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Chapter Text

Curled in his bed, Harry Potter wrapped his arms over his knees, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against pain and fear, his emotions surging out of control. He’d already sent a wind whipping around the smallest bedroom in number four once, he didn’t need to do it again and risk waking his relatives.

It was his first night back at the Dursleys at the end of his fifth year, after the mess at the Ministry and an extended Hospital Wing stay to try and deal with the after-effects of being held under the cruciatus curse by Voldemort. Vernon had not taken kindly to Harry’s weakness, calling at him to move faster even as he stumbled carrying his trunk from the car. 

He’d been weak ever since that night, in pain from the curse that Madam Pomfrey had said would fade over time as long as he kept taking his potions.

Angry at being threatened by Mad-Eye at the station, Uncle Vernon had taken his trunk, bag and wand and thrown them in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry only thanked his own foresight that he’d left Hedwig at Hogwarts where she would be safe after the disaster that had been last summer - he doubted the Dursleys would ever forgive him for Dudley’s near-miss - but he had not expected his escorts to be stupid enough to openly threaten his uncle. 

No doubt he would be paying for that for some time. 

His potions were still in the cupboard under the stairs. He’d tried to speak to Aunt Petunia about it when she passed food through the catflap in the door that evening, a cold tin of soup, but she had ignored him entirely.

He hadn’t eaten fast enough, still slurping up the last of the soup when Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps approached, creaking down the hall. “Boy, just because we are forced to keep you in this house does not mean it is a hotel! You will recieve your summer chores list from Petunia in the morning. You’d better have it all done by September or you won’t be leaving to go back to that school . Your godfather’s dead, now. Nobody coming to get you, so you’ll have to rely on my own goodwill. ” He’d spat it in disgust from Harry’s doorway as the teenager tried not to react beyond a small, polite nod. 

And then his Uncle had approached him and Harry realised the man had been drinking something strong since they had arrived back. From the smell coming from his breath, he was heavily drunk, and that was never good. 

Hours later, Harry was trying not to sob as the summer moon rose in the sky. He ached all over, not only from the nerve spasms but from his Uncle’s fists and boots. The man had been angry tonight, worsened by his drinks, and Harry had no way of protecting himself. He was scrawny and still weak from his torture, and Vernon was a full-grown man three times his size.

No, Harry had no way of fighting his Uncle.

He winced and bit into his thumb as a particularly harsh throb seemed to burn through his body. It was only getting worse. He needed his potions, but he couldn’t get to them, they were behind two seperate locked doors and a flight of stairs. 

He couldn’t stand this. The thought of another summer of his Uncle hurting him whenever he wished, locked in his bedroom and held hostage, not allowed access to his friends or even his homework, was too much. 

And Sirius was dead.

Sirius was dead, and there was nothing left for him here. He couldn’t bring himself to even move to close his curtains, moonlight shining on his face through the fuzzy outline of his window. Harry didn’t even know where his glasses had gone.

Sirius was gone, and Harry was still here and all of his life was suffering and if anyone found out he’d cast the crucio then he’d be put in Azkaban just like Sirius had been, around Dementors for the rest of his life. He couldn’t stand the thought, he could not deal with the concept.

His head ached, and all he could do was think.

Think about death.

Would it be so bad, really? Screw the prophecy, Harry was never going to defeat Voldemort. He was a scrawny teenager who couldn’t even fight off his muggle relatives and always used Expelliarmus as his first spell in combat. 

Death.

It wouldn’t be so bad, probably. He wondered if it would hurt to die. He wondered if Sirius had hurt when he’d fallen into the veil. The spell that had struck his godfather had been some sort of red light, it hadn’t been anything Harry recognised, but the shock on Sirius’s face had been real, so the spell hadn’t killed him. The fall into the veil had killed him.

Harry sighed, which turned into a quiet whimper of pain. Everything hurt and he wished it would end.

He really, really wanted it to end.

And who knew, maybe it would end soon. His Uncle’s heavy drinking could easily lead to him hurting Harry too badly. Maybe he could even goad the man into it, make him hit Harry in such a way that the dark would take him and he could be with Sirius and his parents. 

That sounded so nice . 

There was an echo of pain in his stomach, the impression of a boot to the organs, and the Dark Lord Voldemort shifted in his armchair. Nagini hissed in displeasure at the disruption, and looked up at him questioningly. 

“It’s nothing, my dear,” He reassured her, but it was not nothing.

Ever since he had possessed Potter, he’d begun to feel the boy’s pain like it was his own. He had no idea if it was reciprocal, but it presented a great challenge considering he still wished to kill him. 

Today was the first day back from Hogwarts, he had heard from Severus last night (Of course Gryffindor had won the house cup yet again due to blatant favouritism.), and the man’s biting wit had at least helped him to relax before releasing him to drink himself into oblivion, as was Snape’s habit on the first night of the summer.

So why was Potter so injured, so soon after term had ended? He had heard nothing from either of his Order spies, so Dumbledore had had nothing to do with it. Severus had always told him that Potter was spoiled at home and lived a life of luxury, so surely this was simply an accident the boy had gotten into. 

(He overlooked the fact that this was violence. Not accidental. He was not considering that right now.)

A few minor aches from the post-cruciatus spasms were expected. The faint and persistent impression of being kicked in the ribs and stomach was not. Was Potter in some sort of trouble? Who would hurt him like that? He was meant to be ‘safe’ at his home, with the muggles. Number 4 Privet Drive.

He felt a pinch upon his thumb and sighed. The boy was biting himself, likely against the pain. At least no marks were appearing on his body, but it just made him picture the bruises forming on the teenager instead. And he didn’t like what he imagined.

Surely the boy was not being abused. Dumbledore would never allow it. And his spies always said that the boy was fine, even spoiled with his relatives.

Voldemort had not tried to access the link between their minds since possessing the boy, not wanting to risk making the already-irritating pain-sharing worse, but if this didn’t stop in the next few days, he would. He’d never been known for his patience. 

No, if this did not stop in three days, he would set aside his morning and delve down the link between them once more. Find out what on earth the Potter boy was doing that was causing this pain. 

He was struck with a sudden idea as Nagini began to nag for him to let her up on his shoulders.

“Nagini, we share a mind link, though it is different to Potter’s and mine,” He began slowly, gesturing to give her permission to climb him. “Have you ever felt pain from me, as if it is your pain?”

Nagini crawled up him, her heavy coils a comforting weight against his shoulders. When her head was level with his ears, she began to speak. “My Marvolo, what are you not telling me?”

“Nagi.” The nickname did the trick, and the maledictus huffed.

“Upon the night of your resurrection, there was pain. Nothing since, though. Tell me, Marvolo, what is happening?”

His mouth curved into a small smile, though most would not think of it as comforting. “Do not worry, my dear. I’m quite alright. I have been feeling echoes of the boy’s pain for weeks, ever since I possessed him that day in the ministry of magic. Nothing I have tried blocks it, even when Occlumency easily stops the emotional bleed-over.” 

“You are in pain, my Marvolo?” Of course that was what she would concentrate on (the worrywart that she was). “I will eat the boy, then you will feel no more of his pain! He will be dead.”

“I am hesitant to try that right now, Nagi. I would not wish to harm myself in hurting him. It has happened before.”

Nagini had been with Voldemort a long time, through his rise, fall and his rise once more. She knew him better than anyone else, and she held his soul besides. She was his most precious - and only - friend. “What else is there?” She knew he was holding his thoughts back. Not for the first time, he half-heartedly regretted making her a horcrux. Her ability to prod at his mind and emotional state had definitely made their conversations more pointed.

Voldemort heaved out a sigh and reached up to run his hand along her scales, feeling the mighty strength underneath. She was all muscle, all twelve feet five inches of her, and a magnificent serpent, though he knew she always missed her human form. “It bothers me how much pain he is in. His…” Voldemort hesitated, not quite ready to put his speculation into words. “Something is wrong with the boy saviour, and yet I have heard nothing about it from my Order spies. By all accounts he is happily back with his muggle family, and yet…”

“Something is wrong,” She finished his thought. “Maybe your spies are not looking closely enough, maybe nothing is as it seems. Maybe I should eat the boy and end his apparent misery.”

He had not considered that. Perhaps his spies were incompetent. Yes… that might be it. Perhaps the boy had simply gone out of the house and had met an interesting character.

Which meant, considering the boy’s consistent lack of self-preservation, that it was likely to happen again. No, that would not do. “Maybe we will have to kill him sooner rather than later.” He said with another sigh. 

It had only gotten worse. By the second day, Harry was sure he’d sprained at least two muscles due to the increasing spasms and he was banned from leaving the house, his aunt having seen him having an attack and deciding he was “too freaky to have the neighbors see”. Since then, he’d been exiled to his bedroom except to clean the house and cook dinner.

Still not allowed access to his potions, of course. She was worried he would steal something freaky from his trunk. Merlin forbid he try to do his homework .

It was a nice respite until his Uncle returned home, ate dinner, and then ordered Harry to return to his bedroom. The following hour was even more unpleasant, leaving him with what felt like cracked ribs, a swollen jaw and a dislocated shoulder he had to pop back into its pocket by himself before falling into bed, exhausted. He didn’t have the energy to cough, though he could taste the blood in his mouth from his split lip.

He had no idea where his glasses had gone.

He hated this, he hated this so much. Harry wondered if he could wish himself away like in that film Petunia had watched once during the day. Maybe the goblin king took teenagers as well as children.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the only movement he had any energy left to make, and tried to hold in the sobs he could feel bubbling up in his chest. The curtains were still open, and the moonlight had just begun to shine past the bars that had been reattached. 

He wondered if Azkaban would be much worse than this. At least in Azkaban the prisoners weren’t forced to do chores between torture sessions.

By the third day, Harry could not stand. No food since the soup on the first day, and only a few sips of water when he’d been able to grab them left him dangerously weak. Dizziness made the room spin, and he couldn’t keep himself upright to sit, let alone stand up. His aunt found him collapsed on the floor in his bedroom and kicked him a few times, her sharp shoes digging into his ribs and once into his cheek, until he pushed himself back up onto his bed. 

She didn’t bother to tell him to do any chores, just leaving a cup of water on his bedside table with a disgusted expression on her face. Harry could barely see her through his haze of pain and dizziness.

He was so thirsty and hungry, in so much pain…

What would happen if he just… didn’t drink the water? 

What would happen if his Uncle came home to the messy house, the dinner uncooked, Harry laying about upstairs?

Harry didn’t even have the energy to be scared. Instead, he felt the vague stirrings of hope. He wanted this to end.

He wondered if the Order were watching him, like they had been last year. No letters had arrived, though his bedroom window stood open as far as it could be against the bars and had since the first night. If they were watching him they knew everything. All of this. They knew what his Uncle regularly did to him, how his aunt worked him like a slave and how his cousin bullied him relentlessly, and not one of those people had even tried to help him. They might have even heard his quiet, pained noises in the evening after dinner, if they were listening.

Or maybe they had gone to Dumbledore and the man had told them that it was all their imagination and that he was perfectly happy here.

Lupin. The Weasleys. None of them had taken the time to speak to him on the platform, just to stand around looking out-of-place while Moody threatened his uncle with Harry cringing under the man’s ever-angrier eyes.

Did any of them even care about Harry? Just Harry, not their precious prophesied saviour?

Who knew, really.

Harry stared up at the ceiling and thought about how he was sorry about leaving Hedwig, but nobody else, not really.

They had left him first.

Voldemort was irritated. Another two days, another two sets of injuries on Potter, and the same miserable beatings in the evening. He was glad that he felt only an impression of the pain, and not the full effects. Likely the boy was in agony.

He paced before Nagini in his study, indecisive. While he had said he would wait, it was tempting to open his mind to the boy and delve in, find out what was going on. Lord Voldemort’s thirst for knowledge was powerful, and the boy had begun to intrigue him. He’d spoken to Severus and his other spy, a younger witch called Nymphadora Tonks - niece to Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people - and they had been unable to provide any further information about the Potter boy. Apparently he hadn’t been seen outside his home since the first day, but beyond that their sensing spells had informed them he was inside. 

That was all he had. 

None of the order had been casting more than a body count on the house. Nobody was monitoring Potter’s health, despite the fact that he was on a potions regimen from what Voldemort recalled. It seemed short-sighted of them.

Was it true, then? Were the muggles abusing the boy? 

He hated how angry it made him. How similar he was to his prophesied nemesis, left behind and forgotten with muggles each summer, muggles that hurt him . 

“Nagi-,” he began, and stopped. Was he actually feeling something beyond hatred for the boy?

“Is this about the Potter again?” She asked groggily from her position sprawled near the fireplace. It was her favourite spot, barring Voldemort’s shoulders. “My Marvolo, you worry too much.”

“I do not!” He retorted, angered, but suddenly stopped as he felt the unmistakable pain once more. “A second time, really?” He muttered, moving to sit. Alone in the Slytherin estate with just Nagini for company, displaying some weakness was acceptable. “I am going to open the connection, please occlude yourself for the sake of your sanity.” 

It was impulsive of him, perhaps. But he could not bear the thought of this happening again, and again, and again- how long had the boy dealt with this? How had nobody seen it? He was already half-believing it, seeing signs in his memories of the boy’s defiant, reckless actions. A disregard for his own life.

They both knew what he would find at this point, but he still did not wish to believe it.

Because it would mean that the boy who was his nemesis was nothing more than he had been as a child. Just trying to survive the torture as Dumbledore looked the other way. And Voldemort did not know if he could kill a boy like that, not when that sort of treatment made one so very open to the dark side. It had worked with Snape. He was already getting excited at the mere prospect, when another flare of pain went through his body.

Hissing quietly, he closed his eyes and began to carefully open the occlumency shielding between his mind and Potter’s.

Overwhelmed, exhausted, let this end, please let this end let this end- he pulled back, finding his heart rate accelerated. 

“Well?” Nagini had climbed onto his lap. He had not even noticed. “Marvolo.”

Of all the crimes that had been committed against his person, the worst thing that had ever happened to Voldemort was an exorcism when he was six years old, and he had magicked himself away before they had touched him, let alone held him down. 

He still did not like to remember it, but…

This, was worse. “He’s-” he didn’t even know how to say it. How does one say it?

“I was right. I wish I was not.” he said finally, running his hand down Nagini’s spine.

Powerless. Utterly powerless. And giving up, too.

He’d been begging for it to end.

The connection was still half-open. Voldemort could dive back in at any time. He didn’t want to, he didn’t dare, not when he was this affected already. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort, not some weak, pitiful child. 

He closed his eyes and breathed, letting himself slip into a meditative state as he began to rebuild his occlumency shields. They were shaken from his moment of… emotion. He would be fine. Potter would be… a problem for tomorrow. For now, he simply wished to distract himself. Perhaps Severus was free. 

And then something heavy and final slammed into Potter’s head and his world exploded into agony.

This…

This…

Blackness.

“Marvolo!”

Let it be over, let it be over, please…

He did not dare open his eyes.

He wanted it to be done- he wanted it to be over - he wanted to be dead - he hoped he was not dead.

Please let it end.

Chapter Text

A heavy, shifting weight on Voldemort’s lap awakened him. He had a crick in his neck and a mild headache, but Nagini was instantly recognisable, and as soon as he moved she was hissing her worries at him. “Marvolo! Marvolo, there was a glow, it was similar to that warlock in Turkey when you exorcised the soul, and it settled in your head and vanished, and you collapsed! Are you alright?” 

Even when worried, Nagini gave a full report, and he digested it as he cracked his eyes open to see her head inches from his. “Nagi, I’m fine. Just a headache. I’m not certain what happened- the warlock in Turkey?”

He thought back. The warlock had been a man named Tomaras, and he had been deep in soul magic, as deeply as Voldemort had ever seen beside himself. He’d had to exorcise the man’s soul from where it had been stretched between four bodies after immobilizing it. A glow similar to that, must mean soul magic. 

Instantly his mind went to his Horcruxes. Had one been destroyed?

No, if a horcrux was destroyed, the piece of soul simply dissipated if it was not re-captured in some way. Horcruxes did not rebound.

His testing on this subject hadn’t exactly been extensive, though. Perhaps something was wrong and he’d been wrong, perhaps his sources had been wrong. 

Perhaps he needed to double-check his horcruxes.

There was a stirring within his mind, just beyond his innermost Occlumency walls. Whassit? 

…what?

What’s happening? Where am I?

That was Potter’s voice. Emotions started to flood Voldemort, and with no bond to block there was no way of stopping them from hitting him. He threw up more occlumency shields, mind working furiously as he tried to contain the… foreign soul. It wasn’t a foreign soul, though. Ragged and broken and old, it was a horcrux. With Potter’s voice.

Surely not. 

Is that- Voldemort?! The panicked emotion redoubled, but Potter had no access to his body and was simply a shard in his mind. Apparently.

Now Voldemort was paying attention, he could feel the small shard nestled beside his own black soul, recognising him subconsciously even if Potter did not yet know the truth. Potter was a horcrux, and when his uncle had hit him that final time, he had come rebounding back down their connection.

Was the boy dead, then?

I’m right here! I’m not dead, I’m right here!

“Did you not want to be dead, Potter?” He said aloud, petting Nagini’s back to stall her questions.

I- how do you know that? I’m not-I- this isn't-

“Potter, calm yourself.” Voldemort sighed. “You are in my mind. Your body likely died, and your soul returned to me. Now calm yourself or I will do it for you.” He’d probably do a good job of it. Voldemort was a master of Occlumency and legilimency both, so it would not be difficult. A new challenge, but not much of one.

It unnerved him to have Potter so close, but at least it was not painful like it had been when he was possessing the boy.

I don’t want to be here! I never asked to be here! …Why am I here?

The boy’s emotions had begun to calm, little tendrils of his mind exploring the occlumency barriers but not trying to break them. What is this? What did you do to me? Interestingly, he was far calmer than Voldemort would expect. Maybe it was his soul reacting to Voldemort’s, telling him that he was safe with the main part.

“Occlumency, Potter. Surely you are familiar with it, Severus was teaching you, was he not? I am keeping you contained so we do not start to merge. I’m certain neither of us wish for that.”

Nagini was getting quite impatient, and he ran his finger down her spine in the way that she liked so much. “It is alright, Nagi. Potter is apparently my horcrux,” he supposed it made sense, in a twisted way. Ever since his destruction in Godric’s Hollow, his life had seemed drawn back to the boy, revolving around him like some twisted planetary system. It was simply their shared soul trying to draw them together all this time.

What is a horcrux?

“A shard of a soul, shattered and torn off and placed in a receptacle." Would Potter be in his mind permanently now? Would the boy be subsumed? He found himself reinforcing the Occlumency walls some more at the thought, making sure they could not creep into each other.

…could he put the boy back in his body, perhaps?

My body! Please! I’ll never fight you again! Just let me out!

“Potter, if I am to put you back in your body I would require a magical vow that you would never work, plot or instigate against me again.”

There was a quiet reluctance. Dumbledore said...-

“Marvolo, what is going on?” Nagini shoved at his arm, hissing in displeasure at being ignored. He petted her as Potter stewed in his indecision. 

“The boy died, and he was apparently nothing more than a horcrux,” he tried to explain. As always, he spoke parseltongue when they were alone, though with Potter in his mind, the boy might be able to comprehend it. “He is in my mind. I need to send some people to retrieve his body before someone undesirable gets ahold of it, and I am forced to put him in either a different body or an object.”

Nagini stared for a long few moments. “... you have the strangest things happen to you, my dear. Can it wait until tomorrow morning? ”

Voldemort heaved a sigh and looked at the ceiling. “Probably not. I should go now.” He glanced back down at Nagini, who had not moved from his lap. Dumbledore no doubt has wards informing him of this sort of thing. How long was I unconscious?”

She flicked her tongue, starting to crawl off his lap, down onto the floor, and curled before the fire. “Just a few seconds.”

Potter’s presence swelled against the occlumency shields for a moment. Are you really going to get my body?

“I will kill your muggle relatives too, if they get in the way." Voldemort stood, stretching his arms. The uncle was absolutely dying, but he’d leave the aunt and cousin if his soul had any strong objections. But the uncle was dead the moment he’d laid a hand on a piece of Voldemort’s soul. 

The boy shivered, clearly following the thought, but did not protest. Good. “Do not distract me, Potter. I will put you back in your body, as long as you behave.” That, the boy agreed with. He knew there was no other hope for him - he wasn’t much more than a fragment of Voldemort’s mind right now. Okay. And he subsided, exhausted, to a less-conscious state.

Well, that was easy. Voldemort strode out the door.

It was not so easy. He was on the roof of the house next to number four, invisible, watching as at least eight order members exited-and-entered the house. He had four death eaters on call to apparate in, but it would not be enough when Dumbledore himself was here.

What are they doing? Harry had awakened when he had recognised a few of the names. The muggle filth were sitting in the back garden, and Severus Snape was watching them with disgust. The adults were both silenced and the child was working himself into a tantrum.

