviour.

He woke one night to find Voldemort perched on the bed with Nagini and Harry.

Not asleep. Nor under the covers, or entangled as Harry and the giant snake were, but pressed against their bulk, fully dressed and reading.

It was all the more disturbing that the man settling on the bed hadn’t woken Harry up. But the scents of the hide were all mixed in together nicely, and the clothes provided to Harry had always smelt like Voldemort and Nagini.

Voldemort had looked down at him, his red eyes vibrant even with Harry’s lack of glasses. Harry blinked sleepily before drifting off again.

To the Parselmouth, it felt only natural that the eldest of the den be there. It was, after all, winter.

To the human, long accustomed to the low-grade fear, it barely registered.

That lead to the natural conclusion; brumation.

Harry wondered if the behaviour was because they were together, as Harry had never felt so inclined to sleep so much in winter as he was now. Voldemort’s scent had not really accumulated in any of the rooms shown to Harry. Not that he even knew where Voldemort’s bedroom was, even if he had one.

But at some point, he had decided to stay in Harry’s room.

Sometimes he would read aloud to Harry, his voice a soothing croon that settled that something uniquely human and reptilian inside.

Sometimes he would let Harry coil towards him, or Nagini to wrap around him.

Perhaps, for all his barbed mocking, Voldemort never had another of his kind to do this with. Maybe he wanted it.

Then again, he had killed off many of the other Parselmouths. Voldemort was the only one left in this part of the world according to his own records.

Bar from Harry.

So why would he suffer Harry and not the others?

Then came the night when Mr Weasley was attacked. By Nagini.

Harry sat up, bolting into an upright position like he had been struck by lightning. His scar prickled uneasily.

Voldemort was watching him impassively, his sheets of parchment set aside. Evidently, Harry had been disruptive in his sleep for some time. He could taste the rancid smell of his own distress.

“Mr Weasley has been attacked!” he cried out, forgetting who he was talking to. He stifled a pained sound, “Nagini did it.” He felt betrayed, though he couldn’t justify why. She was on Voldemort’s side, not Harry’s.

A heavy hand landed on the back of his neck, squeezing it gently. “If he gets help quickly, he may survive.”

Harry tried to move, to throw the hand off, because Mr Weasley may survive was not good enough.

But the hand held tight.

Became a brutal, securing grip.

Harry’s struggles increased, his feet getting caught up in the bedsheets.

“No, snakelet. No tantrums.”

“But Mr Weasley is going to die!” Harry whined, desperately upset.

“You’re panicking.” Voldemort remarked clinically. And indeed, Harry was. He needed to get free. He needed to get someone to help. He made a small sound, something like a whimper.

At that, he was lifted and settled quickly against the Dark Lord’s torso, pulling half the bedspread with him. The sound of crumbling and bending parchment was muffled by the heavy blankets as Voldemort folded Harry’s body to his liking. His face was pressed against the man’s neck, blocking out the blurry sight of the room, of Voldemort’s hated eyes, muffling the sounds bar from the calm and steady pulse of the Dark Lord.

He wasn’t even mildly affected by Harry’s distress.

“Breathe with me now,” He said, maddingly calm as he slightly rocked Harry, swaying like a cobra. “You can’t take responsibility for others like this. That man knew what he was taking on by joining the Order. What happened to him is out of your hands.”

“But—” Harry began.

“No. We are not having this conversation. It is not your responsibility. You belong to me, and your actions are limited to my control.” Harry felt himself slipping, the motions of the basilisk soothing, “You reported this incident. I will do nothing about the situation, but you have done the appropriate thing. You are fifteen.”

That was right. He was fifteen – he should not be acting like this. This is what babies did. But how long had Voldemort been stripping Harry of his faculties now? How long before he decided that Harry had been broken down enough to be built back up?

Harry had his head curled into Voldemort’s neck, right in the junction where it met his shoulder. His breathing was slowing, the swaying almost setting him into a hypnotised state.

This was weird, Harry could look at it objectively. It was weird. He was effectively sitting in the Dark Lords’ lap receiving comfort whilst Arthur Weasley lay on a cold ministry floor dying.

The man’s hand was stroking down Harry’s back in a slow repetitive motion. Down, then remove the hand, back to the top of his back. Like he was petting Nagini and did not want to disrupt her scales.

Harry’s heart rate was spiralling down, matching Voldemort’s. His eyes lidded in exhaustion. What was left of him if he could not fight his own body?

If being a Parselmouth meant bowing down to the control of Voldemort constantly, unable to fight his own instincts…

Maybe his own desire for family and belonging was his own downfall.

Harry’s hand had fisted in Voldemort’s robe without his permission, he slowly unclenched it. “Good boy,” Voldemort praised, catching the falling hand in his own. He made a sound, something like a wordless hiss and Harry felt himself relax a little more.

“He’s going to die,” Harry whispered into the dark.

“A choice he made. Not you.”

Harry did not answer, staring listlessly at the heavy drapes enclosing them in the bed, trying not to remember the taste of hot blood in his mouth, how easily his best friend’s father’s flesh had given way under Nagini’s strong jaw.

The reality did not improve after that, with Voldemort taking Harry’s knowledge of Nagini’s attack as permission to no longer hide the worst aspects of his life from Harry. He took part personally in more raids, more torture.

Let the scent coat his skin like the predator he was.

It made Voldemort more blood-thirsty.

And in turn, Harry more angsty. More defiant. More scared. He hissed, flinched and snapped more, actually trying to bite Voldemort at times.

Voldemort constricted around him so tightly after one rude comment, Harry nearly passed out. He didn’t know Voldemort could utilise his limbs with such strength.

It was rather muggle to brawl so, but the efficiency and speed was pure serpentine.

But then, after a time… a numbness seeped into Harry, because he really couldn’t change it. Nor stop it. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, it didn’t stop.

He begged Voldemort to not bring those scents into Harry’s room instead. He received a vicious stinging hex for that.

The only thing he was doing was to make his own life more uncomfortable.

Though Harry truly thought his life should be miserable if his friends’ families, the people on his side were suffering and dying too.

It was made all the worse for Voldemort’s otherwise cloying affections. He brought Harry all the food he could want, tutored him with infinite patience, treated Harry’s distress with a kindly hand, took the tantrums with a surprising amount of grace as he subdued him.

Voldemort seemed to treat the whole situation as though it was a learning curve for Harry. That Harry would bend and see reason before long.

Harry hated it, as much as he craved it.

It was odd to have someone to push back against and have the assurance that they would still be there. Despite the fact it was so wrong.

Then one night, Voldemort came back and Harry could instantly taste blood, fresh and saturated into the black satin that the Dark Lord favoured.

He skittered to his feet instantly inexplicitly panicked, “Are you hurt?!” he demanded before he caught himself, “I mean. I mean… W-who did you hurt?”

He felt cold. A devastating thrill of betrayal that still managed to cleave him in two even now. He had been concerned about Voldemort first. Genuinely concerned.

To the point, he worried may have offended the man by suggesting he was not able to defend himself.

To the point, the people who he was fighting against – Harry’s people – were not his primary concern.

“Hush now, snakelet. I am well,” Voldemort smiled, seemingly genuinely pleased at Harry’s response. “Come now, it is a cold night. Nagini and you should be in bed.”

It went unsaid that Voldemort would remain with them, probably read a little to them and inserting surprisingly dry commentary on what he thought was right and wrong.

Harry shook his head, upset. Breath stuttering.

“Harry. Enough now,” Voldemort scolded, shedding his outer robe and the smell of battle and pain. The offending material disappeared before it could transfer anything to the thick carpet. He stepped forward, pulling Harry in. “It’s time you go to bed. It is perfectly natural for you to be conflicted. You should not be so upset with yourself about it.” Harry made his standard attempts to wriggle free, but they were without passion. “Come. I shall read to you some more,” Voldemort continued placidly, picking Harry up as though he weighed nothing.

Harry knew he was still somewhat small for his age, and that Voldemort was more than the average height for a man, but the belittling action made Harry hiss and spit all the more.

Voldemort made no comment on the matter, and instead Harry was unwillingly piled into his bed. Voldemort put a robe around Harry. His own robe conjured from who knows where.

Harry threw the robe off him, tossing the light material to the end of the bed.

Voldemort’s fingers twitched, the desire for violence rising of his skin like a wave. Harry embraced it, coiling down as though to strike at him.

