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Chapter Text

Prologue:

The air in the graveyard was misty and grey. Harry’s arm throbbed where Pettigrew had cut it, and a bead of blood dripped slowly down towards his hand, painting a trail of red on his skin as it fell. Harry had been struggling against the ropes that bound him to the hard tombstone at his back, but he stopped, frozen like a mouse in front of a snake, when the bone white figure rose from the huge cauldron. 

Pettigrew lifted a black robe and Voldemort stepped out, slipping his thin arms in the sleeves of the robe and fastening it down the front. Then he turned towards Harry, who was watching with wide eyes, unable to look away. 

Voldemort moved smoothly and quietly towards Harry until he was standing directly in front of him. He was very tall. Harry, heart beating rabbit-fast, looked up into Voldemort’s red eyes. 

“You’ve gotten lucky in the past, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice soft and cold. “But no more. I can touch you now.”

He reached out with one hand and touched Harry’s cheek in a motion that was almost like a caress. 

Harry gasped, eyes going even wider and mouth falling open. 

It was Voldemort’s turn to freeze. He stood there, touching Harry, for a long moment, looking down at the green eyes looking up at him. Finally, he dropped his hand. 

“Shit,” Voldemort said. 

***

While the Triwizard Champions could not see or hear the spectators when they were inside the maze, the maze was charmed so that the spectators could see and hear them. Thus, the spectators, seated on their high, tiered bleachers, saw when Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory reached the Triwizard Cup. And they saw when they disappeared. 

Confusion turned to panic when neither boy reappeared and it became apparent that the Tournament organizers were just as clueless as everyone else. Then, as people were debating sending out search parties and calling for the Aurors, the Cup returned with Cedric Diggory’s dead body. The shouting crowd swarmed around the dead boy, shocked and horrified. 

Harry Potter, on the other hand, did not return. The frantic search over the following weeks brought back no sign of him, either dead or alive. 

Chapter Text

Three weeks after Harry Potter’s disappearance, Draco was tiptoeing through the manor. He was about to pass the door that led to the wing that the Dark Lord had commandeered for himself. The Dark Lord had gone out half an hour earlier, but Draco was still afraid to pass his quarters. He thought the Dark Lord might return suddenly and find Draco there. And who knew what horrors might be hiding inside those rooms. Who knew what terrible dark magic the Dark Lord was working there. Draco had no desire to find out. 

He quickened his pace, still trying to move silently. There was the door. Draco tried not to look at it…

But he failed, his pace slowing as he got nearer. Because the door was open. 

Draco nearly bolted when he saw that someone was standing just inside that door. But then he froze, because the person standing there was not Lord Voldemort. 

It was Harry Potter. 

Harry Potter who had ostentatiously gone missing three weeks earlier at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Most people thought he was dead, but of course he was here and doing just fine, probably stealing from the Dark Lord!

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice sounded sleepy and slow. “What are you doing here?”

“Potter?” Draco gaped. “What are you— ”

He stopped and looked quickly up and down the wide hallway. No one was there. 

Potter was so stupid. What was he doing here? 

“You have to get out of here now,” Draco whispered. “You shouldn’t have come. Can you get out the way you came?”

Potter blinked owlishly at him. 

“Potter, move!” Draco hissed. “You have to go!”

“What are you doing here?” Potter asked again. 

“What am I doing here? I live here!” Draco said, quiet and exasperated. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, is this Malfoy Manor?” Potter said, sounding vaguely surprised. 

And that was when Draco finally looked at him. 

Potter always looked like he had a case of bed head, but it was even more exaggerated now, as if he really had just gotten up. He was wearing a Muggle t-shirt and a pair of soft flannel pants. His feet were bare…

“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” Draco asked abruptly. 

Potter shrugged. 

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he said, looking at Draco’s stockinged feet. 

“Potter…” Draco frowned. “Did the Dark Lord kidnap you?”

“Erm, not exactly,” Potter said, bringing a hand up to rub at his hair. 

***

Three weeks earlier, back in the graveyard:

Voldemort stood there for some time looking down at Harry Potter, his red eyes expressionless. The boy tugged anxiously at his bonds, but he remained firmly tied to the large tombstone. Finally Voldemort spoke. 

“Mr. Potter,” he said. “We have much to discuss. Will you accompany me to my home?”

“I can’t go anywhere if you don’t untie me,” the boy spat. 

Voldemort flicked his skeletal white wand and the ropes around the boy fell loosely to the ground. 

Potter took off running. He was not very fast. He appeared to be limping, as if one of his legs was injured. Something had probably happened to it back in the maze. 

Voldemort flicked his wand again and the boy froze. He began to topple over with the momentum of his run, but Voldemort waved his wand once more and Potter’s body floated up a few inches off the ground before turning and drifting back towards Voldemort. 

“I only want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you,” Voldemort said, his voice as soft and low as the first time he had spoken to Nagini.

Potter made a disbelieving noise in his throat. 

“Unfreeze me, then,” he said. 

Voldemort set him gently down and released his frozen limbs. Potter tried to scamper off again. Voldemort stopped him with his wand. 

“You’re hurting yourself,” Voldemort said. “You’re going to make your leg worse.”

“You killed Cedric!” the boy shouted. 