Voldemort was uncertain, but knew they were in a panic. He could not tell whether Harry-Potter’s body was even still in the house. It was frustrating to have to simply watch and wait.

Potter shifted in his mind, again, and identified his bedroom window as the one with the bars. Try there. He whispered, to Voldemort’s surprise. He would have thought Potter would not want to help him, not to risk any of these people who he knew.

I barely know any of them, and I need my body back. Snape, Dumbledore and Professor Lupin I recognise . There was actually some irritation coming from the boy. Not like they ever TALKED to me. The personality shift in the boy was actually slightly alarming, but Voldemort would think about it more later.

Hm. Voldemort levitated himself over the garden and slowly, carefully lowered himself down as Potter stewed. He looked in the window and saw, to his surprise, that Potter’s body was still on the bed, covered in a blanket. Had he a physical form, the boy would have flinched. As it was, he withdrew, curling in on himself as far as a shard of soul could do while resting against the main part. 

Voldemort was not in the business of being gentle, so ignored it. There was someone in the room, a man - Lupin - who was sobbing into his hands. This would have to be done carefully, because Lupin was a werewolf and they had hidden strength in times of great stress.

Please don’t hurt him. Harry whispered, and Voldemort shoved him back into the corner of his mind, reminding the boy that he had told him to not distract him.

Lowering himself down, he vanished the bars and window and immediately flung several sound and magic blocking spells at the door and walls, trapping the werewolf in the room and hopefully stopping help from coming. The wolf straightened up, snarling, and Voldemort saw his eyes flash golden. 

There was a small trickle of emotion from Harry, even through the barriers, and Voldemort, still invisible, flicked his wand to uncover the body. 

“Who is THERE?!” Lupin practically roared as Voldemort threw a silencing spell at him too late, distracted by the sight of the corpse. Potter shouldn’t look like that, it was unnervingly wrong to see his strong and fearless nemesis still and thin with neglect and abuse.

He reached down and took the corpse by the shoulder, letting his invisibility drop. Hopefully it would intimidate the werewolf, but if not- well, he could handle one new-moon wolf if the man latched onto his apparation.

“...no.” Lupin hissed, and Voldemort felt the man leap at him as he turned on the spot.

They landed a moment later in his ritual chamber and he immediately stepped back from the angry wolf, levitating Harry’s body onto a slab while keeping most of his attention on the man. 

Predictably, he immediately tried to charge him again. Voldemort went to curse him but Harry pushed at him again, this time screaming DON’T HURT HIM, and the Dark Lord instead flung the man away, binding him with a single hiss in parseltongue.

“Calm yourself, wolf. I am going to resurrect him,” he hissed, headache forming. The werewolf snarled and Voldemort hissed back, lifting his chin and posturing as he sometimes had to do to keep his creature allies in line. His gorgon blood helped immensely with that, because most creatures feared snakes.

The wolf did not calm down, and Voldemort quickly tired of his struggle and put him to sleep, summoning some silver shackles to clap around his ankles and wrists and chaining him to the wall. Harry, predictably, did not like this one bit, but Voldemort simply ignored the boy pounding on the occlumency shields. The werewolf needed to be contained, because if he was not he could interfere with the work that was required, and who knew what the ritual was even going to be?

He would probably have to write one, then. Damnit, that would be a week at least. He turned to the corpse, sighing softly. 

Potter tucked himself back as soon as he saw it, uncomfortable to an extreme, and the feeling was mutual. It had struck him back at the house, but this was…

Wrong.

The body was thin, thinner than three days of starvation and dehydration should have caused. Bruises littered his chest, arms, legs and face; some clearly in the shape of a shoe and others more like a hand, or a fist. Several particularly livid bruises on the ribcage looked like broken bones, along with the swollen wrist and leg. 

Voldemort took a moment to settle his magic before he began to cast diagnostic and healing spells. Normal healing magic worked with the magic of the wixen in question, urging it into submitting and helping with the healing process. Harry would have none of that, being dead, so Voldemort was primarily using spells that could be used on muggles, squibs and magically exhausted wizards. It would take a while, but he could preserve the body easily enough during the process.

The magical core was a purely physical thing, but it would only charge with ambient magic when the wizard had a soul. This also meant that a Kissed wizard would die slower if they were magically powerful, as the magic would try to keep the body alive even if the soul was gone.

Voldemort could resurrect the body fairly easily, but putting a soul back in was another matter. Especially considering how strongly he had rebounded, his soul might attempt to bind to Voldemort, making it harder to remove him. 

Once he was sure he’d healed the worst of the body’s injures, Voldemort conjured a simple robe, switching it out for the torn up rags that Potter had been wearing before with a thought. 

He then activated the runes upon the slab that the boy rested upon with a touch of his wand to each of them. Preserving the body and keeping it in stasis until he was able to perform the ritual. Potter stayed silent in his head, but he could feel the boy watching through his senses. He allowed it, even thinking things through a bit so the boy would understand his spells. No doubt he’d never seen anything like this.

“I am capable of resurrection and reanimation, Potter,” He said to the room after the body was properly preserved. “Soul magic is also within my grasp, but it is trickier. This may take some time for me to write the ritual, so be patient and do not make a nuisance of yourself.”

…and after that? What will we do after that? You can’t exactly go back to trying to kill me after resurrecting me.

The boy was emotional and irrational, but he made a good point. “Obviously I will not be trying to kill you anymore, Potter. I said I would require a vow, but once that is done I will supply you with guards and protectors and we will see what the best course of action is.” He conjured a white cloth and let it drape over the body, intending to return when he was rested and go over it more thoroughly. Some of the healing would require Potter to be in the body, but he could do most with the right preparation.

Is that why you let Professor Lupin live? His emotions were tiring, still pushing against Voldemort’s occlumency with surprising strength. Confusion, fear, gratefulness, guilt. So he can look after me?  

Voldemort strode over to the unconscious werewolf, flicking his wand to check for any emergency portkeys or wards. The man’s wand was tucked away quickly, as well as a demiguise invisibility cloak. “Yes. A werewolf, provided he can be convinced, is an excellent bodyguard, because of their strong senses.” He frowned as he looked at the wolf. “Does he take the wolfsbane potion?” He didn’t wait for an answer, casting a diagnostic spell. “Hm. Do you know where he sources it?”

There had been a few issues with the country’s wolfsbane supply in the last year, caused mainly by the Undersecretary, Umbridge. It was getting harder for the wolves to purchase safe doses as the ingredients became more regulated and expensive. And with the potion becoming more dangerous, more and more wolves were foregoing it, which obviously lead to an increase in werewolf sightings, and fear of wolves, and so the cycle continued. 

Voldemort was aware of a recent issue where a few batches had been tainted due to being badly brewed, poisoning the wolves who had taken it. It had been malicious and intentional sabotage, and Lupin seemed to be suffering similar effects, suggesting he had been buying from a compromised source.

The effects weren't life-threatening, but it was a worrying trend. The wolf would be fine as long as he did not take any more.

I assumed Snape was still making it for him. What happened? Is it Umbridge again?

“No, your defense teacher has still not recovered from whatever assault she received at the end of the year,” Voldemort said, checking the wolf’s pulse and blood oxygen levels with a few more spells. “Was that you?”

Hermione, my friend. Kind of. Potter seemed vaguely proud of his friend, though there was a hint of guilt. 

“The muggleborn? Vicious girl.” Voldemort commented idly, strengthening the shackles on the wolf’s joints. “She is clever, I remember her from your first year. She likely knows what centaurs do to people they do not like.” Centaurs were angry, with few internal laws to hold them back and even fewer rules about treatment of non-centaurs after their centuries of mistreatment. They responded in self-defense and violence to dissuade anyone coming close. If she had been carried off by centaurs, she had likely endured a great deal of abuse.

Potter shivered and flinched, upset enough that Voldemort felt dizzy for a moment, their emotions leaking into each other. He had evidently followed Voldemort’s thoughts again.

Voldemort almost opened his mouth to reassure the boy, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

He looked down at the wolf. Keeping him unconscious would be a pain, but the man wouldn’t be calm enough to actually listen to him for some time. Time to let him stew for a bit. He strengthened the bracket holding the shackles to the wall as well, adding some more weight to it. 

There was an itch of an idea in Potter’s little corner of their shared mind, but Voldemort ignored it for now. It wasn’t like the boy could go through with a plan until he had his body back, and he was confident in his ability to thwart the boy, if it was needed.

With one last check to ensure that Lupin could not get near or affect the body in any way, Voldemort reversed the sleeping spell, and swept out of the door before he realised who exactly was there.

Chapter Text

After a small, handmade meal, Voldemort began work in his library. He pulled out about ten different books all on subjects Harry knew nothing about, and Harry was soon bored. He tried to concentrate on the numbers, but the equations the man was doing went right over his head - they hadn’t even begun algebra in his primary school, and he’d never considered arithmancy as a subject. 

Pausing in his work, Voldemort hummed thoughtfully. “I could teach you, if you are amenable.” Harry could sense the man’s faint excitement at the possibility of being able to teach again. It was almost endearing, reminding Harry of his own feelings toward the DA. “When you have a body again, that is.”

Teaching was fun, rewarding and interesting and allowed you to learn a lot about the people you were teaching. It was interesting that Voldemort enjoyed it too. Harry had thought about it a lot over the last year, and despite the argument that had happened in his careers advice meeting, he’d lost a lot of faith in the Aurors after they’d broken into the Ministry - a group of teenagers, really . Were there no alarms?

“The Ministry relies mostly on the idea that nobody would dare attack it,” Voldemort remarked, taking a sip of the tea he’d prepared for himself. “And the fact that all the entrances will name you when you pass through them. They don’t account for people who can break those wards or just… break the walls.” 

Well, that was stupid.

“I find wizard-raised wizards often ignore the simplest solutions,” Voldemort agreed, and Harry wanted to roll his eyes. He’d noticed it too, to an extent. They never looked into dark corners for people hiding, because they thought anyone who’d be hiding would be invisible. They never considered a fist to be a threat. He remembered Hermione punching Malfoy in the face in their third year, and it hadn’t even been much of a hit but the boy had practically crumpled in front of her.

Harry had withstood far worse without flinching.

Before Voldemort could comment on this latest thought, a house-elf popped in before him. “Message for the Most Powerful and Magnificent Dark Lord, sir.”

…it was Kreacher. Sirius’s elf. What was he doing here?? Harry tried and failed to move, because he didn’t have a body, and instead settled for stewing in frustration as Voldemort took the note and read it over quickly. 

Urgent report on Harry Potter - will wait at the 2nd meeting spot for 3 hours. If you cannot make it, tell my new elf - Kreacher - when you need me - T

Interesting. “Elf, how did your master come to inherit you?” He asked, mildly curious at Harry’s reaction.

The elf bowed his head in respect. “Master Blood Traitor Sirius left Kreacher to his godson, he did, Master Dark Lord, but Potter is dead, though the treacherous Order are only saying he is missing to the world, but Kreacher knows. The elf-bond inherited to the next in line, it did, and that is Mistress Andromeda, who gifted Kreacher to Master Tonks.”

Harry felt vaguely ill as he recalled that Tonks was Sirius’s cousin, and she had been gifted -

He never really… thought about House Elves.

But the way that the elf was talking made him feel as if Vernon had put him out on the street and hired him out for money like the man had been suggesting over the past few days.

Slavery. Ownership.

Hermione had been right.

Winky, the elves… all of it.

“Your service is appreciated, Kreacher. The kitchens are on the ground floor if you need anything, otherwise - dismissed.” Voldemort said, setting the note aside and shifting to fold one leg over the other.

“Thank you, Master Dark Lord is gracious indeed!” Kreacher exclaimed, popping out immediately.

Voldemort sighed, steepling his hands in front of him. “Harry, you have been dealing with a great deal. Not noticing the plight of the House Elves does not mean you are as bad as your abusers,” He said firmly, and Harry felt the man’s calm resolve in their joined minds, flowing past the occlumency barriers that he hadn’t tried to break for hours, not since they’d been in the room with Remus.

…but what did it make Harry, then? He hadn’t noticed, he’d been so caught up in his own life, he’d laughed at Hermione’s attempts.

“You were foolish, now you know better,” Voldemort insisted patiently. “I do not keep elves, but I know plenty who do, and they are fools. My wards prevent them from taking certain actions, but no magic can protect entirely against a House Elf. It is ridiculous that the majority of wizarding society treats them - and other magical beings - as mere servants and slaves.”

Harry wondered how many families would be lost without their slaves- families who didn’t know how to clean a bathroom or cook their dinner or wash their clothes.

Merlin, Hogwarts ran on House Elf labour.

It scared him, that the wizarding world’s culture was so entrenched in slavery. Something he knew intimately and had since he turned four and could reach the sink to wash things for his aunt.

“Potter, no harm will come to you here, and I will not treat you that way, you have my word,” Voldemort said, still in that patient voice that made Harry want to shout  ‘ you’re not meant to be nice to me!’

“Lord Voldemort does whatever he wants, and that includes indulging my soul who has been through far more than he deserves.” 

Harry really didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t, just sat and thought about how stunned he was to hear himself called ‘my soul’ (and how stunned he was that it felt nice ).

“I need to meet with Tonks, will you behave?” Voldemort unfolded his legs and stood, flicking his wand and watching as all the books organized themselves into a neat stack. 

He agreed, still confused, and pulled himself in as best as he could. Voldemort, at least, still had a life to get on with.

Voldemort was starting to get used to Potter in his head.

Wasn’t that a conundrum? His nemesis-turned-soul, now easily the person he valued most beside himself, Potter was equal to Nagini in his mind. It made perfect sense- Nagini also held a piece of his soul, though she had her own soul on top of it- Potter was purely Voldemort.

Something about that thought filled him with delight, and he reveled in it as he apparated three times, pulled up his hood, and then apparated once more, landing just a few feet from his waiting follower.

Tonks was an interesting person, acting irreverent and foolish while being utterly genius underneath the skin. Their muggleborn father’s fresh blood, a squib line from somewhere in America, had awakened the dormant Black trait of Metamorphmagus within them, and they were the most extensively-talented and practiced one Voldemort had ever come across.

He landed and they immediately stood from their chair and knelt to him. “Tonks,” he greeted, “Your news?”

The metamorph’s hair was a limp, ugly gray shade, a sure sign of their emotional state, but his Death Eaters knew how important respect was and so it did not show on their bowed frame.

“My lord,” They followed Voldemort for many reasons, mostly because of how utterly unprepared for the wizarding world they had been due to their muggleborn father’s influence. Andromeda had thrown away centuries of proud Black magic, names and power simply for a man who didn't want his child to know where they came from. 

It was utterly appalling.

“Harry Potter was killed some time yesterday evening by his muggle uncle. There was no Order member present at the time,” They began their report with their eyes turned toward Voldemort’s feet, and he smirked at their obvious deference. 

“I am aware, continue.” He said shortly, not bothering to tell them to stand. Harry was watching with faint curiosity, but did not attempt to interrupt his thoughts.

“Dumbledore alerted the order within minutes due to his own monitoring spells and Lupin, Snape, Diggle, myself, Morris, and both Weasley parents all traveled via Floo to investigate, out of Figg’s home. Potter’s relatives were contained in the back garden by Snape while Lupin, Dumbledore and Mrs Weasley found Potter’s body. It was… bad. Lupin stayed with the body while the rest met in the house to discuss - it was more like a mourning meeting, they did not actually plan anything before- someone stole Potter’s body and Lupin,” They glanced up at Voldemort, whose smile widened. “And the Order promptly fell into further chaos.”

“Interesting. Do they have an idea of who stole Potter?” Voldemort asked. 

“Dumbledore thinks it was you, but Snape thinks it was more likely Lupin,” Tonks explained quickly. “There was very little magical signature at the scene aside from Lupin and Harry’s.” Of course there was not. Voldemort had been extremely careful with his magic while stealing the body, not wanting to give Dumbledore more ammunition.

“And after that?”

“The Order eventually left the Dursley residence, Dumbledore making sure that everyone knew to keep this news secret for now so that he could attempt to locate the body, but there was no full meeting. I understand that Snape remained behind for a further half hour setting up a series of wards so that the family would not attempt to flee before justice could be served.”

“Justice? For the boy? That is surprising considering it was Dumbledore who placed him with them in the first place.”

Harry surged with anger for a quiet moment, and Voldemort took a deep, calming breath. It helped. The longer Harry was in his body, the more his emotions began to actually affect Voldemort, and he disliked it. It was a sign that the border between them was beginning to blur, which meant that the separation would be harder on them both. 

“I… did not know that, my Lord,” Tonks said softly, looking up, and Voldemort was surprised to see that their eyes had settled on the vivid green that Harry had been so known for - he felt a similar surprise echoing from Harry. “He was my cousin’s godson, his paternal grandmother was a Black. He should’ve been given to our family, or the Malfoys, or even the late Lord Arcturus. I suppose it’s not surprising that Dumbledore interfered.”

Yeah, a fat lot of good that does to me. Harry’s venom was sharp and cutting, meeting Voldemort’s own anger bite for bite.

It was enraging to know that the loneliness that had been echoing across the bond for those awful three days had been utterly unneeded. Potter had family, he had friends, he had people who cared for him, but not enough, apparently. Not enough to actually question if he needed them.

Not enough to try and contact him if Dumbledore told them not to. 

“I have a question for you, Tonks,” Voldemort said coldly. “Did you ever suspect that Potter’s muggle family might be treating him poorly?” 

Tonks blanched. “No, my Lord, I didn’t… I didn’t think such a thing was even possible. Seeing his body- I still can’t bring myself to truly admit it. Who would treat their own blood like that? A child, no less?” Every inch the wizard-raised wix, Tonks could not even imagine the kinds of things an abused child might go through. The idea of abuse when children were so loved in their society was antithetical, but it did happen, and these sorts of mindsets were unhelpful.

Voldemort had been suspicious when he discovered that the boy had never gone home at Yule, but he had not had the opportunity to observe Harry enough at close-range in that first September to spot familiar behaviours, so had no proof. And it was quickly put aside for his need for the stone.

(It should have been Minerva’s job to spot. Head of House, Deputy Headmistress and full-time teacher were far too many jobs for one person.)

Lord Voldemort glared down at the young metamorph. “You are naive, Tonks. You know our goals of separation, but you did not think to question and think beyond the privileged childhood you were blessed with. I value critical thinking in my followers. Do better.” He did not curse them, because the cruciatus curse had conspicuous effects and Tonks was his spy that Dumbledore did not know about.

Flinching, the auror bowed lower. “Yes, my Lord.”

“As it happens, I have both Lupin and Potter in my possession,” Voldemort said, voice bland. “You will not reveal that you know this to anyone. Support Snape’s assumption that it was Lupin. Potter… is not as dead as it seemed.”

“My Lord,” Tonks breathed, shocked and hopeful. “Are you- will you-?”

So they wanted a second chance, now that the worst had already happened. Was it pathetic, or admirable? Voldemort was leaning toward pathetic, and it showed in his sneer. “What I do with Potter is no concern of yours, my servant. You will find out if I deem it necessary.”

“Y-yes, my Lord, sorry, my Lord,” Tonks stammered quickly, and he did not bother to hide his thinning patience.

“I expect a written report on any Order meetings. Do not risk revealing your contact with me, I prefer late than caught,” He hissed, watching them nod hastily. “I tire of your presence. Dismissed.”

As soon as they were back in his home, Voldemort levitated his tea tray and sent it flying back toward the kitchen, following at a sedate pace. He needed a proper meal after that meeting.

You’re good at being scary. Harry didn’t seem scared, just angry with an edge of vicious amusement.

“Thank you, Harry.”

It’s funnier when it isn’t aimed at me. Harry continued. But it really hurts, you know? That they all know now and that they could have taken me in and they did nothing. Never did. All because of stupid Dumbledore, he probably told them “oh, he’s safer where he is!” yeah, and now they’re planning my FUNERAL!

Voldemort’s heart rate was thundering and his hands were clenched against Harry’s increasing rage, but he found he did not mind, just let it rush through him, burning hot against his own icy fury. Harry had a right to be upset. “He did the same with myself and several others - one that I know for sure, but I suspected that it is a pattern.”

Harry’s rage swelled again, that righteous anger that Voldemort had brushed against when he possessed the boy burning inside his mind and thundering inside the carefully-constructed occlumency barriers. The boy did not attack the barriers, though he expected him to do so by accident. It was yet another mark of their shared soul, that Harry felt safe beside and inside his mind.

I just don’t understand why. Harry said plaintively, and Voldemort felt the rage drop away, revealing the boy that was hurting, and for a moment he wished that Harry was in front of him so he could comfort him properly.

“Sometimes people do terrible things for no reason, Harry,” Voldemort said carefully. “But sometimes they have plans that require a few innocents to be sacrificed on the altar of the ‘greater good’. Dumbledore, unfortunately, is likely the second one. He looks to the bigger picture far more than the individual. I do as well, but I value all magical blood, even yours.”