Instead of rising to his challenge, the Dark Lord picked up the robe again and covered Harry with it and then left for a while, probably to exact that violence on someone else.

What if there were prisoners? Harry stilled, but what could he do?

Harry pulled the robe off him, stroppy. Then pulled it back on. Then he threw it off again.

When Voldemort came back hours later, he eyed Harry in amusement, for the boy had thrown off the robe but still clutched at it with his hands.

Voldemort settled next to him on the bed, folding one leg underneath the other as he sat down. “You’re doing very well, Harry. I know this is hard.” His hand settled in Harry’s hair, he gently shook Harry’s head with his grip, “No one you knew personally was harmed.”

Harry tried to burrow down into the bedding more, petulant.

“Come closer to me, I can see you trying to taste the air with your face half buried in a pillow.” Voldemort pulled Harry up, his nails piercing his skin, curling him into his chest again. “See? Taste. I am fine.”

“Of course, you’re a basilisk, who can stand up to you?” Harry spat into his neck.

Voldemort’s scent was inordinately pleased, “Exactly, my little hatchling.” He pressed a lipless kiss to Harry’s crown, “Who can stand up to me? Certainly not young Hognoses.”

#

“My little one, come here.” Voldemort’s fingers gestured beckoningly. “What did Dumbledore tell you about your scar?”

Harry obediently shuffled over, “He said you transferred some of your powers to me on that night.”

Voldemort smirked, “Not entirely wrong,” he said musingly. Before him was a small box with a few glittering items in there, all with a peculiar appeal to Harry.

“What is it?” Harry asked, trying to see the items better. Voldemort closed the box with a deliberate finality.

“I will tell you later, when you’re ready,” he offered in placation, hands smoothing over the wood caressingly.

Harry felt his mouth sour at the familiar words. Surprisingly, not from Voldemort, but from a much friendlier figure.

One who had failed to find Harry. To save him from the Dark Lord’s grip.

A grip Harry now wondered if he could leave.

“Ahh, I see Dumbledore has offered you the same excuses before.” Voldemort pulled Harry in closer, “I am not like him, Harry.” He stroked Harry’s face, as he seemed want to do, “As soon as I can trust you, I promise I will tell you everything about your scar.”

Harry gave him a measuring look, full of distrust. Voldemort looked briefly angry, his scent souring before it lightened. “Come closer, snakelet. I am not lying to you. Taste my words.” 

Harry frowned; he had been doing that. But Voldemort roped him in, until Harry’s head was pressed against his chest, the thrumming beat of his heart echoing in Harry’s skull.

He was engulfed in Voldemort’s scent in a way he had only been a few times before, when in terrible panic, or anger.

With a clear head it was easier to pick up the differences, the scents that were clinging to the material and the fresher ones on the skin.

Subtleties that Harry wouldn’t have picked up on otherwise. The scent that heralded Voldemort’s thunderous temper and anger were so different from the mild hinderances, the smallest fluctuations that were there on a flesh level.

The way that Voldemort’s irritation was changing to contentedness as Harry rested against him, the barest hint of appetite, a longing for something Harry didn’t know.

 “You can taste lies from the changes people exude in their breathing and their sweat. Listen to me,” Voldemort’s voice engulfed him. “I promise I will tell you, when I trust you.”

Voldemort could lie easier than breathing, and he would never trust Harry. Not truly. If the truth was dependent on Voldemort’s trust, then Harry would never know it.

Harry also didn’t neglect to notice that Voldemort did not tell him how to tell what was lie and what was not.

The man would expect him to figure it out by himself, which meant seeking out closer contact with him more and more.

Not just being subjected to touches, not just allowing them when he was in a heightened emotional state, but actually seeking Voldemort out and pressing face into his skin. Tasting.

That made Harry feel deeply uncomfortable.

Perhaps Harry could ask Nagini instead?

Once Voldemort released him, Harry stepped away. The Dark Lord grabbed his jaw before he got out of range, forcing his mouth open like he had that night in the graveyard.

“You have a vomeronasal organ like a reptile, not a human – in which it is vestigial – as I am sure you are aware.” He pressed his finger against the roof of Harry’s mouth. The explosion of scents and flavours nearly made Harry’s eyes roll. “Human’s release so much in their sweat, their oils. Even in small amounts we can detect it. It is something you must train and study to be truly efficient at. We, of course, are not immune to it ourselves, but humans at least cannot taste like we can.”

Voldemort withdrew and returned to his desk. Harry adjusted his jaw awkwardly, try to ignore the fact he had just had Voldemort’s finger in there and the fact he could taste his own flesh, his hair, his bitter worry and sadness. The taste of Nagini so ready to shed her skin…

And under all that? Voldemort himself. And all the complexity that came with his scents.

The Dark Lord rapped the box sharply, “This. This here is also why you must learn Occlumency,” Voldemort continued, “The information is very sensitive and cannot leak into the wrong hands.”  He hesitated a moment, then spoke carefully, words weighted, “What I will tell you is this. I made you into a Parselmouth. You were not born as one, your bloodline does not have a single drop of blood that could produce your heritage. On that fateful night, all those years ago, I made you.” His mouth curled in that horrid way he had, “I shaped you in my image.”

Harry stiffened, unsure of how to feel about that. He didn’t want to be made by Voldemort. But at the same time, he would have been dead in that graveyard and feasted upon by birds if he wasn’t.

He would have been with his parents though.

And Harry had always longed for family.

…Voldemort kept insisting they were family.

They weren’t. They weren’t. But he tasted like family. Safety. Power. Protection.

He didn’t make Harry want to hide or play dead anymore. If anything, Harry had begun to want to hide behind him. Trusted in Voldemort’s strength, in Voldemort to protect him. This man who had broken him down, made him feel so weak and dependent.

He didn’t know how to process that.

In fact, Harry couldn’t recall the last time he had puffed out his cheeks…he had to stop himself doing so right at that moment, Voldemort’s amused red eyes trailing the motion.

“Little one, what have we said about being conflicted?” He asked, beguilingly.

Harry ducked his head, mumbling, “It’s okay to feel it. It is part of the process.” He looked up at Voldemort through the veil of his lengthening hair, “It’ll go away once I’ve accepted my place.”

Voldemort nodded blandly, “That’s right, Harry. And what have I said about accepting your place?”

“To take my time. You can wait for me.”

“Yes, we have all the time in the world.” Voldemort picked up the mysterious box, smiling down at its heavily warded surface. “You have been behaving so well, Harry. Perhaps we can start on some supervised lessons with your wand. Would you like that?” The box disappeared, sent to somewhere safe, “You will always be a little Hognose to me, but let’s see if we can’t get a little venom in that bite.”

Chapter Text

The beginnings of acceptance came one winter morning, with its crisp air and rolling mist.

It came with a realisation.

It stemmed from a deep seed of cunning that was normally out of reach to Harry, living in the moment and on his toes. It was from the desperate thoughts of one trapped with only their own company for long, long periods of time.

Someone who had had to think deeply about their future, constantly.

It was exhausting to think constantly, to overanalyse every word that was spoken to him, words that Harry himself said.

And that exhaustion was beginning to show.

He slept too much and yet never felt rested. Awoke in the middle of the night anxious and worried about a small turn of phrase and how it might have been interpreted.

And that was when he did not wake in the night – alone - with only the screams from murderous raids echoing in his skull.

Harry was learning helplessness in a way he had never experienced before.

The Dursley’s had been awful, but this was different. It was pervading – traveling deep into his bones and his marrow. More than that – it was constant. The Dursley’s were keen to be rid of Harry as much as he was of them. He would put them out of mind as soon as he could; they being much the same about the boy in the cupboard under the stairs.

But Voldemort? He lingered in every corner, all the time. He was in Harry’s head both figuratively and literally.

There was no escape at any minute of the day; even when Harry was truly alone, he thought about the Dark Lord.

Harry was starting to become what Voldemort wanted, crumbling under the constant pressure.

But under the lingering shadow, those desperate and anxious thoughts turned inwards and tried to plan.

One cannot live in that state of fear permanently.

Harry would never be able to win against Voldemort. He would never be able to leave him unless the Dark Lord let him.

Harry would probably never know the reasons why Voldemort had kept him alive in the first place. Nor understand the appeal those strange objects in that sealed box had to Voldemort, or the attraction he himself felt for them – though he would bet his Firebolt that the two were linked.

Harry couldn’t fool the man. He could not hide his anxiety, his despair, his made fear. Could not hide that he was desperately unhappy.