He could feel the conflict within Harry, the fight between him wanting what was right, and wanting to live. He wanted to be safe and happy, but he felt that he was betraying all the people who looked up to him by even considering not fighting Voldemort, and just hiding instead.

“I don’t believe any truly good man would allow the sacrifice of a child. Thankfully, I have never called myself good.” Voldemort opened the kitchen door and prepared a fresh pot of tea by hand, finding the mechanical movements calming. “You don’t have to make a choice straight away, Harry. It is ridiculous that the wizarding world would put the entire war on your shoulders - you are a boy who has not even turned sixteen.”

A meal was easy to conjure up. Voldemort enjoyed cooking spells, efficiency and keeping clean, so naturally he preferred simple meals that could be entirely prepared without him having to touch the crockery. Harry watched with interest.

I didn’t know there were so many cooking spells. He commented as Voldemort served two bowls of soup, storing the rest away for another time. I think I would enjoy cooking if I hadn’t had to do it for my relatives all the time. 

“Did your aunt actually do anything , Harry?” Voldemort enquired, curious. “Only, it seems like you were doing all of the jobs a housewife traditionally does, and the gardener and cleaner as well.” 

If Harry had been in a body, he would have laughed. As it was, a sense of delight flickered between them, and Voldemort relaxed, pleased with himself for cheering the boy up. She mostly spied on the neighbors and spread gossip. And supervised me, and then took credit for what I did whenever anyone asked.

Of course. A woman married to that kind of man would be thoroughly unpleasant all on her own. He imagined the cousin was just as bad, raised by two such awful people, but perhaps the child could be removed from his parents and given a better perspective.

Voldemort banished the second bowl of soup into the ritual room where the werewolf was imprisoned. He didn’t actually want to starve the man, though it was tempting to make him afraid of it for a while. No, he needed Lupin’s at least grudging goodwill if he wanted this rough plan to work.

He settled down to eat, wondering if visiting the wolf today would be counterproductive. He did need to examine the body properly and heal all the things he could. The last thing Voldemort needed was to resurrect Harry but for the boy to die again because he missed something.

I could probably help with professor lupin, if you tell him i’m in here , Harry suggested, slightly worried about seeing his own body again but still willing to offer help. It was nice to have such a useful ally for once. Most of Voldemort’s followers simply weren’t brave enough to suggest things to him.

“I think I will, thank you for the idea, Harry. Is there anything you can tell me that would help him to trust my word?” He wouldn't expect actual trust from the wolf, but surely they could build an understanding between them. 

He taught me the patronus charm in my third year. We had tea together instead of my first Hogsmeade weekend because I wasn’t allowed out of school - they were worried about Sirius…

There was an awkward pause as Harry almost lost himself to grief and Voldemort felt the urge to comfort the boy again.

But how could he? He was the reason Sirius Black was dead. Bellatrix was insane and he’d known allowing her on the mission would likely end in casualties, he just had not cared. The risk of him being revealed as alive did not outweigh his need to know the prophecy in its entirety… something he still did not know. He clenched his fists. There was a stirring from Harry, a faint sense of guilt, and his mind went to comfort again.

“Harry, you know it wasn’t your fault, yes? People far older than you have fallen for things much less believable. Sirius’ death lies upon Dumbledore, Bella and I’s shoulders, not yours.”

Voldemort got the sensation that nobody had taken the time to actually tell his horcrux this, which enraged him. The boy’s mind was trembling, expelling grief and anger and guilt in powerful bursts that set Voldemort’s hands shaking slightly, his heart rate increasing. 

The feel of Harry’s emotions was wild and intoxicating, Voldemort’s magic reacting to the stirring and spreading out in a cloak around their body. 

It was my fault, my fault, she was aiming at ME, she hit him, hit him instead of me, i should be dead i should be dead instead of him -

There was a twinge of panic in Voldemort’s chest as he realised Harry could access his magic. Not intentionally, but he was doing it, and there was going to be an explosion unless he could get it under control. The ritual room was warded, but the body was in there… He stood up and began to walk. His duelling room was warded, though not as thoroughly as the ritual room. Hopefully he would make it before the boy’s grief spiralled into a bomb .

-and now i’m hurting him and hurting myself and i hate this i hate this, i miss siri i want sirius sirius i’m so sorry i should be dead -

Voldemort was not scared. He simply remembered the destructive power of bombs very well and the idea that his own magic was turning into one was unnerving. 

A headache began to build, a faint wind whipping at Voldemort’s limbs, a tingling beginning in his fingers. He didn’t stumble, just about, as he reached the door and slipped inside, slamming the door shut.

He felt… weak.

i’m sorry, Voldemort.

And then the magic exploded out of him in a blast of fire, and everything was suddenly very quiet.

Chapter Text

Everything was hazy.

Even Harry.

He came to awareness to hear the sharp, cold voice of his potions teacher, Professor Snape.

“-swear, my Lord, I have been loyal since your return. My faith is with you now.” He sounded pleading, which was a very odd thing to hear from Snape. The man demanded things, never asked. 

Harry’s vision began to fade in, faint shapes and colours first, and then more sharp detailing. Snape was kneeling on the floor looking dishevelled, in front of Harry who was seated in a comfortable chair. The room was dark, lit by a few braziers and wall-torches, with heavy stone block walls and flooring. It wasn’t somewhere he recognised. 

“And yet, you were disloyal before, weren’t you, Severus? Lord Voldemort dislikes traitors.” He felt his mouth move, but had no control over it. Voldemort’s body, he remembered suddenly, as everything began to make sense again.

Snape stayed silent, and Harry’s (Voldemort’s) sharp eyes spotted the sweaty sheen on the man’s forehead. Good. Let him suffer. He’d made Harry’s time at Hogwarts hell.

(…that was a very vicious thought, and though Harry hated Snape, he’d never wished pain upon him before. He suddenly felt Voldemort begin to build up the occlumency barriers between them again and realised that he felt… tangled with the man. What had happened?)

He’d been upset, angry. Grieving. There had been an explosion.

“Severus, tell me exactly what happened when you went to Dumbledore. What did you promise him? What did he make you swear?” Voldemort’s voice was silky smooth as he folded his legs, leaning forward to look down at the man. “Do not think you can lie to me again, my servant. Most would not even be granted the opportunity for forgiveness - you are lucky. Do not waste Lord Voldemort’s mercy.”

Snape took a deep, shuddering breath and Harry wanted to do the same, focusing, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Snape had betrayed Voldemort? And now he was claiming to be loyal again? The Order had claimed that Snape was a spy in Voldemort’s ranks - he remembered the trial of Igor Karkaroff, the pensieve memory, how Dumbledore had stood for him - but perhaps it was a lie?

“My Lord, I… after informing you of the Prophecy I went to Dumbledore,” the words began to tumble out of Snape’s mouth in a high, stressed tone of voice that Harry had never heard before from his teacher. “He was suspicious of me, and cruel when he found I had pled only for Lily’s life, not her son or husband. He eventually said he would protect me provided I swore an oath,” Snape hesitated for a long moment, “to protect Lily’s son, Harry Potter, and began to spy for the Order.”

“I… see…” Voldemort drew out the words, seemingly calm.

Harry was quietly reeling, remembering how Voldemort had asked his mother to step aside three times, those precious memories of her voice meant a great deal to him. Why had Snape asked Voldemort to spare her? Snape had sworn an oath to protect him? Was that why he had been counter-cursing Harry’s broom in his first year? Was that why he was out on the grounds at the end of his third year?

“Lily Evans Potter is long dead, Severus. Now her son is too. What do you intend to do?”

Snape visibly flinched, but straightened his spine and looked up at Voldemort, black eyes determined. “I-I would serve you again, my Lord. Your goals, I have always agreed with, but more powerful men have tied me- now that Potter is gone, I have no need to be a teacher, no need to work for Dumbledore and the foolish Order. I don’t even know if Dumbledore’s protection of me still stands. I wish to pledge myself fully to the Dark, my Liege.”

“Hm.” Voldemort rested his chin on his hand as he looked at Snape. “But, Severus. You are my spy in the Order. What if I wish for you to continue that duty? You have asked far more of me before, but keeping a watch on Dumbledore is extremely important, and as is having eyes in the school. Hogwarts is Dumbledore’s domain, and you have access to it, as it stands.” 

Harry cringed internally at the thought. Snape wanted to leave teaching and he was awful at it, terrifying his students and favouring the Slytherins, letting them toss ingredients into Gryffindor potions, but… he didn’t have the authority to tell Voldemort not to do this.

Voldemort told him to behave if he wanted his body back, after all.

“Then… I would do as you ordered, my Lord.” Snape bowed his head once more, shoulders slumping slightly but clearly submitting to the Dark Lord.

The smugness from Voldemort was clear, and Harry felt his lips curl into a smirk. “As much as I enjoy torturing you, Severus, it turns out I do not need your services in that area. You are much more reliable as a potions master. I’d like you to turn your eyes to the wolfsbane supply issue, work on providing and improving the potion. The werewolves are under my protection and I want to prove this to them after so long without my pushback against the Ministry.”

Snape’s eyes flashed, and Harry thought he saw a faint smile on the man’s face for a moment. 

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And Severus, I think I will explain this to you, as you are bound by oath,” Voldemort pointed his wand at Snape, and the man twitched, his hand flying to the other forearm. “Show me your Mark.” 

When Snape hastened to obey, Voldemort felt another surge of smugness, and Harry noted it with curiosity. Apparently having people bow to you was… intoxicating? Maybe that was why Voldemort liked to make people bow and serve. 

Voldemort lowered his wand to the mark, and Snape clenched his jaw for a few seconds as Voldemort chanted something quietly. “This conversation is entirely oath-bound. Do recall that you belong to me, Snape. You swore your oath and let me put my mark on your body, and you chose to. Do not forsake me again, or I will cut off your hands and feed them to Nagini.”

Slavery again, Harry thought quietly, but this was different. Liege Lord and servant. Willingly given. He didn’t fully understand, but it felt like Snape was also under Voldemort’s protection. House-elves didn’t get that with their masters, there was no guarantee.

“Yes, Master,” Snape rasped. 

“Harry Potter is going to be resurrected soon.” Voldemort changed the subject, emanating glee at the way Snape startled. “As he will be treated kindly and in my care, it should not interfere with your oaths. You may be permitted access to him at some point. Do behave, Severus.”

Snape seemed even paler than before. “Y-yes, my Lord.” He said, and Harry could practically see the millions of questions racing around in his mind. 

“Do not tell Dumbledore of my plans for Potter, no doubt he will want to rescue Harry and pit him against me again. That will not happen. The child is under my protection now.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s meeting with Snape had carried on longer than that, but Harry was very tired and had slipped unconscious before the end of it, not waking for several more hours.

The Dark Lord was in the middle of cooking himself a meal, his wand flicking through the air as he directed salt and pepper and other herbs onto the sizzling meat. He paused when Harry stirred, lowering the heat so he could pay attention to the boy in his mind.

What Harry had done was unprecedented. He’d tapped into Voldemort’s magical core through the ‘main soul’ as Voldemort referred to himself as, and expelled a huge explosion of magic out into the duelling room. The wards had held, barely, but the training dummies he’d been constructing needed rebuilding from scratch. It was admirable how compatible they were with each other, that Harry could wield Voldemort’s magic with no real ill effects. He wondered if it would still work when they were in separate bodies.

…is that possible? Harry’s voice was small, guilty and tired. I didn’t mean to do it…

Voldemort snorted. “Harry, when it comes to you I have learned to expect the impossible. It is quite possible for the soul pieces to wield their own magic - as evidenced by you gaining your own magical core rather than being a squib - but it makes sense that you would be able to access my magical core while in my body.”

Aren’t you angry? The boy hated to ask, but he was so confused and Voldemort could feel his emotions leaking over the places where their souls were trying to rejoin.

“No, I am not, Harry.” Truthfully, Voldemort was worried that they would merge too much to be seperated properly, but he was not angry at Harry for his emotional reaction. It had given him more information to work with regarding their relationship. “I believe I know how to put you back, but the required potions will take about a week to brew. I have put Severus on the task, in one of my potions labs, so all I need to work on is the arithmancy calculations for the ritual. Other than that, I have a few things to plan but nothing important. The Dark Side is… quiet for now, until I solve this little… one body, two people issue.”

What sort of move will it be this time? Now you’ve stopped hunting me, will it be another kid? Or just Dumbledore’s Order? Harry snapped back, and Voldemort could feel the boy’s pain. He was hurting, and lashing out, and frankly, Voldemort did not know how to deal with that.

(At the heart of it, he could relate. But he didn't want to think about that.)

“Harry, you’re safe here,” He tried, quiet as he flicked his wand to serve up his dinner. It had been almost ready, it would be fine. “Once you’re in your own body, you will be able to feel your emotions properly, process this without all this… overlap. It will improve. You have every right to be upset, you know.”

Harry was likely in mourning for his own life, and Voldemort was in the unique position to understand that. He wondered if the boy would realise. 

You didn’t answer my question.

“Quite frankly, right now my plans are minimal,” Voldemort responded. “I assume you know nothing of my actual goals, so I won’t bring those up until we are seperated properly. I will be pushing for Lucius to get pardoned at his trial, working with the werewolves to supply them with safe wolfsbane and reservations while I attempt to reverse some of the legislation that Umbridge has passed, and figuring out what to do with you.” He hadn’t had to explain his core campaign goals in a long time, and he didn’t really want to do it while he was tied to Harry in case the boy exploded his magic again.

Werewolf rights. And… Lucius? He was fighting in the ministry, he was caught in the act, how will you pull that off? Harry seemed less angry now, more curious, and Voldemort cautiously began to eat small bites of his dinner. Between chewing, he cast his mind around for Nagini and prodded her gently, asking for her presence.

The serpent was somewhere in the grounds, but had not hunted anything and so did not complain, simply sent her agreement and began to return. 

He finished his dinner, but he kept Harry’s question in mind as he did and had a suitable response when he was no longer eating. “Lucius was not caught in the act, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Without your testimony, and the fact that the Order is an illegal group, there are very few legitimate witnesses that could place him there. Dumbledore never saw him, and he was found unconscious in the chamber of death,” Voldemort explained to the boy, relaxing when he felt no strong emotions from him. “He has been claiming he was brought along by the death eaters to stop him from raising the alarm, and he has an excellent lawyer. I imagine he will get off with a fine and damaged pride.”

Huh. Slippery man, Harry commented. He seemed to have a distaste for the Malfoys, and that wasn't surprising, but it was interesting to see that it was just that, a mild distaste, not the epic rivalry Malfoy’s son liked to brag about.

Nagini entered the kitchen shortly after, and Voldemort stood to greet her, bending down so she could climb up his shoulders. 

“No rabbits or hares or stupid birds or anything, my Marvolo! ” She complained, and he stifled a laugh. 

“Do you wish for one of our kept ones? ”

She made the snake equivalent of a snort. “Maybe later. For now, I require you to relax. Work is for daytime. ” It had indeed turned evening.

This would be the second evening Voldemort had Potter in his head, the first day that Potter was aware for.

Wait, I was out overnight??  

The boy was clearly unsettled at the idea, and Voldemort allowed himself a small sigh. As Nagini said, work was for daytime. It had been a long time since his friend had first enforced this evening routine, making Voldemort spend some time idling instead of working. 

He wasn’t certain about having Potter intrude on their time together, but it wasn't like there was much else he could do.

“Yes, Harry, you exhausted yourself trying to use my magic and were entirely unaware for about fourteen hours. I was… unsure if you would wake at all, and I do not know if you will if you do that again, so please try to control your emotions until you have your body back.”

Harry tucked himself inside the Occlumency shields, but his soul shard remained pressed tightly against Voldemort. He’d begun visualising it resting against his chest, above his heart.

Or perhaps that was always where Harry had latched on.

He looked away, to Nagini. “My dear, do you have a preference this evening?” The piece of his soul wrapped within her own, tight and content, felt very obvious in the unnatural warmth of her body.

“The sitting room with the hearth. Read something to me!” She demanded, excited. 

Lips twitching with his amusement, Voldemort headed up to the sitting room and watched as Nagini chose a book. She enjoyed mystery novels and old tales with happy endings, and the book she picked was no exception.

He felt a faint disbelief from Harry, but ignored it, summoning the book and sitting on the thick rug before the fireplace.

It was interesting to have Harry resting in his mind as he and Nagini enjoyed their time together. The warm glow of the fire was drowned out by the happy humming warmth of the two soul shards, nestled beside his own. It was intoxicating and enjoyable and Voldemort could sense echoing sentiments from both of them.

Contentment. Comfort. Safety.

That was what this felt like. 

And instead of stifling that feeling, like he had expected of his nemesis-turned-Horcrux’s presence, it was multiplied.

It felt good.

Eventually he finished reading, and he had to glance at the clock to realise that three hours had passed in a haze of warmth and hypnotic words on paper, hanging in a pool of comfort. He closed the book and ensured Nagini was off his legs before standing. He let the book float back to the shelf with a wave of his wand.

Harry was comfortable too, having settled down into a sort of doze in his mind, but the boy began to awaken as Voldemort made his way out of the room. Nagini preferred to sleep in a room with a fireplace, but Voldemort disliked the irregular flickering light so they generally met up in the mornings. Harry would be joining Voldemort because there wasn’t exactly another option.

It was only as uncomfortable as they made it, so Voldemort got changed without looking down and firmly did not think about it. It was only for another week, and then they’d be in separate bodies and it would be fine.

Not that Voldemort ever really looked at his body anymore, anyway. In the darkened lamps of his bedroom he felt more comfortable with the scales along his spine and hips, the swell of heat pits in his neck and the deep red slitted eyes, all the little creature traits that had come out so strongly when he had been resurrected. They were partially caused by Nagini’s venom and scales being potion ingredients but partially because he’d already had gorgon ancestry. That sort of deep, Dark ritual brought the creature traits up to the surface.

It was just how it was.

There wasn’t any way to reverse that transformation, so he just lived with it. The intimidation factor was generally helpful, but it did make him feel somewhat alienated from his human followers. 

He had no mirror in his bedroom, so he did not look in one before he peeled back the covers. No chance of accidentally seeing himself without warning.

Voldemort tucked himself into bed and turned the lamps out, grateful for Harry’s continuing silence.

They fell asleep quickly, souls resting against each other.

It was the deepest sleep Voldemort had had in decades.

Chapter Text

Day 1 post-Harry.

If Remus had awakened slowly, perhaps he wouldn't be so distressed, but he couldn't stop hyperventilating. His eyes were fixed on the slab covered in a white sheet across the room from him.

There was something under it. 

And he could not smell it, could not see more than the shape of it, but he knew . Every part of him screamed it, the wolf in perfect alignment with the man howling ‘that is my cub’.

His cub, unmoving under a sheet. No breathing. No moving. No noise.

His cub, dead.

Remus no longer had a cub. His reason for living, for staying away from danger and for putting down his wand when he was the danger to himself.

His Harry, the last link between himself and his family. James, his brother, his steadfast defender and optimist. Sirius, his lover, his advocate and devotee, the man who loved him so deeply and expected nothing in return, and… Lily, his dear sister. She’d been the center of that family, firey and bold and an absolute genius to boot. 

Remus remembered sitting in the house they’d died in, holding baby Harry and listening to James and Lily argue about whether to flee the country to protect their son or trust in Dumbledore’s protections. He remembered agonising over telling Harry the brutal truth; his parents were young, flawed and scared, marriage barely holding together as they tried to protect Harry from it all. Remus remembered wondering if Harry wasn’t perhaps a bit thin, even for a teenage boy.

Merlin, he was a waste of space.

He was sobbing now, curled up, shoulders shaking and aching as he pulled himself into a tiny ball. What did his life matter? Why was he still here? He wished he was dead, and then he could be with Sirius and James and Lily and Harry once more, not chained in this black ritual chamber with Harry’s corpse across the room.

Tugging uselessly at the chains, he howled in anguish, the wolf inside him screaming in time.

He was so weak, so useless, so stupid.

Harry… Harry was dead. And Remus hadn’t even told Dumbledore his suspicions about the Dursleys, foolishly thinking the man knew and Harry was protected. Or would be protected. 

Harry was gone, and it was all Remus’s fault.

A steaming bowl of soup had appeared in front of him at some point, and by the time he calmed enough to examine it, it was cooling.

Odd. 

Was it poisoned?

He looked back over at the body, what probably was the body, and shivered.

He hated that he couldn’t smell it. A sure sign of preservation spells and protection over the body, which he supposed was probably a good thing because he was sure to go mad if he could smell it, but…

What was Voldemort planning for Harry’s body? What horrors? 

The hissed words he’d said to him when he had first been taken, “Calm yourself, wolf. I am going to resurrect him.”

Surely that was not the truth? A full resurrection was impossible for… most… people.

Voldemort, though.

He’d already brought himself back from the dead. He’d proven mastery over inferi and vampires and other creatures of death during the last war, even treating with the dementors and promising sanctuary to werewolves. The man might be the most powerful Dark wizard alive, and he was definitely a necromancer.

Voldemort had raised hundreds of inferi more than once, though Remus had never personally witnessed such an activity. He’d fought them in a battle, in Diagon Alley once and again around Stonehenge during the height of summer. Voldemort had been attempting a Dark ritual within the stones and the Order had just barely disrupted him. The point being, Voldemort was the most talented Dark wizard Remus knew of, possibly the most talented Dark Wizard ever.

If anyone could do it right, it probably was Voldemort.

But the man had no reason to do it right! He hated Harry! He’d wanted to kill him since before he was born! And now Harry was dead, and the man wanted to resurrect him?! Why would he do that?

Unless he just wanted Harry alive so he could kill him himself. Horrified, Remus couldn’t stop the animal howl that ripped from his chest. Not Harry, not his cub, not again!

He had to get out of here. He had to get Harry out of here, give him a proper burial, mourn and flee. This wasn’t right, this was so wrong! Necromancy was wrong!

Locked in the darkness, Remus sobbed into his hands.

Day 2 

Severus Snape stifled his whirling mind until he was far away from the Dark Lord, hiding any thoughts that could show on his face, any hesitation or frustration or fury. His position was far too precarious to show even a hint of emotion outside of his home.

Only when he was safe inside the house in Spinner’s End, warded from basement to roof and with a cigarette in his shaking hand did he start to relax and actually think about the consequences of what he had discovered, and what that might mean for his future. 

Whether the man knew or not, Severus’s vow of protection and life debt had somehow transferred to Voldemort.

He could feel it, thrumming in his magic, the moment he had locked his eyes on his Lord, the same feeling he had had when he’d met that child’s green eyes at the Gryffindor table for the first time. A binding magical vow, and a life debt.

He had raged against it, furious that this tiny boy held so much power over him. The disrespect in their very first class had set a precedent for every further meeting, clashing and snapping together and apart, always loathing, always caring, always having to care.

But this new feeling changed everything.

He did not, could not , work against the Dark Lord anymore. Somehow the man registered as Harry Potter to his magic and that was enough. It was as if Harry Potter had switched bodies with the man, but Potter was not that good of an actor.

Besides, the magic had all been his Lord’s, not a trace of Potter’s violent, sparking cloud. Voldemort’s magic always manifested as a chill at the base of Snape’s spine, a distortion of the shadows around him, and the heavy tasteless feel of ice on his tongue.

Potter was like being stung by static, or bit by a snake. His magic was reactive and contemptful and combative, more powerful every time they met. He was loathe to admit it, but Potter’s power levels made him almost believe the prophecy. 

There was a reason a handshake was such an important first greeting in the Wizarding world. Skin contact between wixen caused their magic to collide. Anyone could sense magical compatibility within a moment, and magical compatibility indicated personal, professional and even sometimes romantic compatibility.

Snape did not need skin contact to sense magic.

It was a bloodline gift, a secret his mother made him promise to keep when he was just four years old and begging for her to tell him why she smelled of mint and turned the air red when she was upset. If he had any children, they could inherit it, but he did not wish it on a child. His youth had been a constant mess of overwhelming sensations, but Hogwarts had been worse- still was worse. 

Potter’s magic always stood out from the crowd, though. He was always able to identify it.

Sparking, violent, rude. Uncontrolled.

Potter’s magic was not there, but Snape had still felt him. Just the faintest touch, as if that infernal mind connection had tugged Potter right into the Dark Lord’s mind.

He groaned as the pieces clicked together, head falling into his hands.

This magic was beyond him.

He had never been a delicate spellcaster, preferring raw power to ritual or runes, and whatever connection Potter had with his Lord, it was the deepest form of magic, something he had never dared touch.

Soul magic.

Soul magic was deep, Dark and utterly forbidden, the Blackest magic Severus even knew about. To manipulate your soul in any way had so many risks and took so much power and mental fortitude that he had never looked closely at the subject, not thinking it worth the effort of hunting down the illegal books.

Obviously the Dark Lord had.

Again, not like he could tell anyone because that would not be allowed by either the vow or his Dark Mark, the brand on his arm that marked him as the servant of Voldemrt evermore, no matter what anyone seemed to think. And likely the Life Debt, too, would work against it.

And Voldemort had used the magic within the Mark during their meeting, which meant he could not possibly be Potter in disguise, because Potter could simply not know that magic.

Snape rubbed his forehead as a dull headache began to form, huffing in annoyance. This was pointless and he was thinking himself in circles.

He was a servant to his Lord, like before. He was just bound more tightly now.

He stood to find himself a bottle of something strong, dropping his cigarette in an ashtray. 

Toasting Potter’s insane luck, he knocked it back, planning on getting absolutely smashed. Tomorrow he would work, but tonight he needed to forget it all.

Day 3

Narcissa had enough to deal with. Lucius was awaiting trial in Ministry holding cells, Draco was a mess, and Severus wasn’t answering her owls. 

And Bellatrix was driving her up. The. Wall.

“Bella,” she tried, for the third time since they’d sat down with the tea set. “Do you suppose-,” she looked at Draco, who hastily turned his eyes down to his teacup in a motion that she was quite sure she had taught him never to repeat in formal company when he was six. 

Bella was full of energy, her magic audibly crackling through the air, her curls frizzing up in the static of it. Her face seemed perfectly calm, the picture of a demure pureblood wife, but for the gleam of madness in her eyes. She seemed to be vibrating in her seat, and before Narcissa could come up with something to say she pushed herself up and began to pace, muttering.

“Why has the Dark Lord not called upon us yet? He must have Potter, nobody is as clever as our Lord to get to the boy, so why has he not called upon us?” She spun to look at Narcissa, then Draco, pleading and desperate. “Our Lord is clever, our Lord is cunning and genius and surely he is not having trouble with the boy, but- why has he summoned Snape but not me? ” 

She continued to pace, ranting and rambling her fury and frustration as Narcissa and Draco sipped their tea. It was uncomfortable.

Draco broke first. “Mother, Aunt Bella, may I be excused?” He asked quietly, head bowed. Narcissa sighed softly, but nodded.

“Very well, but remember to be on time for dinner,” She reminded him. “I don't want you skipping again.”

He nodded and left the room without another word. 

Narcissa waited until the door closed, and reached into her robe pocket for a flask, adding a dash to her tea. 

Bellatrix snorted, going to the window to push it open and stick her head out into the wind. “Don't think he doesn't know about your little habits, Cissy!” She called back, grinning. 

Her mood had always been changeable, like the weather in spring, but this week was worse.

Ever since Draco had returned from Hogwarts, the Dark Lord had left Bellatrix in the dark, and she was chomping at the bit for something to do, anything to please her Lord and reassure herself that he had not forgotten her.

It was tiring, because all Narcissa could care about right now was her husband in that tiny ministry cell without his clothes or his cane, and his lawyer telling her that it was going to be a tight case no matter how good his arguments were. The Wizenagamot was simply a biased machine, and it had been for many decades.

Dumbledore’s sycophants, Potter’s supporters and fans of the new Minister, Scrimgeour, would all be looking to take Lucius down.

It would be up to Hector Gamp to give Lucius the best chance, but facts and logic couldn't always beat the clear party lines, not when Lucius was such a powerful figurehead for the Dark.

She’d been writing letters to as many neutral and swing-voters as names she could locate, politely pleading for their mercy, and it was humiliating but she was a Black . She would do anything to keep her husband from Azkaban. Legal methods preferred, but illegal was definitely on the table.

If nothing else, she was certain her Lord was planning a breakout at some point. He had lost a few of his best duellers that night - the Lestrange brothers, the Carrow twins - and he would need them in the rising conflicts.

But she would raise her wand at her Lord before she let Lucius be imprisoned in Azkaban. 

Especially after what it had done to Bella.

Sweet, excitable Bella who hid her flinches with over-the-top gestures and cackles, leaning into the crazy woman that everyone thought she was. Sweet, doting Bella who’d miscarried the child she hadn’t known she was carrying a week into her stay in Azkaban. Even Draco was scared of her, Bellatrix had admitted one night after she’d crawled into Narcissa’s bed, lonely. It hurt, but it hurt even more knowing that it was her sister’s defense mechanism to hide her shattered mind and soul. 

Hiding it by baring it to the world, but only the most dangerous parts.

Bellatrix swung back into the room and flopped down beside Narcissa, taking up her own untouched teacup and downing it. She let out a suprised noise. “That is… Rudolphus’s recipe,” she said, voice raw. Rudolphus was back in Azkaban, and Bellatrix didn’t talk about him.

Narcissa held her breath.

The black-haired death eater turned to her sister and smiled, tears glimmering in her grey eyes. “Do you suppose Draco will want to learn from me this summer, Cissa?”

The topic change threw her off, but Narcissa took it as a compliment, glad to have made her sister happy, even for a short moment.

Day 4

When Rita had registered her animagus form at the Ministry, there had been a small amount of controversy, but it was worth it to get her job at the Prophet back. Her article in the Quibbler had been infamous, despite having none of her usual embellishments, and that had been enough to get her through the door.

And once her foot was through the door, of course, she could work her way right back up off the back of her previous notoriety. Which she was currently doing.

Her latest articles were a series of discussion pieces picking on the poor selection of wand shops in the British isles, and she was doing some editing before passing them on to the secondary editor when she saw someone she knew was loyal to Dumbledore pass by the secretary’s desk.

She glanced around.

She technically was allowed to shift any time she liked, now that she was a legal animagus, but her co-workers disliked seeing it and a few had tried to swat her.

Instead, she shot an eavesdropping spell at the man’s robes and stared down at her articles as she waited for the man to find the person he wished to talk to.

He was approaching Hobbes' office, which meant he must have a truly juicy piece of news on him. Hobbes was the Head Editor, and people only went straight to him if they were certain it would sell. And if they were wrong, they’d likely be banned from the premises - she’d seen this more than once.

“Mr Diggle, what can I do for you?” She heard Hobbes’ voice clear as day and smirked to herself, adjusting her glasses.

“W-well, it’s about Harry Potter.” The man stammered, his voice low and uncomfortable, and Rita stiffened.

She remembered being kept in a fucking jar by that crazy Gryffindor girl, Potter’s friend. No way would she write on that boy again, nothing whatsoever - she had sworn to herself. Nothing unless she had the boy’s permission, which would never come. She knew that.

And yet Rita did not end the spell. How could she? She was an investigative journalist! It was her job to find out the news and exploit it into something interesting for the public! Even if she could not use it, it was always good to know these things.

“You’d better come in, Diggle. And… Crawley, bring a quill and pad in here!” 

Gritting her teeth, Rita pulled off her glasses to polish them on her clothes before standing to move to the women’s restroom. She could sit in there for a few minutes, get the important information, then get back to work. Crawley was a boring choice, but Hobbes didn’t quite trust Rita on things like this yet.

Her article on Ollivander’s was nearly complete, anyway. She just was waiting on one more owl response and then all it needed was some editing.

“What’s happening, Boss?”

“Got some info on Harry Potter, need you to take notes, okay?”

“Yessir!” There was the sound of paper against paper.

“Alright, Diggle. You’ve got your stage, tell us what you have.” Hobbes did not sound impressed, but Rita didn’t care about that. She was on the edge of her seat, wondering what Harry had done this time. The boy was so good at getting into adventures.

“He’s missing.” Diggle said shortly, and then didn’t say anything else.

“...and…?” Crawley questioned, tapping the quill against her face in that move she always did that so annoyed Rita. She could only barely hear the soft tap tap tap , but she knew what it was. Urgh! “We need more details for an article, Diggle. When did he disappear? Was there evidence of a struggle? Where might he be? Is anyone in contact with him?”

Hobbes hummed, and Rita imagined him leaning forward on his desk with a stern look on his bushy brows. “I understand a lot of this information is probably confidential for Potter’s safety but give us what you can, Diggle.”

“I- er, can’t tell you much,” Diggle squeaked, and Rita wondered if he was lying, and if so, why. She’d met Diggle a few times and the man was short and irritating, but he wasn’t a stammerer, which meant he may well be telling lies.

“Why don’t you start by telling us when you discovered him missing?” Crawley said impatiently, and Rita huffed and shifted into a beetle, climbing up to sit on the top of the bathroom cabinet. She’d wait as long as she needed, nobody had seen her, it was fine.

“The 14th, in the evening, Albus… he called a few friends and said he’d- his- he had become aware of something happening at Potter’s muggle relatives home, his summer home, you know.”

There was a sound of a quill scratching. “Mhm. And his relatives were there but Potter was gone?”

A pause. “Yes.” Lie , Rita thought, her antennae twitching.

“Did you talk to his relatives? Find out anything?”

“I-I can’t say.” Diggle stumbled for a moment before settling on the word, and Rita wondered what that was about.

“Was there any sign of a struggle? Anything that suggested he was kidnapped, rather than running away?”

“I- he was…” Diggle seemed extremely uncomfortable at this point. “Albus was extremely worried. He said Harry was likely injured and wandless, but out in the muggle world somewhere.”

“Goodness, and are the Aurors on the case yet?” Crawley asked, full of flimsy concern.

“Albus is talking to them while I am here,” Diggle replied, and Rita heard someone shift in their seat. Probably Diggle. “It’s imperative that Harry is found quickly, with You-Know-Who back and Harry being the Chosen One, you know. What if he is captured by Death Eaters?”

Hobbes huffed in clear annoyance. “Mr Diggle, we are journalists. If you wish to have the law enforced, go and visit the Ministry. Can you give us any other information?”

Diggle hesitated for a long moment. “He- Harry, lost someone very close to him at the Ministry battle. A close friend. He probably isn’t thinking straight in his grief. We are all very worried about him. Can you… make sure that the article says that he has places to go? In case he reads it.” His voice sounded so off, like he had rehearsed it.

Odd.

“Very well, Mr Diggle. Thank you for the tip, if you come up with any other information please make sure you let myself or Miss Crawley here know at once.”

“It needs to be soon! Tomorrow morning!”

And then Rita heard the sound of a bag of money on Hobbes’ desk and nearly fell off the cabinet in excitement.

She finally had blackmail on her boss!

This was just what she needed. She didn’t even need to hear the rest of this!

She flew down to the floor, shifted back as she landed and quickly cancelled the spell just as a co-worker entered the room.

Rita moved to the sink and ignored the woman, mind whirring in excitement.

She could hardly believe that upright, straight-laced Hobbes would take a bribe from Dumbledore’s man! But this was amazing dirt for when she was ready to take him down.

Merlin , Rita looked forward to the day.

Chapter Text

A note from Tonks was delivered early in the morning by the house-elf. Voldemort, in the middle of a post-breakfast cup of tea, opened it quickly. 

Master,

Dumbledore intends to declare Harry missing, not dead, at both the Auror Department and to the Prophet’s Head Office today. He asked me to report the aurors’ attempts to find him. I can meet with you this evening for a full report on what he told them.

-T

Interesting.

It shouldn't cause too many issues. He wondered why Dumbledore had decided to declare Harry missing rather than dead, and realised with anger that it was because he had only recently declared the boy ‘the Chosen One’. It would cause a panic.

This worked in Voldemort’s favour and Harry’s resurrection could be kept private, though there would be some runic scarring on the body, which was unavoidable. Resurrection was a messy business and anchoring a horcrux was as well.

He was planning to spend the day working on Harry’s body. The first stage of runework was done for the ritual, but he needed to ensure the corpse was in good working order before he could do the most important preparation - resuscitating it.

While Harry’s body was dead, if he healed it up and resuscitated it, it would be easy enough to keep alive ready for the ritual. Similar to the body of a wizard kissed by a dementor, it would eventually waste away, but would be fine for the few days until the ritual was ready. Voldemort was a skilled necromancer and knew of several different ways to resurrect a body, but he would be using a method very similar to the muggle’s defibrillation - a series of electric shocks to the chest to restart the heart.

It would be distressing for Harry to witness.

He knew this. It… frustrated him that he could not shield Harry from it.

For practical reasons, of course. 

He couldn't have his magic exploding while he was casting delicate spells on the body - it could ruin everything.

Harry was being very quiet, but Voldemort could feel him listening to his thoughts. He opened his mouth to ask the boy if he minded, then closed it, surprised at himself.

Since when did he care if the boy was happy? It had to be to do with the horcrux, or their close proximity, or something. He didn't know. Emotional reactions were always hard to tangle out.

Harry stirred slightly. You’re acting like you care. I don’t know why, but you are. It’s almost like Hermione. He didn't seem overly concerned, just tired out. Also, I was taking a potion, though I hadn’t had it for a few days, for the cruciatus after-effects? 

That could easily affect the ritual. The precision these things required was extremely tight, so Voldemort would have to check Harry’s system for any lingering chemical effects and account for them. And he may as well check for poisoning while he was at it. Just in case the relatives had fed him bleach or something. He’d gleaned a bit from Harry’s reactions and they seemed like the type.

They are. Absolute scum, especially my Uncle. Harry said sadly, and Voldemort felt a warmth in his chest as their soul pieces attempted to press closer together. He focused and gently pushed Harry back. He did not wish for them to bind too much, it would make the ritual more painful.

“If I killed them, you would never have to return there,” Voldemort said, and drained his cup before standing. “I should have done it when I collected you.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, conflicted. There’s always time for that later. He finally said, and Voldemort smirked to himself.

“Would you prefer I inform Lupin of your presence?” He enquired as he took the mug to the sink and set the charmed sponge to clean. “I can remove him from the room while I work, if it is too much for you, but it would be a good way to shock him into listening to us.”

Us, hm?

Voldemort hummed, turning to leave the kitchen. “Like it or not, we are in this together now, Harry. Lord Voldemort does not abandon what is his.”

Harry’s reaction of genuine shock-gratitude-comfort was like a static sting in his chest, and Voldemort felt a faint anxiety in response. Harry was always so emotional, was it reasonable to expect him to be able to stay calm?

It really wasn’t. 

He took a detour and stopped off in his potions storage room. It had been a great feat of transfiguration and parselmagic which allowed him to create a series of temperature-controlled spaces for the potions he kept around. He liked to always have a large variety now that he was fully independent again. In the room, Voldemort located several calming draughts, a nutritional replacement potion and several low-strength healing potions.

Hopefully Lupin was not hurt and had been eating, but just in case, he would be prepared.

The full moon wasn’t until the 30th anyway, so they had another week before he had to arrange alternative accommodations, and the resurrection would likely take place that night. The restorative power of a midsummer full moon would be excellent to help guide the ritual.

But it did mean he had to worry about the wolf.

He uncorked a calming potion and swallowed it down, ignoring the bitter taste. It should keep Potter from getting worked up enough to cause an explosion, but who knew with soul magic?

It was uncharted territory.

Voldemort put the remaining vials in his pocket and headed down to the ritual room.

It was in the basement of the manor, sunk seven feet underground and bathed in thousand-year-old runic magic placed by Salazar Slytherin and refreshed by his descendants. It had been over two hundred years since a Slytherin Heir had been deemed worthy by the family magic and allowed access to the Manor, so Voldemort had needed to redo a great deal of it by himself, and he was very proud of the results.

Harry was listening to his thoughts with great interest, trying to follow along. It made Voldemort proud that even this piece of his soul, trapped, limited and confused that he was, was still intelligent and willing to learn. 

It made him sure that he was making the right choice.

Even if Harry fled him once he was resurrected, Voldemort had won.

He could not kill Harry, but he had made the boy see him as human. That was enough. He knew Harry well enough to know that.

Lupin was awake, and the wolf snarled when Voldemort opened the door, hunching in a defensive posture. He had enough range of motion to fully lie down, but not to stand up. It was a good way to induce stress and feelings of claustrophobia without having to waste time constructing a small box. It also kept him from doing anything stupid like trying to attack Voldemort.

Not that the wolf could actually hurt him, but it would distress Harry and he was trying to avoid that.

The witchlights embedded in the walls flickered and then brightened as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The man had been in dim almost-darkness for days, but it didn’t seem like he was affected by the brighter light, which was a good sign for his health and the strength of his wolf, even after being poisoned with the tained wolfsbane.

“Lupin.” He greeted him, heading to stand in front of the chained figure. “Are you lucid?” Any attempt at conversation would be useless if the man could not comprehend what Voldemort was saying. He took a moment to look at Lupin, curled on the floor defensively. 

It was a pathetic picture. The man’s robes were ragged and he was dirty, hair greasy and hanging down his face with a scraggly beard on his chin. He had been eliminating over the drain at least, so he did not smell too badly, but perhaps it was time to move him somewhere nicer. 

…when he swore his loyalty to Voldemort, naturally.

(He felt Harry’s quiet exasperation, but the boy did not comment. He got the impression that Harry wasn’t annoyed, but expected this sort of thought process from him. Good.)