But he could accept the lies. Accept the deceit, know it was deceit and know that Voldemort was aware of Harry’s internal workings.

Voldemort did not believe in the power of love, of loyalty bore through anything but fear and coercion.

So, why not give it to him?

Give Voldemort his loyalty because he feared not to. Voldemort would believe that. Would accept it and not seek for more. He would not understand that more was available.

Harry looked at his wand, clasped tightly in his hand. He had his wand back.

A belated Christmas present. Though Voldemort had sneered as he said it, deriding the muggle holiday. It was only temporary, and only allowed when in Voldemort’s presence, but it was his and to hold it again made Harry feel like Harry again. Not enfeebled, not so scared.

It made him feel like he might - just might - get out of here one day.

It had been nearly seven months since Harry had held it last, terrified and alone and facing almost certain death.

Such a difference time had made.

Having his wand back in his possession suddenly brought back memories and worries that hadn’t been there for months.

A return to reality.

Harry rarely had thought of his friends during the last months of his captivity, or of Hogwarts. Even Cedric hadn’t haunted him in a few weeks, and he thought he would never escape his dead eyed stare.

But now? It was like opening a wound and blood was gushing out.

Oh, how he missed them all.

However, he had the knowledge that he couldn’t escape. And though it did little to stem the pain or bleeding, it did hold him down.

Anchored him and kept him steady.

He had to be weak to become strong again.

“Harry,” Voldemort called from the makeshift classroom, “Come now. We have much to get through today.”

The initial plan that Voldemort had laid out was to assess Harry in all his basic lessons and see his skill. The Dark Lord was keen to keep Harry apace with his peers, wanted him to succeed them in as many ways as Harry was able.

Defence, Charms and Transfiguration had been the plan for today and Harry had been looking forward to being able to practice magic, even if it was something as dull as first year charms.

But that was not Harry’s plan, not anymore.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t stand here with his wand and… just play school.

But Harry also knew any misbehaviour would be fruitless and set him back.

…But he couldn’t do nothing.

He couldn’t hold his wand and not try.

Anything would be better than nothing, surely? Any act of defiance would lessen his betrayal…

Harry shuffled into the next room, his desk set out in front of Voldemort with his collection of books and his messy notetaking situated where he left them.

Voldemort had even attained books to help a child learn to write with a quill for Harry to improve his penmanship.

It was all too domesticated.

Harry hesitated in the doorway feeling sick to his stomach.

Instead of going to sit down as Voldemort intended, Harry went to stand in front of him, unable to look him in the eye.

He would rather die than hand over his wand, but he still held it out in a tightly clenched fist with a heavy tremble. “I can’t today. It’s too much,” he hissed from clenched teeth, “It’s too much…temptation.”

Voldemort stared consideringly, the only indicator of shock in the slight tilt of his head. He took a long, agonising moment to reach out his hand and gently pry the shaking wand from Harry’s surprisingly sweaty grip.

The piece of holly disappeared into his robes silently.

Harry felt his eyes burning. He didn’t want to cry, but he felt like he had betrayed everyone he loved even more by just handing his wand back. As though he might as well have held out his arm for the Dark Mark just as easily.

Harry wanted to yell. Give it back! I was wrong – I want it more than I want anything else. More than I want food or a bed or anything. Give it back to me. It’s mine!

But he was telling the truth when he said it was too much temptation.

It was a stark reminder of a life he couldn’t have right now.

And though Harry would not do anything so foolish as to try to run away, having that wand felt like his spine could hold itself better.

…Harry couldn’t afford a spine right now. He couldn’t afford his wand.

And he wanted it, he missed magic so much.

But he couldn’t right now.

Not if he wanted to ever be free again.

Harry had to stymie himself now and be seen to do so. To give up any semblance of power and autonomy willingly.

“Help me,” he gasped out, as hot tears did start to fall. This was a betrayal to himself like he had never imagined, and he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

Take this decision away from me.

Voldemort came closer, a soothing reptilian croon coming out of him, “Little snake. Little one.” He gently rocked him, “It’s alright, we will try again another time,” he soothed.

Harry felt such a wrenching despair in him.

It was like he had chopped off his own arm.

What did it matter anymore? He had no dignity left to protect, so he sobbed.

It was always upsetting, a deep insult to have to let the Dursley’s lock away his wand every summer, but Harry knew it was only ever temporary and one day he would never have to go back to that house again.

But this time? And to the Dark Lord? It didn’t feel temporary. It felt much worse.

“Shh, shh,” Voldemort soothed, pulling a small chaise lounge across the room and settling them both on it, “I know, little one. It will not always be this hard. It will ease.” His scent was so inordinately pleased, it was sickening. The most exuberant Harry had ever tasted from the man, and though it did not cheer Harry up, at least he knew his plan had succeeded, “You’re such a good snakelet. I will always help; you only have to ask.”

Harry nodded into his shoulder, let himself act like a baby and clutch at the robes. “Can we just go over some theory tonight?” he asked, cringing at it all.

It didn’t matter how much he didn’t want to be this pathetic; he had to be. Had to let Voldemort see the cracks, the broken pieces so he would start to put Harry back together again.

Harry had to break himself, so Voldemort wouldn’t.

He couldn’t afford to break anymore without losing Harry. Harry had to remind himself to be grateful he still had it in him to feel this shame. To hate to beg and to feel the curdling embarrassment that flooded is cheeks and made him feel sick.

If that went, then there would be nothing.

“We could, but it is New Year’s Eve – I do not normally celebrate such a holiday, but we can relax a little instead. It is a rather early for bed though. Come, we shall sit by the fire. Do you think you could eat some soup? You’re not too exerted for that, I hope.” Voldemort wiped under Harry’s eyes, “You will eat, and I shall read some history to you. You are still woefully behind on that topic.”

And so, they sat by the fire late into the night until Harry’s skin was no longer blotchy from tears and the embarrassment had faded.

Nagini curled up in front of the roaring fireplace, dozing intermittently whilst wrapped around both Harry and Voldemort’s ankles.

Harry had even been allowed some firewhisky for the New Year. Surprisingly, Voldemort had imbibed some too, and he was not one for drinking that Harry had ever seen.

Voldemort passed Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet, as he occasionally allowed, demonstrating the sweeping changes that Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor was employing throughout the school.

Harry didn’t like that at all, and in his slightly drunken stupor, he opened his mouth wide and let out a baneful, wordless hiss at the smiling toad woman on the front cover.

Voldemort hairless brows still managed to look terribly amused, something fond curling at the corner of his mouth. “No, I didn’t think much of that either.”

Harry took advantage of the low buzz in his veins, unused to such a strong drink and leant into Voldemort’s side. It surprised the man but he allowed the contact, even pulling Harry in closer, the scar thrumming pleasantly at their proximity.

Harry had never had a proper embrace before. Not like this. Not allowed to just wallow in the contact of another person.

“I thought you’d be pleased. You don’t like Professor Dumbledore,” he mumbled into the man’s robes tiredly, glasses pressing into the bridge of his nose.

“I do not. That does not mean I like the ministry involving itself in the school. One inefficient entity infecting another is rather infuriating, despite the fact it will make destabilising both easier.” He stroked Harry’s arm slowly, “Plus, I like Dumbledore where I can see him. This woman is known to me, she is a pest within the ministry. Fudge wants Dumbledore out and she will see to it.”

“Why does Fudge want Professor Dumbledore out?” Harry asked, confused. He had never thought that the minister seemed particularly competent but had not gotten the impression of maliciousness.

“He has been openly speculating about my return due to the disappearance of the two Hogwarts’ champions last summer. Many see this as a scapegoat for his own failures.”

“But…he’s not wrong.”

Voldemort chuckled, “No, but he cannot prove it.” He didn’t seem to mind Harry’s feeble defence of Dumbledore and merely continued his petting. Voldemort never minded Nagini seeking comfort and physicality for no other pleasure than just company. It seemed the same applied to Harry, and not just for utilising the contact as manipulation or scent exchange. “You’ve had too much alcohol, darling child,” Voldemort remarked, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

He caught Harry’s unfocused gaze staring across the room, towards the window that under the black of night hid the expanse of greenery Malfoy Manor had to offer. “Perhaps I can let you go flying, if you promise to stay in the wards,” he offered in consideration.

Harry’s breath caught at the offer, “Really? Can I?”

“I will think on it. You have behaved so well lately. Though, I would like to ensure you are healthy before I allow you on a broom.”