Lupin looked up with a snarl twisting his features. “Yes,” The man said, eyes shining amber in the witchlight. “I will never help you. Let me bury my cub.” His voice broke, but he was still firm and barely wavered as he dared to meet Lord Voldemort’s eyes.

That was unsurprising.

Werewolves were naturally extremely protective over any youngsters they claimed as their ‘cubs’, though this protection usually only extended to their own children and other werewolves. 

“Your cub is not dead,” Voldemort began. “No- listen to me, or I will remove your tongue.” Lupin had opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut. “Due to complicated soul magic, Harry is a part of me . He does not have his own soul. When he was killed, he rebounded into my mind. Our choices are to put him in an inanimate object, his own body or leave him to suffer and slowly be subsumed by my greater whole.” 

Lupin just stared at him. “What?”

“Your cub is not dead. Do not make Lord Voldemort repeat himself.”

Harry pushed at the occlumency shields slightly. Don’t hurt him, please. And Voldemort did not bother to push back, focused on the werewolf.

“He is not dead, he is inside my mind, and I will be extracting him. I would prefer to be able to put him back in his own body rather than torture him indefinitely or letting him fade into nothingness.”

“You’re… I- what?! ”

Voldemort huffed, turning away to go over to the body. He had little patience for this sort of thing, but he would not hurt the wolf, Harry did not want him to.

A part of him was surprised at how much sway Harry had over him, but he didn’t think too much of it. He was the Dark Lord, and Harry was a part of his soul, of course the boy had power when nobody else would. It wasn’t going to be an issue. Hopefully.

I won’t hurt you . Harry said, unprompted.

Voldemort bit back a hiss of surprise and tried to pull himself together, completely unsettled by how this was all going. Harry, perhaps sensing his discomfort, pulled back again.

“Why are you doing this?” Lupin asked hoarsely. 

“Because I want to, Remus Lupin,” Voldemort replied, twisting open the wards so he could work on the body without affecting the preservation. There was a shower of golden sparks, a flashing of blue and green, and there the body lay…

He was so quiet, so lifeless. It still looked so wrong.

He heard Lupin whimper softly.

Lord Voldemort pulled out his potions and got to work.

This was weird. So weird. Harry was thoroughly weirded out.

Being in Voldemort’s head gave him access to all the man’s quiet thoughts and after the first day or so, he’d just… let him . It was extremely strange. 

But it also meant that Harry now understood Voldemort far more than he had before. The man’s personality, bravado built on a desperate fear that he hadn’t quite identified and a strong belief that he was saving the world, his people. Such a strong sense of responsibility for the people in Azkaban, for Bellatrix and for Lucius and Narcissa and even Draco. It was humanising.

Harry had known Voldemort was just a man, but seeing it so intimately was something else.

It had started to make him think.

The prophecy. The way Dumbledore had explained it to him. The way he’d explained it to the Minister of Magic and the reporters and how it was in the papers - not the specific wording, but its existence - and how now the whole wizarding world thought that only Harry could kill Voldemort.

Harry wasn’t particularly surprised to realise that he didn’t want to kill Voldemort anymore. Not when he basically owed the man his life.

That was how a life debt worked, right? It made sense. 

He wondered what Dumbledore would do when he realised Harry owed Voldemort a magically binding life debt, as Harry soon would. It was… reassuring. He wouldn’t be able to kill Voldemort anymore, he wouldn’t be allowed to. He would be compelled not to.

What that meant for the wizarding world, he wasn’t sure, but surely Harry wasn’t the only person on the planet with the knowledge and ability to kill Voldemort. He was still just a teenager, after all. Surely there was someone else, because Harry was no longer able to, even when he got his body back. It was relieving.

The boy who lived was dead, and he didn’t think he’d be coming back. Harry would, but not the titles, not the expectations, not the prophesied saviour.

Not to mention that Harry was born of Voldemort’s soul . 

Could he even kill him truly? The man was partially immortal and from what he’d explained, as long as Harry lived, Voldemort would to- so Harry would have to die. So how could Harry possibly kill Voldemort? It was simply not possible. He had to be dead for it to work.

Which was why, as Voldemort was contemplating the power they had over each other, he promised not to hurt the man. It was impulsive, but he meant it.

Merlin, if Dumbledore could see what he was thinking right now, Harry would be on the receiving end of one of his disappointed looks. 

While he was contemplating all of this, Voldemort was casting some sort of detection spell on Harry’s body, flicking his white wand back and forth in a complicated motion as he muttered the incantation under his breath.

The body lit up red and green, with runes and black, twisting mist emanating from the forehead. 

It was more complex than that, and Harry could kind of make out the shapes of his organs in the magic, glowing with gold and coated in a white webbing. It was fascinating to look at but he had no idea what it meant. Voldemort seemed to, though, as the man took a step back and muttered a swear.

“What’s wrong w-with Harry?” Remus’s voice stammered, and Voldemort turned, and they both saw that the man was standing, hunched over and held by the chains at his wrists, but craning his neck to look at the body. “That’s not a normal result, not by far, there’s- there’s magical interference- I’ve-...”

“I was suspecting something like this.” Voldemort said, closing his eyes as Harry felt him gather his thoughts. “Harry, pay attention. This-,” he pointed with his wand, tracing it along the white webs which, as he looked closer, were actually a very pale blue, “Is interference. Someone else’s magic. It is only possible for the most powerful of wizards, and…” He hooked the web up, lifting it away and watching as it dissolved into the air. “That is Dumbledore’s magic. I cannot tell the exact spell, but the purpose seems to be health monitoring and possibly tracking.”

“Dumbledore?” Remus seemed doubtful, but Harry realised with horror that the pale blue was just like Dumbledore. The headmaster’s eyes were a pale but bright blue, and when he thought of them, knowing this magic was on him, he wanted to throw up.

“The fact that he had this spell upon Harry and yet left him to die is negligence at best and manslaughter at worst,” said Voldemort, with a hiss of frustration. He brought his wand up again and began to draw the spell away with more efficiency. “He knew every time Harry was injured, every time he was in mortal danger, and knew exactly where the boy was at all times and yet he did nothing.”

Remus was quiet for a few moments. “I mean, y-you’re the cause of most of his mortal danger…”

Voldemort rounded on the werewolf, glaring, and Harry didn’t even bother to stop him. They were in complete agreement with what he was going to say. “Harry is a part of me, if I had known that I would never have harmed him, and Dumbledore likely knew and kept him from me.”

“You killed Lily and James!”

“I do not have to justify myself to you, Lupin.” Voldemort spat, and Harry could feel how angry the man was. He wished he could talk to Remus directly, but that would never happen, he didn’t think it was possible.

Not until his body was back in working order. He won’t listen to you, just fix my body and leave it. I can talk to him. He pushed gently at Voldemort, trying to make his nemesis understand.

He felt, rather than saw, as the tension left Voldemort’s body. “Harry says he will talk to you once he is back in his body.”

Well, that was one way to piss off Remus even more. Voldemort, obviously listening, snorted under his breath as he turned back to the body, ignoring Remus once more. 

“Spell residue, potion residue- Harry, were you on anything?”

Cruciatas after-potion, but not since I got back to my relative’s house . Harry responded, glad that Remus seemed to be staying quiet.

“Hm, not for this quantity, that potion leaves your system in 10 hours.” Voldemort conjured a scroll of parchment and they both watched as the writing began to appear upon it.

Acklees Aftercurse All-cure - last dose +3 days

Tears of Hekate , last dose- and then an unreadable scribble.

Voldemort clenched his teeth as Harry tried to glean what that potion was from his whirling thoughts. It was- it was- a magical suppressant?

How had that been in his system? Who had drugged him?

“Lupin. Do you know the potion Tears of Hekate, ” Voldemort gritted out.

“I-... I do…”

“This is why Harry could not fight back. They were being supplied with a drug so they could hurt him without consequences!”

Voldemort stormed out of the room, Harry quietly panicking but also just as angry, the fact that someone, probably Dumbledore (again) had hurt him, had let him die, had let them kill him - had made it easier for them to kill him.

They ended up in the duelling room again, mostly repaired from last time, and Voldemort began to curse the training dummies, boiling with a fury so strong that Harry felt like he was being swept away in it. Beneath the fury, the repeating thought - how many other children has he done this to?

How many little ones had been killed because of Albus Dumbledore?

Chapter Text

They ended up in the duelling room again, mostly repaired from last time, and Voldemort began to curse the training dummies, boiling with a fury so strong that Harry felt like he was being swept away in it. Beneath the fury, the repeating thought - how many other children has he done this to?

How many little ones had been killed because of Albus Dumbledore?

At the end of the day, it did not matter. Voldemort finished blowing up all his training dummies and set them to self repair, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his whirling emotions. Potter was angry too, it was clear and burning between them, but Voldemort could feel the calming potion doing its work and his breathing was soon steady once more.

“Harry,” He said, waiting for the boy’s attention before continuing. “Can you do this?”

(He’d started calling the boy by his first name and it felt so natural that he hadn't stopped to think about it.)

Harry seemed to stiffen and steel himself. I can. Can you?

This… understanding between them was heavy. Voldemort had never had a connection like this, even Nagini was different. Harry was a part of him and had an innate comprehension of Voldemort’s emotions, knowledge that the Dark Lord barely had of himself. They slotted together perfectly like a yin-yang symbol.

It was dangerous. It felt safe. Safer than he had ever felt before-

“I will be fine,” He said, after a long silence. Nobody had asked him if he could handle something in decades. They didn’t dare, and Harry could absolutely feel that thought from him, they were so intermingled right now. He was letting the boy cross so many boundaries and he didn’t even care.

It would be fine.

Back in the ritual room, Voldemort ignored the questions from Lupin and began working on the body once more, steadfastly ignoring the emotions passing between the two of them, back-and-forth in a loop. Betrayal-guilt-comfort-pain in a cycle, things he hadn’t ever felt this deeply before. Eventually, Lupin fell quiet. Eventually, Voldemort moved from clearing the potions residue to actually healing the injuries. 

Broken wrist… healed. Fractured ribs… healed. Hairline fracture on his jaw, healed. Internal bleeding in four places (dear Merlin)... healed. And that was just the worst of it. 

Harry’s shoulder was bruised in a way that he knew meant a dislocation and resetting, his limbs were covered in marks, and that wasn’t even counting the nerve damage from the after-effects of the cruciatas curse, cast by both Bellatrix and himself two weeks ago.

“With this much damage, we need a full human sacrifice for the ritual,” He said softly, rearranging Harry’s limbs into a restful pose and pulling the sheet back over his body.

As in… killing someone so I can come back? Harry was hesitant.

“Yes. You were killed violently, so I must kill someone in your place - If it was a peaceful death, a smaller sacrifice would work - a goat is traditional. But the murderous intent lingers. Equivalent exchange is the most important rule of Necromancy.” 

Lupin let out a gasp. “Stop it! Stop acting like he’s there! Acting like he can hear you!” The man’s eyes were red and teary, but he radiated anger. “Stop trying to manipulate me! Necromancy is wrong!”

Voldemort felt Harry flinch, felt the faintest of twitches in his own arms and the urge to run and hide and protect his head, and turned to look at the werewolf.

“Lupin,” He took one step closer, then another, glaring. The shadows seemed to deepen in the already dark chamber. “It is through Harry’s mercy that you are still alive , so you would do well to not upset him.”

Defiant though he was, Lupin snapped his mouth shut. 

With the blessed silence in his ears, Voldemort turned his attention back inward. “A sacrifice- life for a life. As a peace offering, I am willing to give Peter Pettigrew’s life for this ritual. With your consent.” Harry was backed into a corner, but Voldemort wanted to let him think about it, give him a semblance of control over the situation.

He turned to leave the room, ignoring Lupin’s shocked exclamation. Harry was quiet, stewing with the thought.

While Pettigrew was important to Voldemort’s missions, he had Tonks to act as a spy now so the rat was not essential. And gaining Harry’s trust through a gesture like this was more important than the snivelling coward of a follower, even if the man had helped resurrect him. 

Normally, Voldemort felt the compulsion to protect his followers from harm and guide them to greatness alongside him, a result of the old magics he had invoked in the creation of the Dark Mark. But with Pettigrew? Nothing. Which meant that the rat simply was not loyal enough for the magic to continue to work both ways. That would be a liability in the end.

He was already running the runes through his head that would need to be used to contain the animagus during the ritual, looking for any snags. 

Harry stirred, and Voldemort felt him come to a decision, though there was a clear uneasy feeling in Harry’s little portion of their shared mindspace. Do it. Use Wormtail.  

Voldemort nodded. If Harry was certain enough to tell him, that was good enough. He had preparations to complete.

Once the body was properly prepared, Harry remembered that they had somewhere else to be- Tonks was coming to report. He prodded Voldemort gently. The man was focusing on runes, scribbling down notes and probably unaware of the time.

It was far from the first time Harry had witnessed Voldemory get engrossed in his work, it had been happening all week and it just seemed normal.

Voldemort blinked, and put down his quill. “My thanks.” He stood, and Harry watched as the man conjured a hooded black cloak from somewhere and put it on. And just moments later, they were apparating. Once, twice, three times, and a fourth to the meeting spot. Harry wondered if it was a safety precaution, and Voldemort nodded slightly before walking into the small shack.

It was a run-down shed in the middle of nowhere, but the inside was clean, with a small meeting room with rich furniture. Harry recognised it as the place where Voldemort had met Snape before.

Tonks was not here yet, so Voldemort settled down on one of the loveseats and began running through runes in his head once more. Harry watched, but it was all beyond him. He wished, not for the first time this week, that he had taken Runes instead of Divination so that he knew at least some of what Voldemort was thinking.

Even then, he doubted he would understand what it was. Voldemort was a genius.

The longer Harry spent in the man’s head, the more he realised how much Voldemort had been allowing him to live. Sure, he’d had a few moments of dumb luck and inspiration, but mostly Voldemort had simply been toying with him. Allowing him his hope. And he didn’t, truly, stand a hope against him.

Which was why he was so very glad that Voldemort no longer wanted to kill him. Because Harry now understood that it would have been inevitable. His death, that is.

The door creaked, and Voldemort straightened his posture as Tonks entered in the body of a scrawny young man. Harry did not recognise the face, but something told him that it was that way for a reason. 

“Apologies for my tardiness, my lord,” Tonks said hastily, kneeling down at Voldemort’s feet. Harry felt a smirk rising onto Voldemort’s mouth as the man leaned backward and unfolded his legs, looking down at Tonks from above.

“It does not matter. Your report on the meetings?”

“Dumbledore told us that he was certain now that you had taken Harry’s body and Remus. He found some sort of residue at the scene, apparently. And he also said you have been quiet, which makes him think you are plotting or working on something. He expects you to lead some sort of attack within the next two months, probably to free those who were captured at the Ministry. He asked Snape to snoop around any headquarters whenever he got the chance and either destroy or return with Harry’s body.” 

Tonks offered Voldemort a roll of parchment. “I had Kreacher keep notes under the table, so there is a full transcript of the Order Meeting, here.” Voldemort wandlessley levitated the parchment onto the side table, eyes never leaving Tonks’ face. Wandless magic never failed to intimidate his followers. 

Harry thought about Kreacher, the elf he had met last summer, sitting under the table copying down everything that the wizards said and having no choice. What if he had been caught? Elves did not teleport quietly, he couldn’t have escaped without being heard. How did Tonks decide that this was the appropriate way? How long did Kreacher need to sit still and quiet and hope nobody heard him?

And yes, the elf probably thought it was an honor to serve the house Black, but Harry had been forced to sit in the dark, pretending he wasn’t there for hours before. He recalled one particular weekend where Dudley’s friend Piers had stayed over and the Dursleys had made him stay silent in the cupboard for two full days and nights.He knew what it was like to know that if he made a sound, he was worse than dead.

Voldemort’s left hand curled around the armrest. “And the meeting with the Aurors? Were you a part of it?”

Tonks nodded, “Yes, my lord. I was called over by Madam Bones to take notes. Kreacher came and copied them for me while she was distracted. Dumbledore told Madam Bones that he was extremely worried and that Harry might even be dead, and with your return proven, he was greatly worried about how the public would react. She agreed to keep it quiet, so only three aurors, including myself, are working the case. The others are Perkins and Kingsley.”

“Dumbledore supporters,” Voldemort murmured. Kingsley had not been at Harry’s house when Voldemort had collected his body. In fact, Harry hadn’t seen him since the day of his hearing at the Ministry for underage magic. He remembered the man’s favoured purple robes more than his face. He was pretty sure the man had been on Harry-guarding duty last summer, though.

“Indeed, my lord.” Tonks handed over the second scroll of notes and Voldemort nodded. 

“What of Potter’s relatives?”

Harry perked up in surprise, having not expected this question. Tonks evidently had not either.

“I- I don’t know, my lord,” They ducked their head. “Snape was in charge of ensuring their holding, but he also hasn’t been seen at Headquarters since then.”

“I will ask Severus, then. Finally, tell me. Were you one of the Order members guarding Harry’s home last summer?”

Now that was another unexpected question, and Harry was pretty sure he knew the answer: yes. 

Voldemort did not wait for a verbal reply once Harry had confirmed it. “Go to the Black estate, I assume you still have some control over it. If not, the public records kept in Whistle Way. Look up the case of Josiah Avery vs the Department of Wix Child Services in 1953. Study it. Rid yourself of your misconceptions. Child abuse is just as common in the wizarding world as the muggle.”

“Yes, my lord.” Tonks waited a few moments more. “Was there anything else you wanted to know, my lord?”

“No. Dismissed.” The wixen fled the room, and Voldemort leaned back in his chair and tipped his head up to stare at the beamed ceiling of the meeting place. After several long moments, when the door had long since swung shut and left them in the deafening quiet of silencing charms, he spoke again. “Had you said no to Pettigrew, I would have offered you Tonks. Young, foolish, but worth a great deal to me nonetheless. If you hold a grudge against them, I will mete out any punishment you wish.”

How had they gotten to this point? Harry didn’t even know what to think. Voldemort was offering to let Harry get revenge on someone who had barely even harmed him. Harry didn’t want revenge, he just wanted his body back.

“Of course,” Voldemort stood up slowly, unfolding his long frame and brushing out his robes. “That is the priority, Harry, never doubt.”

Harry didn’t doubt, which was the thing. He was just starting to worry about what happened after that point.

What would happen when he had his body back? 

“We will make that choice when you have your body, Harry.” Voldemort said calmly as he collected the notes from Tonks and tucked them in his pocket. “I want you to be able to think it through without worrying about our minds colliding.”

There was an echo of something else, an emotion that Harry couldn’t place but seemed to sit between them. It was not blocking their connection, in fact, it seemed almost to strengthen the feeling.

It was warm, and it felt like home.

Chapter Text

It felt like everything was coming to a head. Voldemort was full of a nervous energy that had him waking at 6am to summon Pettigrew and imprison him with a cold efficiency.

Tonight was the Full Moon. The 30th of June. It was hard to believe it had been two weeks with Harry in his head. The boy was unconscious at the moment, but Voldemort could feel his presence, heavy and comforting over his heart.

It was like Nagini’s embrace in the evenings, and he wondered if he would miss it once Harry was gone. (He would, he would, he would .)

Pettigrew squared away, Voldemort moved down to the ritual room where Harry’s body and Lupin were being kept. The werewolf was curled on the floor, looking haggard. The full moon was going to take its toll on him tonight. Voldemort immobilised him, removed the chains, and levitated him out of the room. He had a cell made for werewolves further down the hall, which the wolf could stay in without a chance of him escaping during the ritual. Everything had to be perfect.

The werewolf woke up as Voldemort deposited him and scrambled upright. “What’s going on?”

“The ritual is today. As is the Full Moon.” Voldemort responded, conjuring some leftovers from the kitchen and placing them in the small cupboard by the door. “I will retrieve you after. Try not to die.”

“What-?”

CLANG.

The door shut in Lupin’s face, and Voldemort sighed in relief at the silence. He was tense. Anxious, even. He wasn’t quite sure why. He’d done rituals like this before, and knew he could do it. He had spent the last two weeks working on ensuring every last piece of the puzzle was perfect. And yet, he still felt unsure. 

Harry stirred in his mind, and he started moving again, back to the ritual room to conjure the salts and other mineral conduits. Salt, iron and copper could be conjured from nothing, but the coal needed, he summoned from his stores - Anthracite, gathered in Ukraine many years ago. Before laying any conduits down, Voldemort swept the floor with a broom, west-to-east to prepare it for Dark Magic and to clear the floor from anything Lupin may have left. 

(The ritual room, in fact this whole estate, had belonged to the descendants of Salazar Slytherin once upon a time. Around 600 years ago, the final daughter who carried the name had risen to be a Dark Lord and made the area unusable with her transfiguration experiments. Voldemort had found out about the place from the Goblins, the unplottable land in the north of England that he had inherited from the Gaunts that they had never investigated, it being far too dangerous for normal people and far too expensive to have fixed. For normal people.

But when Voldemort was thirty-five years old, he had calmed the land and claimed the Slytherin Estate as his own, including the ritual room that was over a thousand years old, lined with finely cut marble and granite slabs and surrounded by three freshwater springs. It was one of the oldest confirmed ritual spaces in the British Isles, and it was his.  

The marshland was not the most beautiful to look upon, but it was Voldemort’s home.)Within the ritual room there were two shallow circles cut into the floor - one around the slab that held Harry’s body, and one beside it, empty, for rituals that did not require a subject in the circle. These cuts were made to be filled with materials, water, or whatever was required for the ritual.

He drew a ring of pure salt, to protect the both of them from possible malevolence, and then set about drawing the runes on the floor and side of the slab. The copper wire he would use to bind their hands to each other later during the ritual. For now, he used the black coal for the runes. It was a meditative experience, and his tension began to evaporate as he confidently put down each rune. He would make no mistakes, because he knew how to do this. Rituals were in his blood, his body, harkening back to Salazar Slytherin himself.

Harry stirred once more, and he paused as he felt the boy begin to awaken. “Good morning, Harry,” he murmured, not wanting to disturb anything with his breath. “I am setting things up, we should be able to start the ritual in an hour or so.”

There was a short burst of emotions from the other wizard, and Voldemort knew he was having misgivings. “Do you wish to wait?” He enquired, not sure what he would do if Harry said yes. Harry was silent, and Voldemort felt the weight of the emotions Harry was feeling like a physical load on his shoulders. He did not regret asking, though, for he wanted Harry to be certain. 

The ritual plodded closer on heavy feet and Voldemort ran through his checklist - next on the agenda was finding Nagini, so he cast a detection spell and located her on the first floor.

She was calm, winding herself over his feet and grounding him. “ You have done rituals like this many times, my Marvolo. All will be well.”

It was what he needed. “Thank you, Nagi. You will be by yourself for a day or so, the werewolf is in his cell but it is the full moon tonight so be cautious.”

With Nagini fully informed, he could work on preparations once more.

He collected Pettigrew from the room he had stashed the animagus in, and felt his mouth curve into a frown with Harry’s dislike of the man. They weren’t even trying to stay apart at the moment, Harry curled in and around his soul so tightly that he worried for the pain to come when he tore their connection open once more.

Pettigrew was clapped into the silver chains that Lupin had been using, and forced to kneel, semi-conscious, as Voldemort collected the final things he needed. A cold iron ritual knife, an athame carved with abstract serpents that had been just one of the many treasures he had found in the Estate, the copper wire, which he carefully wound around Harry’s wrists as he laid the boy’s hands, palm up on his chest over the white robes. Later, they would join hands, but for now the wire would keep the limbs in place.

The preservation enchantments upon the slab and Voldemort’s own preparations ensured the body remained poseable for the ritual. Luckily.

The air was cool, down here in the sunken room, six feet below the waterline of the land. He could picture the springs as they drained from the aquifer below to the marshes above, and how they kept the room pure and free of outside interference. Everything in this room was designed to draw the enchanter into a meditative state with a clear mind, and Voldemort could feel it happening to him.

Voldemort rid himself of his shoes and socks, letting his magic seep into every pore of his body. He began to coalesce the magic, watching it activate the runes in the floor as he walked clockwise just within the salt circle, the hem of his own white robe two inches from the floor, keeping the runes undisturbed. Harry was watching, he could tell, could feel the itch behind his eyes.

He reached for the athame and took up the body’s hands. The flesh parted easily, but did not bleed. It was, again, uncomfortable to be touching the boy when he was so lifeless. The lack of a heartbeat was deafening in his ears, against his fingers as he cut the needed runes into the palms, and then reversed the knife to cut the same runes into his own hands. These runes would stop Harry’s original soul from returning, ensuring that the body remained a container for the Harry that Voldemort knew, not the one he had killed on that fateful Halloween night.

Blood began to flow, lightly, and he felt Harry twisting his face into another frown. This part of the magic, the boy did not understand. Voldemort hoped to be able to teach him someday. Magic pressed against his skin, and each drop of blood that fell stained the white robes red. These robes would be burned later, for both of their protection, but for now, it made for a striking contrast.

Drip, drip, it was the only sound but for quiet breathing. 

He turned to Pettigrew, the animagus, and took five steps out of the edge of the ritual circle to where the man knelt, eyes hazy. He did not know what awaited him, and Voldemort was tempted to release him from the enchantments, just to revel in the horror that he knew the animagus would feel when he realised he was about to be a sacrifice. Unfortunately, this ritual was just too delicate to allow that, so he took the knife and Wormtail’s hair in his hand. This was the moment.

“A life for a life,” He intoned, and dashed open Wormtail’s throat, letting the blood splatter outward, away from the circle. He held the man up until he began to slump, watching the knife begin to glow with the power of the soul.

He turned to walk back to the body, taking the exact footsteps as before and being careful not to drip blood on any of the runes. Magic began to hum in the air, and Voldemort began to chant as it flowed out of him, wave after wave.

“ Necromancerſ ophe ageſ past,

blooede ophe mīn  blooede.

granÞ ich th' strength bihofþe carrī hider.

protecÞ hem, protecÞ ū̆s both.

ophe mīn  soul, bear Harry bihofþe hider bodī.

bear hem bihofþe safetī.

bear hem safelī.”

As he chanted, Voldemort laid the athame on Harry’s stomach, blade pointed downward, and then pressed their hands together, palm to palm. 

It-

Static danced across his fingers, and his heartrate jumped. 

He-

He felt a burning in his chest, a tearing, and magic washed out of him in a wave, burning out the witchlights and leaving them in darkness. On the edges of his vision, he could see the runes on the floor and the salt circle, burning with white flames.

His chest ached-

He felt his legs buckle and fell to his knees, only barely managing to hold on to Harry and the slab.

The body’s hands twitched.

Harry was terrified. He had nobody to tell this too, because he knew Voldemort already knew and was not acknowledging it because if Voldemort acknowledged that Harry was terrified then he would have to acknowledge that Voldemort was pretty damn scared too. 

And Voldemort would not admit that, not to anyone.

Harry understood, in a way. He understood Voldemort far more than he’d ever thought he would. He understood that the man’s emotions were kept under lock and key for a reason, that he would never trust anyone with them by choice. It was pure bad luck that what had happened had happened, and neither of them were particularly pleased about the lack of privacy.

Indeed, Harry was particularly upset about having to be present when Voldemort was the most vulnerable, in those minutes where he was lying in his bed, trying to fall asleep.

Voldemort hated himself, was the thing. He hated his body and everything it stood for, he hated its creation and every little thing that could be wrong with it, he hated it so strongly that it made Harry want to cry, to comfort him, to block it all out so he never had to think about it again, that his nemesis was just a man who hated himself. Just like Harry.

Harry hated himself too, but not to this extent. It was sobering to know that it might never improve, that there was no ‘better’ on the horizon when he became an adult and got a job and a wife and had children. He’d always thought, well, life will come and all will be well, but…

But.

Here was Voldemort, who had lived as Harry had. Poor, hated, ignorant of the Wizarding World, and then thrust into it. Loved by some, hated by others, working hard to earn the spot that was rightfully his.

Harry wished Voldemort had friends. He wished Voldemort had family. He wished Voldemort had anyone to talk to - Nagini was lovely, but she was one person - Voldemort needed more.

And he worried that when he was out of Voldemort’s body, that the man would push him away, hold him at a distance, not letting him curl close like he was allowing when there was less of a choice in the matter.

He knew he was just Harry, but his fear was crippling him- would Voldemort abandon him when all was said and done?

Would he be deserted, locked in a cage to protect Voldemort’s life? Would this closeness disappear as soon as it was not forced?

Harry found himself terrified of this.

As he watched Voldemort prepare the charcoal runes and change into his white ritual robes, Harry found his emotions coming to the surface of the body far more easily, and knew that Voldemort was scared too.

He knew it in the way Harry’s displeasure at seeing Pettigrew appeared on Voldemort’s face, and how he felt the frown and slight curling of the man’s fingers. He knew it in the way Voldemort had gone silent, not responding or explaining himself as the ritual began.

He knew it in the care he saw as the man carefully wrapped Harry’s wrists in the copper wire.

All Harry could do now was watch, wait and hope. It was too late to turn back. 

Pettigrew’s death didn’t shake him like he thought it would, but the blood splattering over Voldemort was gross. Tacky and sticky and reminding Harry of things he would rather not think of, it distracted him so much that he didn’t realise that the ritual was reaching its height.

And suddenly-

Dark-

He was freezing -

He-

Could-

With a gasp, Harry’s eyes flew open. His heartbeat, thumping in his ears, beat to the tune of alive, alive, alive .

Chapter Text

Voldemort’s head was pillowed upon Harry’s stomach when he became aware enough to notice it. The man was unmoving, his arms up, hands still clasped with Harry’s, and Harry had a moment of cold fear - recalling “a life for a life” - his stomach dropped a mile in the second before Voldemort took a deep, unsteady breath and squeezed Harry’s hands. He squeezed back.

He was freezing and starting to shiver, but Voldemort was obviously too tired to move far. He looked around, saw the witchlights start to glow once more, and spotted Pettigrew’s body, still bleeding out on the floor. 

He idly wondered if the animagus was still warm. 

There was no pain on his end of their connection, but Harry could sense an ache, echoing back down to him from Voldemort. Was this the pain Voldemort had been so worried about?

With a sigh, Voldemort released one of Harry’s hands and pushed himself back onto his feet, staring down at Harry. His mouth opened slightly, then curved into a satisfied smile. “It worked.” Whatever pain he was feeling, Harry couldn’t see it on the man’s face anymore, not through the expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Harry nodded numbly, enjoying the warmth of Voldemort’s skin against his own. “I-,” and oh , it felt strange to talk again. “M-,” The words in his mouth felt clumsy. Wrong. He reached down their connection instead. I am very cold , he sent, and Voldemort nodded. Harry felt the man’s worry just as strongly as if they were still melded. 

“That is to be expected. Talk that way for now- save your energy. Can you stand?”

He hadn’t even sat up yet, still trying to reorient himself. With Voldemort’s (trembling) hand under his back, he slowly sat. His vision spun for a few moments, the corpse of Pettigrew dancing around as if he had been imperiused to do circus tricks.

Controlling his body seemed to work at least. We need to rest. He sent, realising they were both shaking. Can you walk?  

“Yes- lean on me.”

Exhaustion echoed between both of them. Magical exhaustion, on Voldemort’s part, and physical on Harry’s.

Leaning on each other, the pair exited the ritual room and made for the nearest guest bedroom. Harry’s heart was pounding, and he could feel Voldemort’s pulse too, in their linked hands with drying blood between their skin.

Strangely, his hands did not hurt, and when he looked, he realised the runes that had been cut into them were fully healed. 

Voldemort practically fell onto the bed, a huge double with blue bedding, pulling Harry down with him. The man’s eyes were long-shut, and Harry simply watched as he fell asleep right there in front of him.

Vulnerable.

Huh. So maybe everything wouldn’t change after all? Leaning back against the pillows with Voldemort’s hand still clutching his own, Harry wondered what the future held for him, and before he noticed it, sleep swept over him too.

“-...but you have to promise me, Dobby. Don’t try to take me out of here out of some sort of misguided ‘saving Harry Potter’ thing. Dumbledore wants me dead. I cannot safely leave.”

Harry’s voice washed over Voldemort’s tired body like a balm as he began to wake up. The squeaky voice that followed was not nearly as welcome.

“Dobby promises, Harry Potter!”

So Harry’s escape plan had been a House Elf.

Not that it sounded like Harry was going to leave anymore, and Voldemort found himself glad of it. He stayed still, noting that he had curled toward Harry in his sleep - normally he slept on his back. 

(It wasn’t a bad change.)

“Dobby will get Mr Harry Potter some soup! Wait here, please!” There was a crack and Voldemort felt the telltale change in the air that meant the elf had popped away, as they tended to do. He wondered what Harry would do now.

He heard the boy sigh, and felt him shifting on the bed, moving closer to Voldemort’s prone form. “...Merlin, my life’s fucked if I’m thinking that,” he was mumbling, and Voldemort stifled a laugh. “...you awake, Voldemort?”

He didn’t really want to wake up, just yet. He wanted to stay in this drowsy, comfortable state, knowing he was safe and Harry was right here (and when had Harry gotten so high on his list of priorities?) so Voldemort kept his eyes shut, and was surprised to feel Harry’s hand on his cheek. It was bold of the boy to touch him like this, but he allowed it. It felt nice.

(Nice. What was happening to him? When was the last time he could say that something felt this nice?)

(It felt even more like home than his evenings with Nagini.)

(He was a little scared of that.)

“It’s alright, I’ll be right here when you decide to wake up.” Harry said softly, and pulled away. Voldemort felt the loss of touch like a wound, but didn’t dare break the spell and move to follow Harry’s hand. 

He didn’t want to get up, he was still so tired. (Logically speaking, it made sense for him to be exhausted. He had expended a great deal of his magic on the ritual, and torn his own soul asunder as well. Of course he was tired. So it was perfectly socially acceptable to spend the day in bed. Right?) His chest still ached, the feeling of something ripped from him- the place he’d been imagining Harry now hurt in time with his breathing. It would fade, the Horcrux pain always did, but he missed the warmth.

There was another crack before Voldemort could ponder it further, and the sound of Harry eating quickly filled his ears.

“Dobby, what are the origins of House Elves? Were you always enslaved?” 

Voldemort was struck with pride for his Horcrux.

While he had offered House Elves alliance before, they had always refused and so he had not planned to include them in his campaigns until later. He knew that it was mainly because of the nature of their subjugation and the brainwashing they perpetuated upon each other but he did not have the time or manpower to focus on House Elves at the present, not when so many other things needed to happen and he still had such a small force. And now Harry wanted to take up that mantle, to be their champion and help them out of their traditional rut beneath the boot of Wixkind.

Their story wasn’t one Voldemort knew, but he was sure Harry would learn it and tell him soon. 

“Oh, Dobby is so glad Mr Harry Potter asked!! Dobby knows elves at Hogwarts have written histories, Dobby will go and find them for Mr Harry Potter!”

There was another crack, and the elf vanished once more. The soup smelled amazing.

“You can have some, if you want to get up.” Harry commented, and Voldemort opened his eyes in surprise. Harry was watching him with a faint smile. “Our connection is wide open, you know.”

Voldemort had not realised, so used to them being curled around each other that this actually felt normal, their emotions and thoughts flowing past each other like parallel streams. Harry had heard every thought.

He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or not.

He… tentatively put up a single Occlumency wall. Before, he had guarded their connection with far more, but now he felt no need to. He just didn’t want every single one of his thoughts to overwhelm Harry, now that he had the option. Not because he didn’t like the connection, but because he didn’t think it would be healthy for them to continue to be so close. They’d nearly merged several times over the past few weeks, and he didn’t want to damage Harry’s personality or sense of self further. 

That didn’t make it easier to do, and he didn’t miss the slight frown on Harry’s face, though. The slight pout on his lip before he looked away and started back on his soup hurt like a thorn. 

Sitting up slowly, Voldemort took stock of his body, noting the dried blood all over his hands and robes and the pounding ache in his chest, just above his heart. He was also hungry and thirsty and wanted to sleep for another week and had a mild headache. All normal. He suddenly noticed that Harry had taken off his white robe, leaving him in a simple white slip that Voldemort had conjured for privacy when dressing the body, and looked away before Harry saw his gaze was pointed at the slim thighs. “How are you feeling?” He enquired, out of purely academic interest, of course.

While he had gone through this with Nagini twenty-nine years ago, the effects of a Horcrux possessing a human had never been fully explored and he was interested to know if anything had changed. It was nothing to do with how he was wondering if the boy had always been quite that thin.

“A bit shaky still,” Harry said thoughtfully. “But everything seems normal, you healed me well.”

“I may need to have some more Acklees Aftercure made for you,” Voldemort’s eyes fixed on Harry’s hands, which were indeed trembling with the weight of the soup spoon. “The Cruciatas after-effects cause damage down to the cellular level, so I am unsure I healed it all.” He could see the healed scars from the runes he had carved into Harry’s palms and was pleased to see the wounds had fully closed. “May I see your hands?” He wanted to be certain that the magic had worked. 

Putting down his spoon, Harry easily put his hands into Voldemort’s outstretched ones. Harry’s natural skintone was a great deal deeper than his own, owing to the Potters’ South Asian heritage. The temperature was cool, but within the normal human range - far better than it had been during the ritual. The tremors weren’t pronounced, luckily, and Voldemort was easily able to steady his Horcrux’s hands.

The scars had healed cleanly, marking thin lines that were barely visible beneath the natural crease lines of Harry’s hands, which made Voldemort smile in satisfaction at a job well done. “No pain?” Harry shook his head, and Voldemort let him have his hands back. “Good.” The runes upon his own hands would have to heal naturally, but they had scabbed over well enough overnight and he was unworried about that, just wanting to ensure everything had gone correctly with Harry. “There was, I admit, a very small chance of me accidentally summoning the original soul of Harry Potter,” He said, glancing around for his wand and spotting it on the floor - he must have dropped it in his haste to get to the bed. “I am glad I did not.”

Harry let out a nervous laugh. “That would have been- very awkward.” 

Nodding in agreement, Voldemort summoned his wand and began conjuring breakfast for himself from the leftovers he always kept in the kitchen. Nothing against the elf, of course, he just preferred to eat food he had prepared himself. It harkened back to his time at the Orphanage, a habit he had kept up even at Hogwarts. The elves in the kitchens had always been happy to let him make his own food.

There was another crack , and Dobby reappeared, arms full of a set of dusty books. Instantly, the elf squeaked in fear, eyes fixed upon Voldemort. “Mr Harry Potter sir- Dobby will leave the books here! Please be careful with them!” And the elf popped away, leaving the books on a table. 

Voldemort… held back a snort. Harry was laughing outright. “It’s- I know he has every reason to be scared, but-,” Harry snickered into his hands, muffling the sounds. It was… a strange sight, but Voldemort wondered if it was a habit he had learned from his cruel relatives. Then Harry sobered, looking at Voldemort with apprehension. “You’re- you’re not angry at me for calling him, are you?”

Oh, Harry. 

Shaking his head, Voldemort waved a hand to show his lack of care on the matter. “Having an exit strategy is very smart, but you decided to stay of your own accord, which is worth far more than me imprisoning you.”

It meant a lot, that Harry would choose to stay - would reassure his friend that he was safe , even. It meant that Harry trusted him, and that warm feeling of being trusted made the hole in Voldemort’s chest ache just a tiny bit less.

Harry looked down, embarrassed, and… paused. “Oh,” He said, and Voldemort looked down also to see that their hands had crept together once more. 

He hadn’t even noticed, but he had been prepping his food one-handed as Harry ate the same way. “That is… new,” he replied, joining Harry in staring at their joined hands.

Voldemort hadn’t held hands with anyone before today. Not since he was a small child and needed to be led around, but even then he recalled hating it with a passion. Touch wasn’t something he seeked out, or something he craved, or so he thought. But seeing his hand held in Harry’s smaller one, he wondered if perhaps this was where he was meant to be all along.

Voldemort, having prepared and eaten his food quietly as Harry finished his own soup, turned to him. “I should check and see if you are fully anchored from the inside - may I enter your mind?”

“Do it,” Harry responded instantly. He had nothing to hide, not after the last fortnight. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Just- look into my eyes and relax,” Voldemort said, voice oddly soft. Harry remembered the scar visions, all the times Snape had barged into his mind, and tried to relax, but it was not easy.

Voldemort’s eyes were a very bright shade of red, he thought absently as he stared. It reminded him of the Philosopher’s Stone. Or the rubies in the hilt of the sword of Gryffindor.

- together, apart, Sirius's laugh, Dudley Dursley clomping up the stairs, Hermione going in for a hug- it didn’t hurt.

The memories were flickering by in a way that was very familiar, but it didn’t hurt. He was beginning to lose himself to the carousel of his past when Voldemort stopped, focusing in on a specific memory in Harry’s fifth year-

- walking down the Defence Corridor after a detention from Umbridge, Harry runs into Headmaster Dumbledore. The man looks away, and the memory seems to freeze, and - corrupt-, before a voice - Harry’s voice - says clearly. “I need to solve this on my own.”-

It was unfamiliar.

The memory ended and Voldemort was still staring into Harry’s eyes and he was also clutching Harry’s shoulders. “Harry- can you understand me?”

He nodded, confused, until he caught the slight hissing sound, and realised- “I have been able to speak to snakes as long as I can remember.”

Voldemort- was he actually frozen? He was staring at Harry like he’d never seen him before. “But- you are not- the Potters? How?” He was muttering, and Harry could feel a note of… confusion? Grief? Pain? Through their bond. 

“Voldemort,” Harry said, catching the man’s attention. “What is it?”