“I am healthy,” Harry protested, “No one ever checked on me before.”

“Exactly, and you hardly had the best upbringing. Injuries in our world are hardly as life threatening as they are for muggles, but if you insist on flying around hundreds of feet in the air like a lunatic, I will ensure your body is equipped as possible for any mishaps. I trust you have the skill to avoid a broken neck.”

Harry squirmed at the mention of his family, the burning firewhisky unable to quell that horrid feeling of exposure.

“They starved you on occasion. Missing the occasional meal has always been a regular punishment for most children, but your relatives certainly put some extra zeal into it when punishing you.” Voldemort continued, viciously needling at the weakness. “In those filthy muggles’ attempts to be cruel, by giving you small portions of plain, boring food, they had inadvertently made you the healthiest in the house – when they weren’t starving you,” Voldemort scoffed.

He took on a musing tone, “It must have felt unfair to see you whale of a cousin eating all that unhealthy food, and masses of it, whilst you were given small – appropriate for your age portions – of rather healthy food. Then you were made to do chores, burning off energy as child ought to do, whilst your cousin sat down all day…doing whatever fat muggles do in their spare time. They may have been cruel to you – excessively cruel in their punishments - but in their own disgusting way, they have been much crueller to their own son who will die young, should I not find him first.”

“Ha-have you found them then?” Harry asked, utterly sure of it in that moment.

The Dursleys were already dead.

There was a pregnant pause, thick with enjoyment in the air. “I think it is time for bed, Harry,” Voldemort said in reply, pulling Harry into a seated position. It was already half an hour into 1996. “I want you to go straight to sleep. Nagini will stay with you tonight.”

That meant that Voldemort was going on another raid. That he would be attacking some poor defenceless muggles…

Voldemort had already stood, slipping out of Harry and Nagini’s grip and was brushing down his robes fastidiously. He paused, noticing Harry’s reluctance to move. He set his tumbler down on the mantle, “Do you want me to see you to bed?” His eyes crinkled, “I trust you are a little too old to want to be tucked in.”

Harry cautiously shook his head, unsure of the right answer. Voldemort rolled his eyes.

“Nagini, time to go to the hide for the night. You’ll keep our little snakelet warm for the night, won’t you?” He asked, taking Harry by the arm and guiding him to his bedchamber.

Harry could hear Nagini’s sleepy hiss, and then the sound of her heavy body sliding along the carpet to follow them.

The weighty feel of alcohol made it easier to accept the affection, to let Voldemort manhandle him and let himself somewhat enjoy being treated like an infant.

To be treated like he was cared for.

Harry who had never received presents nor told he was loved. Voldemort forgot that children needed that. That Harry needed that.

But for all that he didn’t care for Harry in the traditional sense, would not flinch from inflicting pain on him or make him emotionally distraught, he was concerned for Harry. When Harry did as he was told or did well, he received praise.

Even when Voldemort was not happy with him, he was never denied food, nor locked away in tiny spaces.

His punishment was quick and to the point, and then over. Completely forgiven. No lingering grudges nor glares.

He was always there. No matter what.

Harry knew the rules here. And despite the fear, it had evolved to being a fear of losing the routine, of the relative safety he had.

Voldemort was his enemy. His parental figure, his protector.

But Harry was not Voldemort’s enemy, not anymore and Harry could not allow it to go back to that, not whilst he was at his mercy.

Nagini was heavy as she settled on the bed, coiling over Harry’s midriff.

The lights were extinguished as the Dark Lord left the room, and the firewhisky quickly pulled Harry deep into sleep.

It helped him to not remember the burning smell of flesh or the screams of terrorised innocent people.

#

Lessons began again a couple of days after their false start, and Harry did not have to fake the genuine joy he felt at being able to practice magic. Even though it came with guilt.

It was during one such lesson that Harry was made aware that shortly the school term would start up again.

Once Draco Malfoy was back at school, Voldemort promised Harry that he would be allowed to visit the grounds and fly – but only with supervision. The Dark Lord did not trust the youngest Malfoy to be able to keep his mouth (nor mind) shut if he saw Harry at the Manor.

“Perhaps we can do a small trial before I allow you to fly. I want to assess your behaviour amongst my Death Eaters, though you have been performing exemplary with me. You’ll have to be disguised. There are many here that would hurt you.” Voldemort grabbed Harry’s chin, looking at him critically. “You’ve made me very proud lately, Harry. Not many gain Lord Voldemort’s favour.”

Harry ducked his head bashfully, tasting the genuineness of the words.

However, he wondered if Voldemort meant what he said about taking Harry out. It was a trick that Harry had cottoned on to very quickly. It was easy to hide a lie within a true statement. Voldemort could promise him any falsehood, and then finish it with something true, or something flattering so it became harder for Harry to tell whether the first thing was genuine or not.

Perhaps. Everything pertaining to any stretch of freedom was always perhaps. Harry resented it. But he readily agreed to be disguised if it meant he could actually go out.

He wouldn’t be allowed far from Voldemort’s reach, that he knew, but he could live with that. For now.

He’d had to accept some of the unpleasant facets that had come with his imprisonment. He liked Voldemort, turned to him when he needed help or comfort. But he also hated him and feared him. Resented what he had done in the past, but also what he was doing to the future.

It was horrid to realise that his whole life had been shaped around the Dark Lord, that there may never be a future without him. Not for Harry.

And though Harry could never pretend to hate muggleborns and muggles, could not spout Voldemort’s hateful ideology, he also could not live his entire life in these rooms.

He hadn’t spoken to another human being for months.

He hadn’t spoken English for months. Almost feared he couldn’t. That he may have somehow forgotten his first language.

Harry tried speaking to the mirror, seeing as it always made comments on his hair. He had been scared he wouldn’t have a voice anymore, that he would croak, and nothing would come out but instead his “hello” had come out smooth and clear.

Because, of course, he had been speaking all this time - just a different language.

But his voice was a little different…deeper than he remembered? He couldn’t be sure. It had always been something to take for granted in the past.

His reflection showed someone who looked a lot younger than they were, with bags under their eyes from oversleeping. He didn’t like to see it.

He looked insipid. Weak.

Nagini slithered into the opulent bathroom “What are you doing? Who are you speaking to?” she demanded jealously.

“No one.” But when he responded to her, he flinched at his own expression.

There was something positively inhuman about his eyes when he spoke in Parseltongue, something cold-blooded and utterly reptilian in his face.

It was jarring to see it. To switch from the human boy to the cold creature, and Harry could suddenly understand peoples’ utter fear and terror at hearing the snake tongue. Their belief it was a dark ability.

Because it looked dark. It looked animalistic.

Voldemort always looked the same to Harry regardless of language or who he was speaking to, but Harry had never seen himself in the throes of Parseltongue.

He could understand Smith’s fear with clarity now. There was something so flat about those eyes, a dark gleam of sizing up prey. It would take Harry years to ever understand what Parseltongue sounded like to a human.

(--one day in a pensieve, he sees himself and Malfoy on the platform, and cannot understand what was spoken but for the fact it really did sound as though Harry was indeed egging the snake on. Because if the owner of the memory does not speak the language, how can they ever recall what was actually said?--)

His practicing of English was all for naught, however, as Voldemort had a very different disguise planned for him.

“Tell me, Harry, what is the difference between an Animagus and a transfiguration?”

Harry swallowed in confusion, finding his knowledge fleeing from him in panic. He had to take a moment to calm himself down, to grasp what he did know.

Voldemort had never punished him for not knowing before.

“An Animagus can change into an animal at will,” he licked his suddenly dry lips, terrified for Sirius in that moment. “Uh-they retain their human consciousness. Transfiguring someone into an animal is a spell. I -I don’t think they can think like a human…they actually become the animal until the spell is reversed.”

“Very good, Harry,” Voldemort offered encouragingly, with a small nod, “You do not need to look so worried; I do not know where your Godfather is and have no intention of searching for him unless he becomes an irritant to me. I’m asking this for a different purpose.”

“What purpose?” Harry asked, wondering if Voldemort wanted him to become an Animagus, but unable to think why he would want Harry to learn that particular skill.

“I was thinking of the best disguise for you. I think too much pressure on you may cause unnecessary distress, so something that will not draw the eye too much will be beneficial. I also want you to be able to reach out to me if you are becoming overwhelmed.” He brandished his bone-white wand casually, “What better form for you to take than a snake? As a Parselmouth, you will retain some autonomy and awareness in such a form, unlike if you were to be transfigured into a rodent or even a larger more intelligent animal.”

Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about that information but wasn’t given much time to protest before the world shifted around him with a sharp flick of Voldemort’s wand. Before he knew it, he was looking up at the Dark Lord. The man looked even more monstrous and domineering than before.

He bent down, holding out one hand towards Harry. “Harry, can you understand me?”

The words took a long time to process, like trying to wade through syrup, “…yes?”

Despite the hesitancy of his language comprehension, Harry was surprised at how well everything else had translated. He could see as clear as he could with his glasses on, surprisingly as snakes have very bad vision, but the details remained very clear and bright. The smells and tastes of his surroundings were even more intense than before.

The whole sensation made Harry remember his introduction to firewhisky. There was a lack of inhibition to his movements, and he found himself swaying a little as though aiming to strike at Voldemort’s tempting fingers.

“None of that now, Harry,” Voldemort chided, scooping Harry up with ease, “We’ll be attending a dinner party and then a short meeting. That will be fun, won’t it?”

Harry must have been quite small, as he fit into the palm of Voldemort’s hand with ease. He couldn’t comment on how fun the evening might be, because the meaning of dinner party and meeting were a little lost on him at that moment.

He curled up petulantly and hid his head.

Voldemort chuckled.

And then they were moving.

Dinner was a curious affair of mindless chatter and stilted awkwardness. The English was spoken too fast for Harry to be able to follow, the different pitches of voices were antagonising and baffling.

Slowly, as the evening progressed, things began to clarify a bit with certain voices being easier to understand than others.

This gave Harry a little confidence. He slithered onto the table, out of Voldmort’s gentle grip.

It was fascinating being this small, and who were these people? Death Eaters, obviously, but names and faces were lost on him.

He recognised a couple of people who he had known before his imprisonment. His beady eyes fixated on Snape for a long moment.

Bite him was the immediate thought.

But then he remembered himself. Hissed scathingly at him instead and moved on.

Hadn’t he always thought Snape was untrustworthy? That he was as cruel and mean as any at this table?

Snape would deserve a bite. What kind of snake was Harry? Could he bite him? Would it do permanent damage?

One did not sit at the table of Voldemort’s inner circle without having earned it. Cunning, ruthlessness and extreme proficiency at dark magic were a must. Lord Voldemort did not tolerate incompetence in any shape of form.

There was no fat in Voldemort’s forces.

Harry was surprised seeing as Crabbe and Goyle Snr were there too and not only for decoration. From Voldemort’s hints, they were more useful than they let on. Smarter than their sons at least, but Voldemort rather thought the entire generation of offspring was a let-down.

Harry curled around one of the elaborate candle sticks, delighting in the radiating warmth that carried through the metal, “Careful, Harry, do not get yourself burned.”

Harry let out a sleepy hiss of acknowledgement, “It’s so warm,” he couldn’t help but note out loud.

Voldemort let out a deep chuckle, and wasn’t that a wonderful human sound? Nothing like a snake, nor his cold domineering voice, but the sound of a man.

The taste of unease rose in the air, and the reptile in him couldn’t help but notice most of the guest’s prey like posture, even though Harry’s form was much too small to even begin eating their fingers never mind anything more.

And how odd it was to think about eating people, considering them as prey and nothing more. Harry found himself incredibly bemused, feeling that same weightlessness that accompanied alcohol. He could take a liking to drink, he thought.

Uninhibited and free.

Things were simpler like this, a lack of capacity for thought or anxiety.

As he detangled himself from his warm perch, he knocked down the candle, sending a spattering of hot wax over the tabletop.

There was a loud yelp from… Draco Malfoy. Harry wondered why he was here, but then they were having dinner before the meeting, weren’t they?

And term would be starting again soon, Harry noted mournfully. Another term at Hogwarts’ he would not see.

In a fit of jealousy, he hissed and snapped at Malfoy as he passed. The boy flinched despite Harry’s small size, desperately trying to peel off the flecks of wax that coated his hands and sleeve cuffs.

Even the great Malfoy can’t use his wand over the holidays. Harry felt somewhat vindicated as he had been practicing magic all morning.

There was some discussion overhead; the candlestick being righted and the wax removed from the table. But Voldemort never called for Harry to return to him, nor scold him from causing a disruption to the stilted after-dinner drinks and dessert.

“My word, what a disruptive little chap,” a deceptively youthful voice chortled. Harry stopped and turned to look at the one addressing him. He knew that face.

Who was it? Where had he seen him before?

Then it struck him.

Barty Crouch Jnr.

Wasn’t he in Azkaban? Hadn’t he died in Azkaban?

The scruffy man looked delighted to have caught his attention. “Oh, you’re a smart one too, aren’t you? Just like our Master’s Nagini.”

Harry came closer, circling the wine glass cautiously, eyes fixated on the should-be-dead man. He tasted familiar, Harry’s flickering tongue catching the smallest hints of something he knew from him.

Harry knew he had never met the man before, but he tasted familiar…

Crouch did not appear worried or unnerved to have a snake’s undivided attention like he had. He merely smiled and continued eating what looked like a fancy dessert.

How long had Harry been here that they were already on dessert?

His tongue flickered out to the edge of the plate, curious as to what Crouch was eating.

Once again, the man didn’t seem to mind Harry’s attention, allowing him closer and closer to the plate. He held out his spoon bemusedly and allowed Harry to taste the strange sauce that was coating the pudding.

It was a kind of cream, Harry suspected. It didn’t appeal to him. He shook his head unhappily, hissing at the taste.

Crouch laughed. He wasn’t the only one. Voldemort did too, and there a high-pitched cackle from the other side of the table as well.

Harry didn’t like that but before he could bite at Crouch’s hand, he noticed his robe sleeve; wide enough for Harry to go into, tight and cosy to make a snake feel comfortable.

It was his left arm too, where the taste of Voldemort’s magic lingered heavily. He had just managed to get his head in when Voldemort called him. “Harry, leave Barty alone now. I’m sure he has entertained you long enough.”

Harry reluctantly retreated and began his exploring again; Barty sending him off with a wink. Did he know something Harry didn’t? That was not normal behaviour.

It was an odd experience, skirting along the table and using the runner as his guide. With just as many people afraid of Harry and what he represented as there were who seemed bemused or pleased by his attention.

There were many beautiful flower arrangements along the centre of the table. Classy and ostentatious, but very appealing to hide in.

He disappeared into one such arrangement, despite the winter stems holding a heavily perfumed smell to them.

Harry emerged on the other side of the table, directly opposite one of the few women there.

She was a strange woman and undoubtably a Death Eater – she must have been the one to laugh earlier.

She reminded Harry of Sirius with her mad eyes. These were dark in comparison to Sirius’ grey ones. But they looked upon him with a deep affection and she held out her hand, the tips of her fingers nearly grazing his snout.

He tasted the tips her fingers curiously, and her smiled widened.

“My Lord, what a darling little snake,” she gushed in a reverent voice. Harry didn’t like that at all, but he was fascinated by her hand.

He thought he ought to know her. He shared visions with Voldemort enough that something about her tone made Harry uneasy. He knew to be wary of this one.

“Thank you, Bella. He is only a yearling, but he shall grow into a fearsome beast.” The Dark Lord’s tone warmed considerably, “He will fine companion for Nagini and shall represent our new strength as we begin our campaign anew.”

Harry should have been concerned at the words, but he struggled to comprehend the full implications of them. Instead, he continued to entangle himself in Bella’s fingers, curious and content with her gentle attention.

Who was Bella? He wondered. Clearly, she was important. The tone Voldemort has used with her was practically indulgent. Or maybe it was because she was discussing Harry. Voldemort was always indulgent with Harry.

He coiled more tightly around her fingers, inspecting the rings and bracelets she was wearing.

“Perhaps young Draco should head to bed now. We shall begin our meeting shortly,” Voldemort spoke calmly, friendly almost, despite it being an order. Though perhaps the sibilant edge wasn’t friendly sounding to the humans in the room?

There was the quiet shuffling of several figures standing and leaving. Wives of the Death Eaters, Harry supposed. And one teenager. Lucky Malfoy, Harry thought. Lots to brag about to his Slytherin mates when he got back to school.

There was the shifting of chairs as the surplus ones were magically pulled to the sides of the room, plates disappearing from existence and the table shrinking down towards Voldemort; pulling the inner circle closer and closer.