“Parseltongue is extinct in most of the world due to the West’s irrational fear of snakes, driven by Christianity. I have never met another Parselmouth, despite us having a natural call to one another. I am certain I am not the last of our kind, there are surely pockets of communities in India, China, Brazil and parts of Greece, but I have never managed to meet one- most keep their gifts close to their chests and for good reason. Parselmagic - any spell cast in Parseltongue - is irreversible without a Parselmouth. It is a dangerous gift to have.”

“Dumbledore told me that I had inherited certain gifts from you, the night you killed my Mum.” Harry pointed out with a frown. “Surely that’s the cause.”

“Being a parselmouth is more than magical, Harry. It is biological. In order to speak to snakes, you are born with an extra organ - a thin strip of flesh in your vocal chords that allows you to inflect properly. Parselmouths also are mildly poisonous and venomous, depending on how much venom they themselves have been exposed to in their lives.” The man opened his mouth and bared his teeth, showing Harry some pretty sharp canines. “Mine are more pronounced due to how this body was made and my gorgon ancestry, as the Slytherin line immigrated to Britain from Greece. You - the body you are in, anyway, likely has naga ancestry, considering your ancestors, or maybe gorgon or lamia if it comes from further back.”

Naga was a new one. Harry thought he’d read about them once upon a time, perhaps in one of his textbooks? He was unsure. “So- I would have been a Parselmouth anyway? Or- the other Harry Potter would have?” He was having trouble keeping it all straight in his head. The idea that he wasn’t the original owner of his body was hard enough to get to grips with, but knowing that his parseltongue wasn’t from Voldemort, well. He wondered what else Dumbledore had lied about.

“Indeed, and likely every Potter in the last… four Generations was. My immediate guess is since the marrying of Katharni Patel into the Potter family - she immigrated from India to marry your great great grandfather.”

Voldemort knew his family tree better than Harry did, which was a little embarrassing.

“Why didn’t anyone know it, then?” But Harry could guess why, really. With the stigma of Parseltongue, the Potters would have lost a lot of respect from whatever friends they’d had.  “Poor Katharni.” He wondered about her, the woman four generations back who had brought in this gift to Harry’s ancestors and now to him. He wondered what she was like, if she had Harry’s wild hair or green eyes. If she’d been in Slytherin or Gryffindor.

“Indeed,” Voldemort had been following along with Harry’s train of thought, the Occlumency barrier long-gone. “She would have had a difficult time anyway, but this would not have made anything easier.”

“I only found out I was a Parselmouth in my second year- well, I knew I could speak to snakes before then, but I didn’t know there was a name for it. Your diary-” Harry’s eyes went wide. “He was like me, wasn’t he?”

The diary wasn’t just a piece of Voldemort’s memory, it was a piece of his soul - and Harry had destroyed it - “I-... he was like me and I killed him.”

Voldemort frowned. “...my Diary? How in Morgana’s name do you know about that?” 

Ah, fuck. Well, in for a knut, in for a galleon. Harry launched into an explanation of his second year at Hogwarts, happily throwing all the blame for the situation upon Lucius Malfoy’s choices, which, to be fair, was a mainly accurate summary.

Listening intently, Voldemort’s hands migrated from Harry’s shoulders down to holding his hands once more, the runes on their palms lining up. Harry liked it, quietly in the back corners of his mind where only Voldemort had been. There was no way Voldemort was aware of doing this, and Harry tried not to be too aware either, not wanting it to end.

How messed up was it, that he was enjoying this?

He’d lost his train of thought - “...-and then, the Basilisk lunged in to attack me and I managed to drive the sword through the roof of its mouth. It died, but there was a fang in my arm. I managed to get down to Ginny-”

“That would be the Horcrux protecting you,” Voldemort murmured. “The venom from that basilisk paralyzes almost instantly, and death follows within ten or so seconds. The Horcrux’s natural defenses must have come into play. Even for a parselmouth, that is far too much venom for your system to neutralise on its own. “

Voldemort didn’t seem particularly upset, yet.

Harry could feel his body beginning to tense as he reached the story’s end, though. Would this be the straw that broke this fragile friendship?

“And- I stabbed the diary with the fang. I’m sorry,” He hung his head, braced for rage, but there was none.

“Harry, you did what you had to to defend yourself,” Voldemort looked… impressed? “Do not apologise. It is not your fault he failed to recognise what you are. But- how did you survive the venom?”

“Fawkes- Dumbledore’s phoenix, the one that brought the Sorting Hat cried on my arm and it healed right up. Not even a scar.” He was unable to resist a quick glance downward, to the spot on his arm where the scar should have been. The skin was ever-so-slightly darker where the fang had entered, but it wasn't really a scar.

“Fascinating.” Voldemort stifled a yawn, and Harry could only laugh. “It appears I need more rest.”

“Just a bit,” Harry could feel his own yawn coming up. “I could do with some too. Did you mean it, that Parselmouths are drawn together?”

“Yes,” Voldemort tilted his head. “I believe it explains why I was so fixated upon the prophecy, and the Potters. Everything came back to that because I felt a damned pull and did not know why. Parselmouths - we do our best in our own company. According to Salazar’s writings, our magic thrives when we are together, and becomes more powerful.”

“That’s interesting to know,” Harry remembered the crippling loneliness he’d felt after he had discovered that being a Parselmouth was something that wasn’t normal. “So- it wasn’t some prophecy, or destiny, just- biology?”

“If you want to think of it that way,” Voldemort seemed… put out at the idea. “There was something dramatic about it, though. Our lives, intertwined by fate. It was the stuff of legends.”

Ah. Harry understood. “You wanted to go down in history. To be remembered.” He was familiar with the thought. In the cupboard, when he had been small and angry at the world, he had sworn to himself that he would become more than the Dursleys ever thought he could be. “I understand.”

“I suppose you would.”

There was a short, comfortable silence as they both contemplated the complicated mindset of wanting to be better than those who hurt you ever would be. Wanting to be known for more than just what was done to you. Wanting to achieve.

“Do you know, I don’t believe you did destroy the diary.” Voldemort said after a few more moments. “Your soul shard is far too big. I think you absorbed him after expelling him.”

“Is that possible?”

“Very, which is why if any of my horcruxes have to be destroyed it is preferrable to have me in the vicinity so the soul has somewhere to go - rather than just dissipating into the air. Like calls to like, so you probably called to him. You didn’t have any strange dreams, sensations or blank spots of memory after your second year, did you?”

Well, that was a whole other story. 

Chapter Text

Day 1

The Order were fidgety as they awaited Dumbledore’s arrival. 

They crowded around the table at the Burrow as there wasn’t a guarantee of Grimmauld Place’s safety, not anymore.

Kreacher had voluntarily gone to Tonks through Andromeda, having sleuthed their true affiliation. The house, nobody quite knew who owned it yet.

Tonks probably could fix that, but they didn’t really want to give Molly Weasley more access to the Black home, library and relics. She had done enough damage last year. Dung was still turning up with things Tonks had to nick when he wasn’t looking.

Wondering what Dung was up to at the moment (he was not at the meeting), Tonks picked at their nails, shifting them different colours in their boredom.

Molly was complaining to them about Fleur Delacour, again, and how rude the witch was, and really, Tonks, won’t you stay after and talk to him, he’ll listen to you, you are the same age, he really is a lovely young man-”

Nevermind that Molly was one of those folk who staunchly refused to listen when Tonks politely asked her to refer to them as a Wix, not a Witch. Why would they try to help her with her son’s love life? They hadn’t even been in the same House as Bill, they’d spoken to him maybe three times total outside of Order business.

It was getting a bit weird, to be honest. (Also, they weren’t the same age, Bill was three years older than Tonks, they weren’t friends, Tonks was confused.)

Also, Fleur and Bill were literally standing at the far end of the room, had Molly no shame at all? It was clear the two were in love, and who was Tonks to stand in the way of true love. That wouldn’t be very Dumbledore of them, would it?

Everyone knew that True Love was the one thing Dumbledore idolised.

Snape’s absence was also getting more poignant by the day. Didn’t Dumbledore have blackmail on him? If he wasn’t going to be in the Order anymore, then Tonks was the main spy and that was an awful lot of pressure. 

Also they missed the snide glances that he allowed during Order meetings. Who knew Snape had a sense of humour? He was a right bastard, there was no denying that, but Tonks missed his biting commentary.

The pair of them had a post-Order meeting ritual of staying behind and sharing a cigarette and just staring off into the distance, and it was in those moments Tonks felt that they had really learned how sad Snape was under it all. The few biting words, the occasional scrap of history shared in those quiet moments had really made them think. They didn’t necessarily like him, but they missed him nonetheless.

The fire, out of sight in the kitchen, blazed and crackled loudly, the telltale whoosh of someone arriving. Bill and Fleur, who had been talking quietly in the doorway, moved to seat themselves at the end of the magically extended table (as far from Bill’s parents as they could get) as Dumbledore swept into the room with the usual fanfare.

His brightly coloured robes today were a pale yellow with lemon vines blooming up from the hems, featuring wide  sleeves that he was brushing ash off onto the Weasleys’ tile floor. A floor Tonks had witnessed Molly sweep just a few minutes before. 

He seemed calm as ever, but Tonks wondered if he was feeling the strain, because he didn’t seem to notice the way Molly’s mouth tightened.

They stifled a snort, and flicked their wand to siphon up the mess, earning a murmured thanks from the Weasley matriarch. Dumbledore took his seat and called them all to attention. With the new Minister’s speech and the way he’d been whipping up the public, this was sure to be a long meeting.

Day 2

Remus Lupin’s first thought after his first full moon without wolfsbane in 3 years was huh?

It felt… less painful than usual, but Remus remembered very little. Without his wolfsbane, he had no idea what he had done, had to piece it together from the evidence around him. This was a habit he had formed long ago. Normally, without the wolfsbane, he tore into himself, but he didn’t seem to be injured, just aching from the transformation.

Take stock. Take notice. Pay attention to how it feels, he reminded himself.

He was lying naked on a clump of grass. The smell of rot surrounded him. He was shivering violently. He was covered in mud.

He could hear the rustle of wind,

Remus pushed himself upright and looked around. All he could see in every direction was marshland.

A bird call sounded, and he looked up to see several birds circling in the cloudy sky. No sun to be seen, it was a blanket of grey that was uncharacteristic of summer.

Well, at least he wasn’t in a dungeon anymore. 

He took a few deep breaths and looked around as if that would magically make his wand appear. Remus had never attempted wandless apparition and he wasn’t great at it with a wand.

But his options were to die in the bog, be found by Voldemort and recaptured, or to apparate to somewhere safe.

Picturing the Burrow’s apparition point in his mind, he breathed in-out. In-out. 

Destination, determination, deliberation.

He turned on the spot, and-

Nothing.

Not even a hint of his magic.

Damnit. He’d never been good at wandless magic, it was the hardest form of magic to most wizards, forgotten once they picked up a wand and learned the better, more safe way of doing things. But if a wix never practised their wandless magic, then it would not advance in skill with their regular magic. He knew this, had learned it from his wizard father, but… it had never really been a priority.

And so, Remus didn’t know how to apparate wandlessly and he was far too worried about splinching to attempt it again.

Looking around, he could see signs of his frenzied wolf-rampage. Broken branches, trampled bracken, pawprints in the mud, all leading in one direction. 

That was probably the direction of the place he had been held, so… what to do now?

With the sun behind a cloud, he couldn’t even calculate north.

He was well and truly lost, and who knew how long this swamp went on? He could see no signs of muggle life, either - the land around Voldemort’s base was likely warded against muggles, so no chance of him getting help that way.

The wind rustled through the bracken around his ankles, and Remus grimaced, trying to figure out what to do.

And then-

A hiss-

The rustling wasn’t the wind, it was a snake!

He let out a shout of alarm and stumbled backward, tripping and landing, painfully, on the patch of grass he had spent the night on.

The snake was huge, and approaching rapidly. He looked desperately around for anything he could see as a weapon, but saw nothing. The snake hissed loudly, raising its head up until it was hovering over his chest. 

It was huge.

This had to be the snake that had attacked Arthur at the Ministry. …Nagini? Unless Voldemort kept several 12-foot snakes around his home, which Remus supposed was possible.

It… wasn’t attacking.

Remus… crawled backward away from the snake. It followed, and let out another hiss. 

Head tilted, Remus stared at the snake in confusion. It wasn’t attacking him. He remembered what Voldemort had said - it is through Harry’s grace that you yet live.

Did the snake know that, somehow?

…

“Are you…Nagini?” He asked hesitantly. The snake instantly stopped hissing and its head seemed to rise and fall in an imitation of a nod.

Well, damn. 

“...am I allowed to leave, or will you hurt me?” He asked next, knowing the answer but figuring he could at least try .

She raised her head up and hissed again in clear warning.

She really was a very big snake, he thought as he tried not to break out into a sweat. 

“Can you-... show me the way back?” Remus asked with a sigh. He wasn’t going to get far without his wand or his clothes. She turned the way she’d come, toward the trail of destruction, and Remus reluctantly began to make his way after the snake.

How was this his life?

Day 3

Fleur woke up in her fiance’s bed in his family’s home every day and wondered how her life had gotten to this.

Normally, Bill had already left by the time Fleur awakened. He was working long hours at the London branch of Gringotts so she didn’t have to, saving up for the home that they had already decided on, a small coastal cottage called Shell Cottage . The previous owner was an older muggle woman who was starting to develop an illness called Dementia. She was living there still, but her relatives had arranged it all with Bill and Fleur and they would be moving in some time in January when Katie Montgomery was officially moved back into her childrens’ house.

But today, Bill was still asleep, and Fleur was mesmerised by the way the light caught in his ginger hair.

Molly Weasley liked to think that the only thing Fleur was interested in about Bill was his looks, but that simply wasn’t the case. He was driven, brave, kind and most importantly he loved her for who she was , not her looks or her Veela beauty.

And sure, Bill was handsome too. Fleur constantly caught herself staring at him, still bedazzled by the smallest of things he did or said. She fell more in love with her fiance every day, in every word that came out of his mouth.

He snorted in his sleep, and she felt her love for him fill up her chest like the deepest inhale before fire-breath.

She pulled herself carefully away from him, and tucked the covers around his sleeping form. She’d go and get some air, and perhaps make him some tea to wake up to. It would be nice to get up before anyone else, for once. 

Pulling on her dressing gown and taking up her wand, Fleur tiptoed out of Bill’s room and down the stairs to the kitchen. A glance at the clock above the mantel saw that everyone was in ‘bed’ but for Ginny, who was in the garden, and Arthur, who worked night shifts and so was at ‘work’.

She set the kettle to boil and prepared a set of mugs with a few flicks of her wand, remembering which Weasleys liked tea and coffee in the mornings and adding sugar to the twins’ mugs.

Maybe Molly would see that she truly cared and wanted to be a part of this family through this?

The kettle would take a minute, so Fleur stepped out onto the front porch and collected the mail - two letters for Molly, one for Arthur, one for ‘Messrs F & G Weasley’, and one for her, addressed in her maman’s handwriting.

She took the letters in excitedly and sat at the dining table to open hers, wondering what stories of Gabrielle would await. Her mother hadn’t written since Fleur had left to stay with the Weasleys, and she’d been starting to worry.

The worry didn’t exactly dissipate as she began to read. Indeed, her brow furrowed and her heart began to race. This letter… it was not merely a greeting, or a sending of news. This was treason.

My darling Fleur,

While I hope this letter finds you in good health, I cannot say that I have much hope. It was not long after you left that the Dangerous Magical Creatures Act was called into question by the ICW, and this is when we discovered that you do not have nearly as many rights in that country as we thought you did, and your grandmother and mother even less so.

To put it simply, you are not human to them, so you are dangerous. You are not permitted to hold a job in their Ministry, nor travel outside their borders without a permit. If you have children with your William and ever divorce, they will immediately have their citizenship revoked. They are unlikely to be allowed to attend Hogwarts, but as they would not be permitted to travel either, they would have to be homeschooled, which I know you do not have the patience for.

I am extremely concerned for your safety and for the future of our family, and I beg you to return home with all haste. If you are determined to stay, I ask that you make contact with the Dark Lord and beg his assistance.

His… work with the werewolves in the UK is incredible. In the one year he has been active, werewolves have been granted protections, reserves, increased safety and reduced surveillance. I know his methods are terrifying and violent, but so are the methods of the Ministry - they simply are hiding behind paperwork. While some of these protections apply to you, most are exclusively for werewolves and therefore would not protect you.

I want you to be safe, my darling.

If you will not come home, please ask for help. Our colony is all behind whatever you choose, my princess. You know you will one day be a veela queen, and the responsibilities that come with that are great. You cannot do that in a county that sees you as little more than a beast.

Be brave, my beloved Fleur, and make the right choice.

I love you so much, to the burning sun and beyond.

Love,

Your Mother.

It seemed Fleur had a choice to make.

Day 4

Winky, junior archivist of the Hogwarts House Elves, had a job to do.

And Dobby kept taking her books!

Winky’s new position as junior archivist was a good one, she worked under her manager Plinky and checked over each of the books and restored some of them and when she was having a bad day, she was allowed to take as much time as she liked to just sit by the kitchen fire and cry. It was a good job.

It wasn’t as good as her old job, with Barty and Young Barty, who she had loved dearly and wanted to serve for the rest of her life.

No, this job wasn’t as good.

She was allowed her pick of the uniforms, or even to sew her own uniform! She had her own room beneath Hogwarts in the sprawling Elf Dens, below the dungeons and the lake in the dark where she liked it best. Elves, being nocturnal, always slept best during the day and worked at night, so the underground was perfect for them. Also, they were closest to the Ley Line and had first pick of the magic that bubbled up.

It wasn’t as good as her last job, though.

There was a gap on the shelves where the Elf Ancient Histories sat, the first two volume copies were missing. At least they were not the original prints. Winky might have hit Dobby with a saucepan if they had been the original prints.

They were, however, the first copies and those were also valuable and Winky had said that Dobby could take them but she was still worried about those books.

It was like how she worried about Barty and Young Barty. 

That was better, right? It was better before she had been given clothes.

“Winky, we is rotating the originals!” For the best storage of the books, Plinky liked to rotate which ones were kept where. When rotating, each book was carefully checked for damage, rot, fading, or anything that might necessitate repair. “Is you helping?”

Winky stopped fretting and turned to go and help her manager, wondering what sort of thing she would be doing if she was back with Barty and Young Barty.

Surely, surely, that would have been better.

Chapter Text

The pair spent two days resting in the bed before Voldemort allowed Harry out of his sight to wash. As he settled in the bath, Harry could sense Voldemort fretting in the back of his mind, and sent over some gentle reassurance. It was the longest they’d been out of sight from each other since the resurrection, and it was hitting Voldemort hard, even though the other wizard would never admit it out loud.

(It was easier to admit it when they were curled into each other, holding on and tied together by knotted nets of soul.)

Now, he was out of Voldemort’s sight once more, slowly making his way through the books Dobby had left as Voldemort worked in his study (just a few doors down), close enough that they could hear each other if they spoke aloud, but far enough that Voldemort had visited him five times already with increasingly transparent excuses.

Each and every page of the books had so much information, new knowledge, that Harry was taking breaks every few sentences to take it all in. He’d filled two scrolls of parchment with notes already, and was brimming with information to give to Voldemort.  The history of the elves, their story, how they were related to and descended from High Elves - a creature now long-gone but still held within recorded memory - and how wixenkind had moulded them into what they were today.

It surprised him how rich their history was, and then he felt guilty for thinking that, and then he looked up because Voldemort was poking his head into the room again.

It wasn’t a problem, exactly, but he could tell Voldemort was getting annoyed at himself for the behaviour, and Harry didn’t like that. Voldemort was doing his best, but this situation had never happened before, probably ever in human history! Of course it would be weird for them. He’d even offered to come and read in Voldemort’s office so the man could keep him within his eyeline, but it had been met with a quiet refusal.

Fair enough, and so Voldemort was coming to check on Harry for the sixth time that morning.

Harry marked his page and looked up as the door opened, unable to stifle a smile. “Hullo,” He greeted the man. “Did you know that a boggart is actually a sign of an unhappy House Elf? They’ll spawn out of the stress their magic is under. Originally they were a protective force for Elf cities.”

Voldemort tilted his head as he took that in. “Interesting,” He held up a letter. “I wanted to ask for your advice on something.”

He was asking for Harry’s advice? On… matters of the Dark?

They’d not even managed to have a proper discussion about the Dark’s goals yet, with Voldemort having a lot of communications to catch up on and them both being so exhausted from the ritual. Harry didn’t think he was at all qualified, but Voldemort’s red eyes were fixed upon him, so he patted the sofa beside him. “What is it, Voldemort?”

(They had discussed what Harry would call him in their resting days, and came to the conclusion that a simple Voldemort was best for them all.)

A tiny line appeared between Voldemort’s hairless brows. “A letter from Miss Fleur Delacour. Enclosed was a copy of a letter sent from her mother. She seeks my aid.”