None of this phased Harry, tongue flicking out to the heavy gems embedded in Bella’s jewellery. It tasted old.

Who was Bella?

Then it clicked, a distant memory of looking into Professor Dumbledore’s pensieve. The very same trial that Barty Crouch had been at. Bellatrix Lestrange! The one who had tortured Neville’s parents… he flinched away but didn’t completely detangle himself.

Harry looked up at her and her enraptured expression focused on the Dark Lord. She was obsessed with him, completely besotted. She briefly glanced down at Harry, evidently having felt his snake eyes fixated on her face.

She smiled down at him with a mouth full of rotten teeth. If only she knew who she was holding.

She would crush him in her fist without a second thought.

Her fingers, long and elegant as they were, were not Voldemort’s hands, which were infinitely more interesting.

Harry began to move back towards the tabletop. Bellatrix made a small, disappointed sound as he did, but made no move to stop him slithering away and hiding under the large flower arrangements that had remained even in this serious meeting.

The one he ended up in was in a nice tall vase, with thick artistic grooves around it. He climbed the vase until he could get into the thick foliage and onto one particularly large flower.

It was a nice flower, he liked the taste of the perfumed pollen, the comforting bow of the stem as it supported his weight.

“Having fun are we, Harry?” Voldemort asked, “Come back to me now, young one. I want you with me.”

Harry huffed; a small spray of pollen dispelled from his breath as he glared petulantly at the Dark Lord. None-the-less, he felt the flower bend under the Dark Lord’s will, pulling down towards the table to allow Harry to get back onto the smooth and polished surface. He slowly returned to the head of the table, petulant and disappointed but somewhat eager for Voldemort’s attention. He was the favourite here.

Voldemort’s right hand was already palm up when Harry slithered up to him, curling into a ball in the centre of his palm. “Come now, don’t be like this now. You’re acting spoiled.”

Harry considered nipping at him, but instead glowered up from between his coils before retreating further into a ball.

The words of the meeting didn’t quite meet him in his little huddle, the words flowing over him but barely making sense. Discordant and nonsensical. Maybe Voldemort was doing it? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he cared. He should care. Harry wanted to care.

But one long finger continually stroked down his back. Like that wine glass trick Vernon had shown to Dudley once. His cousin hadn’t been impressed.

The continual petting was soothing, and Harry began to find himself uncoiling without thought, slowly sloping through the spread of Voldemort’s fingers and stretching himself out for inspection and admiration.

Voldemort continued to move his fingers in a slow, uncomplicated way, allowing Harry to wind himself in different fashions, trying to secure and bind his fingers. Voldemort smiled down favourably, listening to the report with half an ear.

All was as it should be.

Until it got to the negative news.

Voldemort cursed the man without a second thought.

The screaming was unbearable even with his snake hearing. Harry ducked his head, curling it into the seat of Voldemort’s palm.

“Enough,” Voldemort cut of the curse with an irritated snarl, “Your pathetic shrieking is upsetting him.”

Voldemort calmed Harry with gentle pets, and Harry shortly thereafter began to retreat up his sleeve, the heavy winter robe dampening the outside world again.

It was warm and cosy, and all Harry could taste was Voldemort, Nagini and the strangest smell that Harry figured must be his own human scent. The lulling smells of den made him drift.

Harry awoke later, curled in bed with Nagini with the morning light drifting in through the half open curtains.

He sat up with a groan, disorientated and confused.

He couldn’t remember why he should feel that way. He staggered out of bed even though it was clearly very early. There was a flower arrangement set on the table in the centre of the room, one that seemed strangely familiar. He…recognised the flower and the taste of its heavy pollen.

But the whole evening was a blur. What had happened? There had been dinner, hadn’t there?

Later, when Voldemort had returned from whatever he had been doing that day, he asked, “How did you find the meeting?”

Harry paused, realising he couldn’t recall anything said during the meeting. Only scents and smells. In fact, he had completely forgotten there even had been a meeting after the dinner party at all. He stared at Voldemort in shocked horror, shaking his head in confusion, “Pardon?”

The man sighed, “I did wonder, the snake brain does not lend itself to long-term memory formation.”

Harry’s balance wavered and he staggered back a step trying to find the lost hours. Working on instinct alone, Harry dove forward to clutch at him, pressing his face against Voldemort’s neck and taking greedy, obvious puffs of scent.

Malicious satisfaction, cruel amusement and then it faded as Harry’s contact sunk in, pleasure. Voldemort knew Harry was doing it for information, to read what Voldemort felt about the situation but there was also the desire for comfort which Harry couldn’t hide.

Voldemort’s arms came around Harry, stroking his back.

Tell me. Tell me what I need to know. But scent could only do so much, and any answers were long gone.

#

Evidently, Voldemort had considered that trial a success, even if Harry didn’t.

Had the Dark Lord taken him out before and Harry couldn’t remember it?

Harry was beyond upset that he couldn’t remember any of the details of what happened. But at least he had obviously not acted out, as Voldemort decided to take him out for several walks around the grounds since then, bundled up like he was exploring the artic and face hidden.

The promised flight was still yet to occur, but Harry knew it was coming. He could feel it.

Voldemort had one last test up his sleeve, Harry could sense the plotting within him. The man was always plotting something, but this was important whatever it was, and it was dominating his thoughts.

It came to a head at the beginning of February, when Voldemort took Harry out properly and they left the wards of Malfoy Manor. The afternoon study session had finished, and Harry had been piling his books to the side when the Dark Lord arrived, reeking of anticipation.

Harry was handed a small glass of Polyjuice potion, the mixture bubbling away with a bright sheen and a pale blue colour.

It didn’t look too atrocious to drink. It looked like it would taste of sugary sweets.

“What’s this for?” Harry took it up, taking a cautious sniff. He flinched away. It was extremely sweet.

Voldemort smiled, conjuring a scarf and wrapping it around Harry’s neck. He took a perfunctory look at his robes and deemed them acceptable.

“We’re going on a mission, Harry. Just you and I,” Voldemort tucked Harry’s scarf into his robes fastidiously. “Nothing harmful, just a little excursion.”

Harry licked his lips, “Is it… something to do with the corridor?” It had never stopped haunting his dreams, both when people were trying to access it and when his nightmares took him back.

Voldemort fingers stilled; he smiled, “Clever boy,” he murmured. “Yes, it is. We’ll go along and collect what I need and then leave the ministry. And you’ll not call out or try to attract attention, and all will be well.”

The ground seemed to move from under Harry, a ringing in his ears heralding his potential escape. He was leaving the Manor. He was going to be in the public. Not only that but the ministry – aurors were there!

But no.

It wasn’t a potential escape. Not really.

Harry could try his hand, and he could fail. All the little privileges would be taken away. He would be sent back to the other house.

Or he could stay. Behave. And the chains would loosen even further. Harry wanted the rewards due from good behaviour.

Voldemort rewarded loyalty, and he never particularly harmed Harry.

At the moment, Harry was a prisoner.

At the moment, he had clemency by being Voldemort’s prisoner – his actions were out of his control.

And in accordance with that, Harry was being well-behaved to save his life.

No one had managed to rescue him; he could not be sure there had even been any attempts.

Harry couldn’t burn the bridges he had built with Voldemort in a foolish escape attempt, could he?

Not without the absolute guarantee that he would get away. Not without the guarantee that he would never ever see Voldemort again, never have to return.

He couldn’t rock the boat. Not yet.

“Okay,” he said, hiding his frown in the folds of the scarf.

“Good snakelet. Drink up, I don’t think you’ll find this one too unappetising. This creature was hardly objectionable to most humans.”

Worrying about the turn of phrase, Harry quickly gulped down the sickening potion before he could doubt too much.

The sensation was just as weird and unpleasant as it had been the first time, but the taste of the potion was not so bad.

The world shrank and shrank until he was quite tiny, and Harry had to pull his glasses off due to his spinning vision. This person…no, this child had perfect vision.

Voldemort’s pale hand came out and took them from him. He hissed something and Harry’s robes began to shrink to fit his smaller frame.

“What?” he asked, unable to understand. Voldemort gave him a cool glower and it looked much, much scarier to this little human body than it ever had to Harry. “I mean- Pardon?”

“I was merely saying I would look after your glasses for you,” Voldemort said.

“Why can’t I understand Parseltongue?” Harry cried out.

“Do you remember your readings on Polyjuice?” Voldemort had insisted Harry study it in horrific detail, seeing as Harry had imbibed it during his second year, Voldemort thought he ought to know what he was taking into his body.