Fleur? Harry vaguely remembered he’d heard something from Ron about Fleur going on a date with Bill at some point but - “Your aid? What is she asking for help with?”

“She wishes to marry Bill Weasley and start a family here, but the political climate means that she and any children they had wouldn’t be safe. As the Dark Lord, this is my duty to help her. I do not trust her enough to ask her to spy, but she does say that she is close to the Order.”

Harry blinked. That was a… big problem.

“... why is she asking you?”

“Oh, right.” Laying the letter to the side, Voldemort sat. “We have not had our little Talk yet, have we?”

Why did Harry feel like the room temperature had dropped 10 degrees? He was suddenly filled with anxiety - had he done something wrong? Was Voldemort going to send him away? Was Voldemort going to send him back to the Dursley’s?

“Harry, I meant about the goals of the Dark,” Voldemort laid his hand on Harry’s, joining them in their laps. “I would never send you back there. It goes against everything I stand for, and I wouldn’t want to even if it didn’t. You are a part of me and precious; I will never let you be harmed again if I can help it.” 

Harry didn’t feel cold anymore; he felt warm, not burning but comfortable. 

It felt like when he had been curled up inside Voldemort, cradled safely away from the world. 

That haven was gone now, but perhaps he could keep a little piece of it in this companionship.

Realising Voldemort was waiting for an answer, he stammered out a soft, “o-okay,” not sure what else he could say. “So- the goals of the Dark side? I assume it’s… more complicated than just killing all the muggleborns?”

Who knew Harry would be assuming that Voldemort actually had sane goals and reasoning? If someone had said this to him three weeks ago, he would have laughed in their face. Voldemort was more than just the evil villain, now. He was… just a man.

A very driven man, but a man nonetheless. Not a god. Not a monster.

A smile creased those monstrous features into something painfully human , and Harry wished he had a camera, to share with the world that Lord Voldemort was a person, too. “Indeed. I classify my goals into five broad categories, with a few extra things thrown in. First - the werewolves. I fight for the rights and freedoms of all creatures and wizards with a Dark affinity. Werewolves are Dark creatures, so I will fight for them. Dumbledore, the Lord of the Light, does the same for Light creatures, or he is supposed to.” Voldemort frowned slightly. “I don’t know whether he ever took the oath, but he certainly seems to have set himself up as the Lord of Light.”

“The Oath?” 

“The titles of Dark Lord or Lady and Light Lord or Lady harken back to the time of Camelot,” Voldemort was rubbing Harry’s hand gently with his thumb (whether to keep him comforted or just because he liked to, Harry wasn’t certain). “They represent the two sides of all magic. Light and Dark. All wixen are descended from creatures at some point, that is where we inherit our affinities. Every muggleborn is descended from magic, either two squib lines colliding or a magical creature with a muggle.  When I decided I wanted to stand as the Lord of all the Dark, I had to perform a series of rituals and spells which led me to the Lady of the Lake, the guardian of Excalibur. Before her, the prospective Lord must swear an oath to stand for the rights of all magical creatures of their chosen affinity.”

“...what Affinity are House Elves?” Harry asked with a furrowed brow. Voldemort didn’t seem to be fighting for their rights, but neither did Dumbledore. 

“I believe they are Light, but it is not widely known. As they are descended from High Elves, minor Light is most likely. Why?”

Looking down at their joined hands, Harry bit his lip as he tried to figure out his frustrations. “Why am I the only one who actually wants to help them? I’ve never even seen Dumbledore interact with a House Elf, let alone champion their rights. I- I’m just one teenager, can I really do this? I feel like I’ve just given myself a goal that will take decades and I don’t know if anyone will even help me.”

“Harry, I will help you.” Voldemort’s voice was soft again, in that way that was so unfamiliar but reminded Harry vaguely of childhood daydreams of a knight rescuing him from the Dursleys. “It’s not a part of my duties as the Dark Lord, but I have the time and the resources that you do not. Anything that’s mine is yours, anyway - you are a part of me, remember? And- while I have not been approached by the House Elves directly, I was going to include them later on, when I had more control. They are not my priority because they have not asked to be. I haven’t the power to be spread along too many fronts right now, but I will help you, I promise. Make no mistake, it is a monumental task you are putting before yourself, but if this is how you want to spend your time, I will help.”

“I just can’t believe no other muggleborns or muggle-raised wixen have protested this.”

“They have,” Voldemort tapped his chin as he thought. “In my lifetime there have been three official campaigns for House Elf Rights that I have heard about, all led by Muggleborns. Wix dismissed them, of course. It’s all seen as just culture shock and the muggleborns don’t know what they’re talking about. We’ve always done it this way, so it must be right -” The man imitated in a mocking tone. “They always turn their ears off when it’s a muggleborn talking. They were like that to me until I found my heritage. The campaigns didn’t get far.”

Of course they didn’t. Harry had witnessed this with Hermione in his third year. All her research for Buckbeak’s appeal, and everyone had brushed it off as soon as they’d heard it was Hermione Granger’s research, notes, words. Hagrid wasn’t a great speaker, but Hermione’s name being on the documents had not helped, or so Harry had heard. “That’s so stupid.”

“I agree, but that is just what has happened so far. I will throw the full force of the Dark behind your movement, if that is what you need, Harry.” It was an almost-blinding relief to hear that, to know that Voldemort wasn’t just saying he was going to help but that he would throw his own forces in to assist. 

“So, your goals. Rights for Dark creatures?” Harry tried to steer them back onto topic, hoping he wasn’t flushed - his face felt kind of hot.

Voldemort nodded. “And then severely increased Muggle-raised identification and removal if anything seems wrong. Some sort of cultural immersion program, maybe. Muggleborns are the weak link between our worlds and if we want complete separation we need to be better at handling the issues they and their relatives cause. There were sixteen incidents in the last three years wherein a muggle relative or muggleborn was involved in revealing magic to another muggle when they did not have to be, and no, I am not including your brush with dementors. The statute of secrecy does not work because we are not allowed to enchant muggles beyond memory charms, and any with squib ancestry have enough magic in their systems to break down the memory charms - legal memory charms are not permanent, they fade depending on the strength of the caster. Around 20% of the muggle population has squib bloodlines at this point - and of course the relatives of muggleborns are likely to be squibs.” Voldemort looked tired, Harry thought, and he squeezed the man’s hand gently. 

He thought about Hermione again, how against all this she would be. “It’s cruel to separate the happy families though.”

“Most of the families aren’t happy, is the thing,” Voldemort pulled his hand away and stood up to pace. “While studies have never been properly done because it is invasive and the Ministry doesn’t want to harm the general opinion of muggles or muggleborns, statistics that I could access showed that abuse was happening in 40-80% of muggle-magical mixed homes. Muggles usually cannot handle being around magic because it makes them jealous and paranoid and creates a power imbalance that the muggle cannot hope to rectify. The usual child abuse rate in the UK - for both muggles and wix - hovers around the 10-20% mark. Obviously it’s difficult to get proper statistics, but with the right magic you can access all sorts of records - the wix statistics I have analysed based upon Severus’ records, specifically.”

“He would be underestimating, then,” Harry immediately pointed out, unsure how to feel knowing that his own situation was so common . “He didn’t-...”

Voldemort immediately understood, and paused in his pacing to return to Harry’s side. “Contrary to what you may think, Harry, Severus was only blind to your treatment because Dumbledore repeatedly told him, and all of the members of the Order, that you were treated well. He knows the signs, he’s been head of Slytherin for over a decade now.” 

That stung, and Harry looked down at his hands again. “He never gave me a chance to just be me in his classes, you know. It was always ‘your father this’ and ‘just like your father’ and-...” He stopped, because his voice was wobbling and he didn’t want to cry over Snape of all people.

“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice was soft and breathy again and Harry didn’t know what to think about it, and then Voldemort’s arm was around his shoulder, gently pulling his head to rest against Voldemort’s chest, just over his heart, and-

Oh.

He was back where it had all begun, and if he closed his eyes, it felt like he was back in Voldemort’s body, resting in his heart, held and protected.

He exhaled, shakily, and then lapsed into silence.

Voldemort, after a while (was it two days, they had spent in bed? Three? He wasn’t certain, but his memories made it stretch out forever.) recalled that Lupin was in the cell. And it had been the Full Moon. He should probably find the man, make sure he wasn’t injured or starving or plotting escape.

Honestly, he trusted Harry to not let Lupin take him out of the house, and he trusted himself not to let it happen either. They were so entwined now, he would be able to tell the moment Harry realised something was wrong. Harry was bouncing beside him in borrowed clothes - Voldemort had not gone back to the Dursleys’, they would have to go and buy new things for him soon - in excitement, and even Voldemort’s warnings not to trust Lupin not to try and kidnap him for his safety brought his happiness down. 

The corridor alongside the cell was… scratched up. Voldemort sped up, suddenly worried. Was that cell enough to contain a rampaging werewolf? He had never tested it, preferring not to keep prisoners at his private home.

He felt Harry dropping back, even as he reached the cell to find the door hanging off its hinges. He swore under his breath. The cell itself didn’t have a window, but there were a few in the rooms surrounding it… A slight draft- there! Voldemort backed out of the cell and followed it to one of his storage rooms, where the window was shattered and the frame torn from the wall, leaving a hole that a werewolf could fit through. Harry was dead silent behind him.

“...I doubt he has made it out of the wards,” Voldemort offered. “He doesn’t have his wand. He will be easy to find.”

“And if he has gotten out of the wards?” Harry’s fists were clenched, he was staring at the hole in the wall, and the gap between them pulsed with abandoned, abandoned again, abandoned-alone-everyone-leaves-me.

“Then we will probably have to move to a different safe house for your safety,” It felt natural to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the collarbone through the thin shirt. “I’m sorry, Harry. I should have reinforced the room. This is my fault.”

Harry made to speak, but stopped as Nagini’s head appeared in the hole in the wall. “ Marvolo, the wolf is here,” she flicked her tongue. “ Vanish the glass for me so I can come through, please.”

Before Voldemort could hold him back, Harry was bolting over to the gap- Voldemort flicked his wand to levitate the boy before he stepped on glass. He wasn’t wearing shoes. 

“Hey!” Harry flailed around for a moment before catching his balance on the wall. “Let me down!”

“Glass, Harry.” Voldemort vanished the glass on the floor and the wooden shards from the window frame, and then lowered Harry back down as Nagini began to crawl through the hole in the wall. 

Harry landed clumsily. “Right,” He then jumped up to look out the window. “Remus!”

“Harry!”

Voldemort hung back as the pair hugged, letting Harry do his own thing. He was a little jealous, perhaps. He’d been used to having Harry to himself. He busied himself conjuring a robe for Lupin from upstairs, tossing it at the man as he climbed through the window.

It was strange, being a bystander in this house. He’d never imagined living in it with anyone other than Nagini. 

“...What’s wrong, Remus?” Harry’s sadness rose up again, his fear of being abandoned, and Voldemort watched closely, noting how uncomfortable the werewolf looked.

“All of this is wrong, cub,” Lupin finally said, face sunburned and tearing up as he tugged on the robe. “Necromancy- it’s serious stuff. Yes, I’m glad you’re here, but… human sacrifice??”

“You’re mad about him killing Wormtail? ” Harry glanced back at Voldemort, who had knelt to lift Nagini onto his shoulders. He offered Harry reassurance through their bond, not sure what else to do. “The same Wormtail that got my parents killed?”

“Harry, I’m glad you’re here, and I’m not upset that Wormtail is dead, but- you have to understand, this is serious Dark Magic-”

“Rituals are actually Light magic, usually,” Voldemort interrupted. “Precision is the hallmark of a Light spell, and rituals have that in spades. Dark as a classification is misused and doesn’t mean anything beyond ‘illegal’ in our society.”

“I-...” Lupin had flinched back at the response, as if he was realising that, yes, Voldemort was standing right there. “Yes, but human sacrifice ?”

“He would have been willing, his life belonged to Harry anyway.” Voldemort waved an arm dismissively and turned. “Harry, I’d like to take you shopping this afternoon, but feel free to show Lupin around first.”

He needed to get away. He didn’t want to hurt Harry with his jealousy, or interrupt the reunion, the tough emotions that were sure to bubble to the surface.

“-don’t go.” 

Voldemort had barely taken a step before he felt Harry’s hand on his sleeve and felt the nervous energy sparking between them. Harry didn’t trust Lupin anymore, it seemed. “You’re not going to lock Remus up any more?”

“I want an oath before I’ll let him access any magical ingredients or a wand, but yes. If you damage anything of mine I will not be pleased,” He warned the wolf with a hard stare. “This is my ancestral home. Most of the furniture and portraits are nearly a millennium old.” He held the stare until he got a weakly mumbled agreement. “Good. You’re allowed to wander, I will find some proper clothing for you. For now, consider yourself just a prisoner with run of the house. I will also source you safe wolfsbane for Harry’s sake.”

That Voldemort already had access to wolfsbane in the form of Severus, he didn’t need to mention. Let Lupin think he was being magnanimous.

“If you harm Harry, try to kidnap him, or try to harm Nagini or myself, I will remove your fingers,” Voldemort added. He wouldn’t actually; Harry was not happy at the idea, but having a reputation did all the work for you.

“...can I show Remus my research?” Harry asked, green eyes seeming to sparkle as the joy began to flood back in. Yes, it wasn’t an ideal situation but the werewolf was safe, alive, and relatively free to move around, and Harry needed human contact outside of Voldemort and Nagini.

“Of course, show him whatever you wish. I am going to prepare lunch, you can join me if you prefer.” He didn’t want Harry to feel abandoned, as that seemed to be a point of pain for his horcrux, but he knew Lupin wouldn’t be there for Harry properly if he was in the room. So, the options.

Harry did seem to realise Voldemort was putting the choice in his hands, and released the older wizard’s sleeve, patting his arm for a moment before going back over to Remus. “I’ll come and get food in a bit.”

“ Nagini-,” Voldemort began as he exited the room and she understood. 

“Fine, I will watch them. I do not think the wolf is going to be trouble, he was very passive.”

“Many people are passive in the face of a large snake, my dear.” Voldemort teased as he helped her lower to the floor. 

He had more letters to write.

“Harry,” Voldemort stopped at the end of the table where Harry and Remus were eating dinner, having finished his own. “Do you want to come and read with me and Nagini?”

Harry blinked, surprised. He could see Remus’ pale face, wondering what horrors ‘reading’ meant, but he didn’t care. The fact that Voldemort was inviting him to his private evenings was yet another sign of their building relationship and Harry was starting to want to spend all of his time with the older wizard. Also, Nagini must be so lonely, he wanted to be her friend as well.

“...have you told her I’m a Parselmouth yet?” He wiped his mouth on the provided cloth - Voldemort always seemed to have sets of crockery and napkins ready to go when he cooked. The benefits of magic, he supposed - and pushed away his plate. Remus seemed resigned, eyes flicking between the two of them.

With a dip of his head, Voldemort looked down at Harry’s plate - still half-full with stew and vegetables. “I did not, I thought it would be nice for you to tell her yourself. Are you full?”

Harry nodded, feeling the familiar shame of knowing the Dursleys had hurt him and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work in snacks throughout the day until your appetite returns,” Voldemort patted his shoulder and sent the plate to the sink, where the water began to run and the brushes - marked with glowing white runes - began to scoop the leftovers away before cleaning it. Harry was starting to get used to being in a magical home again, but he couldn’t help but stare for a moment. “I’ll be in the library.”

Harry watched Voldemort leave, and didn’t realise he was smiling until Remus let out a sigh. “He’s manipulating you, Harry. I’m worried for you,” The werewolf seemed to have mostly gotten over that it was bad and illegal for Harry to be alive again and was back on the Protect Harry train, which was nice, he supposed. If Remus had ever actually cared before.

“I’m manipulating him too,” He offered the man with a soft smile. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing any more than I do. Sometimes I feel like I know how his mind works better than he does. It’ll work out.”

It did feel like that, their minds so intertwined that they couldn’t help but react to each and every thought like it was the most important thing, meeting and holding fast and soothing anything that went wrong, and Harry knew it was not healthy. But he did have faith in himself, and faith in Voldemort. Neither of them had corrupt motives, at least not toward their relationship. They just wanted each other to be alright, and Harry had faith that that would be enough.

He didn’t know what conclusion they were hurtling toward, but he knew they’d be there at the end, together.

Chapter Text

Evening summer sun and birdsong trickled through the open french doors in the Slytherin Estate’s informal sitting room. The air, kept cool and fresh with an enchanted ventilation system, had the barest of movement, just enough to turn the pages of the books left abandoned on the gold-filigree coffee table. The only sound was the occasional soft sigh from the room’s occupants.

Asleep in a pool of sunshine upon one of the green fainting couches, Voldemort lay. His head was turned into the cushions as he crumpled against the arm of the sofa, his breathing steady and relaxed, and he seemed for all the world to be the picture of peace. 

Head pillowed against the Dark Lord’s thigh, Harry was similarly sprawled. His hands were softly tangled with Voldemort’s robes, his cheeks held a soft sunburned flush, and his green eyes were fluttering between open and closed. His glasses had been gently removed and set aside, and one of Voldemort’s hands was draped over his hair limply.

All was well.

Half a country away, Severus Snape was welcoming Nymph Tonks into his home for dinner. He seemed… lighter somehow. The stress of working as a teacher for so long, finally lifted from his shoulders. He was still a young man, really.

The polluted air hung hot around their bodies as they awkwardly conversed, each one clumsy and new to this kind of relationship, and the sound of children playing echoed from the nearby streets. Tonks, in their cleanest robes with a bottle of Ogden’s Finest, tried not to think about whether this could count as a date. Anything that happened, they would simply hope for. 

THE DAILY PROPHET

July 5th 1996

“HARRY POTTER STILL MISSING!”

To the concerned readers of our Paper, it is with a heavy heart that this reporter must share that there is still no news on our Chosen One. It has now been over two weeks since our Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, went missing.

(To those who are unfamiliar with the title ‘The Chosen One’, it refers to Harry Potter being the subject of a prophecy - given by a descendant of Cassandra of Greece around two decades ago - wherein he is referred to as the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. As the readers might guess, this Dark Lord is likely He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, who returned to our world last summer at the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts.)

On the fourteenth of June, Mr Potter was reportedly inside his home with his relatives. While the timeline is hazy, as there are no witnesses, it is likely that he was resting after dinner when the confrontation happened. It is unclear which person in the house began the argument, but it ended with Harry storming out of the house - the last confirmed sighting of the boy. His wand has been recovered and his Trace has not been alerted, meaning he is not using magic. 

Dear readers, this is, of course, extremely worrying. As, without our saviour, who will be the one to lead us and unite us against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Many are turning to Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwald, for answers, but imagine this reporter’s surprise when they discovered that it was Albus Dumbledore who placed Harry Potter with his muggle relatives. Our Saviour, raised by muggles! A Hogwarts student commented on this information, stating, “It all makes sense now, why [Harry] never responded politely to any traditional greetings. He never knew them.”

The avid reader of the Prophet might recall that on the day Harry Potter was to travel to Hogwarts for the first time, we ran a short article chronicling what we knew of his life so far, including Albus Dumbledore’s comments that he was “being raised in a way benefitting of one of his station.” One might question why that statement somehow covered being raised by questionable muggle relatives. This reporter also reminds readers that Mr Potter is the heir to substantial titles and land in our world. Albus Dumbledore has always been an advocate for the rights of muggle and squib relatives and their importance in the lives of their magical family, so it should not really come as a shock to our audience that this influenced his placement of our Saviour.

Mr Potter’s muggle relatives, who will remain unnamed in this paper, are reportedly also missing. Witnesses placed Mr Potter’s Uncle leaving the house the morning of the 15th for work, but some time during the day all three of Mr Potter’s relatives were taken, or fled, and none have been seen since.

And with the house being left empty, this reporter was able to gain access and investigate the scene of the crime.

For, dear readers, there most certainly was a crime committed within those Four walls. A Privet abode, holding three souls, or you would guess so from the photographs on the walls - a mother, a father, and their teenage son, a blond muggle boy. This reporter could find little-to-no evidence of Mr Potter’s existence in this house but for a recently-cleaned empty room upstairs. In the laundry machine, stained bedsheets were beginning to mould. In the cupboard under the stairs, Mr Potter’s school things were locked. And in the diary upstairs, written by Mr Potter’s Aunt, the last ten entries had been removed. This reporter was unable to locate them.

Could it be that Harry Potter’s relatives had something to do with his disappearance? Or is it more likely that this is the work of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Or has Mr Potter simply had enough of being treated like he does not exist in his own home, and flown the nest, or even the country? Will Albus Dumbledore have anything more to say on the matter of his mishandling of the Boy Who Lived?

This reporter could not dare to speculate further on the fate of our Saviour, but encourages Readers to do their own research and report anything untoward to the Prophet.

We remain ever vigilant,

Rita Skeeter.