Relying on others as your source of information was not good enough.

Polyjuice was not only restricted because of its difficulty to brew, but for the effects it can have on the mind and body.  Harry was obviously in a human body, meaning his ability to speak and taste, even basic imitations of snakes would be wrong. Further to that, if the Polyjuice had been brewed poorly, and the subject was a muggle or squib, it could render the drinker unable to cast magic.

They might not be able to ever again.

“Is this the body of a muggle?” he asked in a panic, voice young and high-pitched.

Voldemort only smiled.

The only rational comfort was that Voldemort would not hear of a poorly brewed potion being in his presence. That Voldemort was more than likely trying to scare him.

“A squib?” he tried again, and still Voldemort merely smiled.

The man himself then drunk from a different glass of a much more muted colour, his skin bubbling and shifting until it revealed a rather comely man in his late thirties.

Harry was surprised that Voldemort elected to also be Polyjuiced but reasoned there must be some method to this plan.

Voldemort never neglected details.

“We shall be going as father and son; you are in the body of one of our guest’s children. You do not need to know the details of your identity. You will only speak when spoken to and will affect a shy demeanour otherwise.”

Harry found this little body eager to obey the friendly and (though not to Harry) familiar face. His head nodded enthusiastically.

“What are we going to the ministry for?” he asked, bouncing a little on his toes, the prospect of helping very exciting to the child.

“We are going to the Department of Mysteries.”

“What’s in there?” What has been causing so much trouble?

“A prophecy that I need to collect.” Voldemort adjusted his robes casually, sneering a little at what he saw in a conjured mirror, “It’s about us, in fact. You and I are bound by destiny it seems.”

Harry felt cold and his shoulders hunched, “What happens when you get the prophecy?”

Voldemort waved the mirror away, turning to give Harry his full attention, “Acting on it once caused me a lot of trouble and unnecessary delay to my work. Prophecies are what we make of them often, and I was foolish to act on this one. I will have it to know its contents, but nothing shall be done. If you are worried about harm befalling you, you do not need to. Nothing shall ever harm you again, least of all myself.”

Harry was not sure about that. Voldemort had no qualms about lying to anyone’s face. But what was Harry going to do?

“Promise?” he asked, in a small whisper. The child’s vulnerability unable to hold its tongue.

Voldemort held out his large and broad hand to Harry, “Promise.”

Harry’s Polyjuiced hand was so small in comparison, he wondered at the age of the body – surely no more than four?

The ministry was emptying out by the time they arrived via the Floo, though there were many who would be working late in their offices.

It was still amazingly busy, even at this point in the day.

Harry stared in a dismayed horror, not even the grandeur of seeing the ministry the first time could mitigate it.

Everything was so normal.

When Voldemort was so inclined to share the paper with him, there had been no reports of Death Eater activity and sudden deaths had always been quashed.

Even Mr Weasley’s obituary had been depressingly mundane. Terrible work accident, flavoured with the implication he was working with a vigilante group to steal from the ministry itself.

Harry had never been to the ministry before, but even he could tell that the harried looks on peoples’ faces were due to work and not to the fact that the Dark Lord was back.

Voldemort hurried him out of the fireplace, quick to avoid the next person arriving.

Harry barely paid that any mind, his mouth hanging open as he gaped and tried to take in the taste of the place. Everything tasted so empty. There was a wealth of information lost to Harry.

Voldemort bent over him, reaching around to close his mouth softly, “Don’t do that,” he murmured and began to head towards two large golden gates at the far end of the atrium.

Harry found the crowd a bit overwhelming, the hustle and bustle of so many people after spending months isolated very jarring.

He was too small.

He clutched fiercely at Voldemort’s robe, twisting the material a little.

Voldemort gave him a concerned look, sighing and pulling Harry away from where he was creasing the fine satin.

He opened his outer robe, pulling Harry partially in front of himself and letting the material fall around Harry’s shoulders so that he was more sheltered as they crossed the large expanse of floor.

They joined the queue for visitors checking in their wands, and Harry tried not to gawp at everything going on.

The rich emerald tiling of the place made it feel closed in and claustrophobic. Without the extra senses of a Parselmouth, this little body felt exceptionally vulnerable. The crown of Harry’s head bumped into Voldemort’s thigh as he looked straight up to the vaulted ceiling. So high up, he imagined that the footfall of London could be felt if he were to touch it.

Voldemort looked down at him, brown eyes warm, “Close your mouth, son. Remember we’re in public.” He reminded again, sounding warm. The picture of benevolence and doting father.

A young, pretty witch giggled in the queue behind them, and Harry flushed at the sound. The body instinctively rolled his head inwards to hide his face, jaw shutting with a click.

Voldemort’s warm hand came down to dwarf Harry’s head, his thumb stroking alone his hairline.  

For the first time in his life, Harry felt truly powerless.

He could scream and shout in this place that Voldemort was back, not only was he back he was standing right there with them all in the atrium and Harry himself would look insane. Even if he wasn’t currently posing as a child, even if he was Harry Potter, or Professor Dumbledore himself – he would look hysterical.

Harry had often been alone, as a child he had been alone and at the Dursley’s mercy, but he hadn’t quite realised he had a voice at that point.

But he was standing in a crowd of his people. Wizards and witches - and he was one of them - and he wouldn’t be believed. His voice meant nothing. Because he was a child. Because no one wanted Voldemort back.

And who could blame them? Harry didn’t want Voldemort to be back. Hated listening and tasting the torture.

Hated feeling the fear. The anxiety of displeasing him.

Hated needing him after nightmares. Hated that he was the first one he looked for when scared.

Hated that he liked him sometimes. That he craved his approval.

Hated the circling thoughts he couldn’t escape. Hated having so little in his life that all he could do was think about Voldemort.

Voldemort this, Voldemort that…

The wand check was quick and perfunctory, with Voldemort handing over a plain looking, non-descript wand. It had obviously once been polished to a beautiful sheen, but there were many sweaty fingerprints over it now.

“Ah, Mr Fawley, a pleasure to have you back again. 12 ¹/₄ inches, Ash and Unicorn hair, yes. I remember,” a rather unkempt man droned as he weighed the wand.

“Thank you, Mr Munch,” Voldemort responded blithely, but Harry could see the tic of irritation in his jaw.

Harry wondered where he had heard those specific wand characteristics before. He knew he had somewhere. Whose wand did Voldemort have?

As they walked across the floor towards the lift, Harry found himself not standing on the lines, aiming for the middle of each tile. He skipped along, hand clasped in Voldemort’s, who did nothing to reprimand him for his childish behaviour.

In fact, he seemed rather pleased with it, despite his instructions for Harry to be shy.

This body was too bubbly. Securely attached to his family, loved, and most importantly – the child knew it.

Though the numbers at this hour were dwindling, they drew bemused and indulgent looks from ministry employees. They even let Harry press the buttons on the elevator (something Harry’s young body found absurdly exciting.)

When they arrived at the Department of Mysteries, Harry drew closer again to Voldemort. It was certainly dark and creepy in here, with no natural light to offset the black and shiny tiles.

There was another guard there, set at a small temporary desk. It looked like a hastily set up feature, not at all in keeping with the décor of the department.

“Mr Fawley?” the guard asked, gruffly, “You’re expected. Go on through, I’ll sign you in.”

“Is that normal?” Harry asked as he was escorted briskly by Voldemort. The man looked exceptionally keen now his prize was close. There was a manic gleam in his eyes.

“No, there has been a spate of attempted break-ins lately,” Voldemort said with a sharp grin. “Come now, we do not want to linger unnecessarily.” He bent suddenly and picked Harry up, carrying him on his hip as though he did this every day.  

Harry could see why he had done so when they entered a room of revolving doors. Harry couldn’t help looking around at all of them with a bewildered expression. The Dark Lord evidently knew where he was going as he barely paused, the doors having only just stopped before he was through the one he wanted.

Harry gasped when he saw the room had entered. Dark and endless it seemed, with lots of shelves seated with dully shining orbs. “What’s this place?” he asked in a loud stage whisper, breath disturbing the hairs around Voldemort’s ear.

“This is the Hall of Prophecy. The Keeper of the Hall will be finished for the day, so we will be undisturbed. You mustn’t touch anything here, promise me this?” At Harry’s vigorous yet distracted nod, he continued, “You’ll keep your hands on me unless I say otherwise.”

Harry’s little fists clenched into the material “I promise.”

“Good.”

Once again, the Dark Lord set off at a pace that gave no doubt that he knew exactly what he was here for, and where to get it.

The glowing orbs shone brightly as they passed, distant and faint echoes of voices chasing Harry, though their words were indistinguishable to him.

He set his chin on Voldemort’s shoulder, adjusting his grip on the man’s robe. The hall was quite cold, and Harry was glad his hands were trapped between their two bodies.

They came to an abrupt stop by the corner of one of stack of shelves, identical in every way to the others. Harry sighed into Voldemort’s neck, oddly tired from this small excursion.

“This is it. This is your task now,” Voldemort stroked Harry’s fair head gently, prompting him to look at him. “Take that prophecy record off the shelf for me, little one.” He nodded pointedly to the orb closest to his head.

Harry turned and stared at it for a long moment, brain unable to process the plaque underneath it. The Dark Lord and…himself.

He gulped.

The reality of that prophecy was sickening. What did it say? Would Voldemort change his mind about not harming Harry? He didn’t want him to. Harry didn’t want to go back to being the Dark Lord’s enemy. He felt his lower lip begin to wobble, and he began to shake.

Then there were suddenly warm lips pressed to his temple, “What did I tell you? You have nothing to fear from this prophecy, but we need to know its contents.” Voldemort’s hand carded through Harry’s hair again, the other securing Harry firmly to his body. “Pick it up.”

What choice did he have? Could he even begin to say no at this point?

Harry took the orb and cradled it to his chest, the small thing absolutely giant in his child hands.

“Pop that in your pocket now,” Voldemort said, “That’s a good boy.”           

He was set on the floor again and he slowly slid the record into his inner pocket, fortunately expanded for the purpose of smooth lines. Once it was secure, Harry looked up to the Dark Lord for approval.

He was looking upon Harry with a deeply pleased expression, but that often meant nothing.

Harry wished he had his extra senses. He felt very afraid of the man without that extra layer of taste and that feeling of belonging.

But Voldemort then crouched down and gently adjusted Harry’s robes, like an actual father might; like Vernon used to do for Dudley. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

Harry nodded, reaching for Voldemort’s hand without prompting and delighting at the easy feel of it. That this act was becoming easier at last.

“Remember, keep your hands to yourself in here. You can only pick up records that belong to you.”

Harry nodded and dutifully put his free hand in his other pocket.

They left the Hall of Prophecy quickly, the trip back to the little security desk by the lift seemingly flying by now that they had what they came for.

“Was your meeting productive, Mr Fawley?” the guard asked, as he started to rummage through a selection of books, “I know you were very keen to be seen, sir.”

“Yes, thank you. It was,” Voldemort said congenially, attention already on the elevator. “Why don’t you call the lift?” he asked Harry, gently propelling him towards the buttons.

“Hmm?” the guard asked before startling at the sight of Harry hidden by the desk itself. Harry ducked his head, overcome with shyness at the scrutiny. “Who’s this then? You didn’t sneak in did you, young man? That’s against the rules, you know?”

Under the sudden pressure of an outsider questioning him, Harry felt his young body beginning to break - even though he knew it was merely a joke. Tears started to form, and his face creased up as he tried to control it. This was embarrassing. He found himself running back to Voldemort and burrowing his face into his leg.

Voldemort sighed, good-naturedly, “I know, it’s been a long-day, hasn’t it?” he asked, as he bent to pick Harry up, settling him on his hip.

Harry, distressed without the extra senses of being a Parselmouth, curled into him unable to tell if this was a performance and Voldemort was genuinely annoyed at his inability to answer a simple question or not.

The Dark Lord’s hand stroked his back soothingly, the large hard dominating the expanse of the small child’s torso.

The elderly guard grunted, “So, you’re part of that new age parenting malarkey? All hands on?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? He is my child and very young at that. Once they get overtired, a little coddling doesn’t hurt.” The unsettlingly human face turned to Harry with a coy smile, “Plus, he’s been my little helper today, he’s done very well.”

The orb in Harry’s pocket weighed heavily, pressing into his stomach with a peculiar warmth, as though it were a magical hot water bottle.

“Well, we best be getting home, this one’s mother will be worried that we’re not back yet. You’ve got some sweets from Honeyduke’s waiting for you, haven’t you?”

Harry nodded miserably into Voldemort’s shoulder, unable to muster any enthusiasm for fake chocolates when he felt so distressed.

“Come on, it’s alright. No need for tears, hmm?” Voldemort gave him a gentle shake, but Harry clung harder. “No, you’re not having any of it, are you?” Voldemort continued. “He just needs some rest.”

The guard hummed under his breath, slamming down something heavy on the desk “Sign here then, sir. Have to keep track of people now after the incident.” He grumbled under his breath, even as Voldemort made a noise of agreement, “He had the audacity to work for the ministry too.”

Harry hunched in even tighter, digging his knees into Voldemort’s sternum. Voldemort continued to pet him, only pausing as he took the quill and scrawled his false name.

The lift was silent and empty as they ascended, and Harry wriggled to be let down. Voldemort set him gently on his feet. “You’re doing very well,” he said softly, straightening Harry’s mussed up and crinkled robes again.

The atrium was almost completely empty when they arrived back, and there was a heavy pressure in the air.

“The Floos have been blocked for us. It is high-time we left,” Voldemort explained, and Harry hurried to keep pace without further prompting.

It felt like a massive stretch of space to cover to get back to the fireplace and Harry was very suddenly keen to get home. Back to his lavish, padded cell where he could be Harry Potter, and it was uncomplicated because he wasn’t faced with all the choices of running or crying out. Where it didn’t matter if he didn’t behave; he didn’t have anyone to endanger.

His little legs hurried over the floor, and the earlier urge to skip over the tile joins had left him. They reached the fireplace and Voldemort quickly got them situated. Though Harry didn’t think anyone else would be able to tell, the man was definitely hurrying.

“Ready now?” he asked. Harry nodded.

The moment the Floo was released, green flames burst forth as though being held back had made them angry.

In that split second as the flames surrounded them, Harry swore he saw Dumbledore arrive at the ministry from the opposite fireplace. Heard the desperate cry of someone who could have been Sirius, who ran towards them, as though he could make it in time.

Harry clutched Voldemort’s arm tightly, fighting the urge to burrow into his side and press his face into his knees to hide the sight as the ministry span away.

Instead, he thought of his wand, locked in Voldemort’s desk drawer and Nagini curled by the fire. The freedom he would earn.

He missed his friends and his family so much, but they hadn’t saved him so far and he didn’t want to see anyone else die for his expense.

No more Lily’s, no more James’, and no more Cedric’s…

Voldemort’s hand braced along the span of his shoulder blades was a comforting, grounding weight.

Harry would see his loved ones again. He would.

He didn’t know how yet. But as the green fire spun him around, away and away, he knew it would not be the last time he saw them.

He would make sure of it.

Chapter Text

Hi Everyone!

It’s been a long time since I last posted, and I am old enough to remember FF.net removing chapters that were purely author’s notes – not sure AO3 is the same, but here we go.

I’m sorry if I got anyone’s hopes up for another chapter in this story if you are subscribed, but I hope the following will be a bit of a balm for you.

Firstly, I can’t thank you all enough for your engagement with this story and your wonderful comments – they make my day when I read them, and they have gotten me through some of the most stressful times lately.

I have been thinking about this story for a while now, and though I am been busy finishing up my studies, I am starting to feel a bit of an urge to write some more again…or more aptly, procrastinate.

It won’t be just yet (we’re looking probably at least New Year, maybe a little into it so I can finish up my work) but I did want to see if there was still appetite for more of this verse?

I probably wouldn’t continue with this particular version of events. I do have a one-shot partially written which I could do some more on, but it’s honestly pretty sad thus far. Dealing with the consequences of such treatment as Harry has been through in this story is not easy and leaves lasting scars - but it’s an option.

I was thinking a series of one-shots instead, exploring different versions of events and different versions of characters. Someone suggested in the comments a time-travel option, so I have been thinking along those lines with Harry and Tom growing up together. I also could do a female Harry, future Harry with his kids, there’s quite a few options.

I’m not one normally to be able to pick up prompts or other people’s ideas (mainly because they typically don't work with my weird brain) but for one-shots in this Parselmouth verse, I am open to suggestions! Most won’t be particularly plot driven, but more character-based exploration.

Just let me know what you might like to see 😊