“Who?” Voldemort said, frowning. He would have expected Potter to protest about the murder of his parents. Who was Cedric?

“He’s right there!” Potter shouted, even more infuriated. 

Ah. So that was what was bothering him. 

“Peter, send Cedric back with the Cup,” Voldemort said. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. Then, before Potter could say anything more, Voldemort reached out, put a firm hand around his thin wrist, and disapparated. 

They reappeared in a roomy study that was clean, though it had the air of neglect. A large red armchair sat near the empty fireplace, and it was here that Voldemort placed Potter, his limbs still useless. 

“Unfreeze me,” Potter said, his green eyes defiant. 

“I will, but you must stay in the chair first,” Voldemort said. “I’m going to see what I can do for your leg.”

“Why bother?” Potter said. 

“Do you like having an injured leg?”

“If you heal it, I’ll be able to run away more easily.”

“You wouldn’t get far. Peter has your wand. Now will you stay still while I look at your leg?”

Potter worried at his lip. 

“What are you going to do with me afterwards?”

“We will talk. And after you hear what I have to say, you can decide if you want to stay or go.”

Potter snorted. He apparently did not think it likely that he would be persuaded to stay. 

“Will you let me look at your leg?”

“I suppose you’re going to do what you want either way,” the boy said.  Voldemort decided that was as close as he was going to get to permission. 

The boy was wearing Muggle clothes: joggers and a t-shirt. Moving slowly so as not to startle him, Voldemort traced a line down the side of his joggers on his injured leg, from a little above the knee all the way to his ankle. The pant leg fell open along the line Voldemort had drawn. 

Voldemort crouched down at Potter’s side and inspected the exposed limb without touching it, casting several prodding, experimental charms. 

“It is not broken,” he said after a moment, looking up at Potter, who was frowning down at him. “It looks like your knee is badly sprained, however. I’m going to place some numbing charms first, since I don’t have any pain relief potions. Next I’ll place some icing charms to help with the swelling, another charm to speed your recovery, and then I’ll make you a splint.”

Technically Potter didn’t need a splint; only a knee brace after the swelling went down. But having a large, heavy splint attached to his leg would probably dissuade him from trying to run away again in the immediate future. 

Potter sat in stony silence while Voldemort worked the charms and transfigured a splint out of some Muggle books on the shelves. When Voldemort was finished, he drew up a chair (a plain wooden one, unlike the plush armchair Potter was sitting on), and ended the spell on Potter’s frozen limbs. 

Potter released a breath as if his lungs had been frozen as well. He pushed a hand through his untidy hair and fixed Voldemort with a suspicious glare. 

“Now what?” he said. 

“Now we talk,” Voldemort said. “Harry—May I call you Harry?”

“No.”

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

“No.”

“It is a piece of someone’s soul that is held in an external container. It anchors the main soul, and keeps someone from dying even if their body is destroyed.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry’s frown was deepening. 

“The night my body was destroyed—” Voldemort delicately avoided blaming Harry for this event— “it seems I inadvertently made a Horcrux. I did not intend for this to happen, you understand. This is not the container I would have chosen, had I intended to make a Horcrux.”

“What container?” Harry said, but a sort of dread tinged his voice, and Voldemort thought he was beginning to guess already. 

“You,” Voldemort said. “A living Horcrux. You see, it is not ideal. A Horcrux should be indestructible.”

“What do you mean, ‘me’?” Potter said. 

“A piece of my soul is inside you, Harry,” Voldemort said. “You are my Horcrux. You see now why I want to fix your leg. You’re vulnerable enough as it is.”

Harry stared at him, a look of horror coming over his face. 

“I realized you were my Horcrux when I touched you today. I immediately had access to all your memories. It was much simpler than Legilimency. Looking through your head is like recalling my own memories. And I can feel your emotions without even touching you. I suspect you can feel the same for me.”

Harry did not appear to be listening anymore. He was busy making his own connections. 

“You’re saying it’s my fault you came back?” he said hoarsely. “Me, being your Horcrux, that’s what let you come back? It’s my fault?”

Sure, why not. Harry’s guilt would probably be useful for controlling him, and he wasn’t planning on telling Harry about his other Horcruxes. 

“It seems you have more luck than I realized,” Voldemort commented. “I hope you see now that I would never do anything to hurt you, Harry. My soul is precious to me.”

Harry just stared at him, green eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“I realize this is a lot to take in,” Voldemort said. “Unfortunately, this situation brings up further issues we must discuss. Namely, Albus Dumbledore.”

“What about him?”

“He will not be pleased to hear of my return. If he realizes that I am back and that you are my Horcrux… Frankly, Harry, he may attempt to kill you.”

“Dumbledore… he wouldn’t… he would never…”

“He would deeply regret the necessity, I’m sure,” Voldemort said. “But in the end, he would see it as a necessity.”

Harry’s eyes flickered, uncertain. Voldemort placed casual fingertips on top of Harry’s arm, and Harry, distracted by Voldemort’s words, did not pull away. Voldemort took the opportunity to delve back into Harry’s mind. 

Voldemort was an excellent Legilimens, but this was really so much easier. There was no need to sort through a million boring and useless thoughts in search of what he wanted. He, the soul piece inside of Harry, already knew exactly what Voldemort wanted, and offered it up to him without hesitation. 

What does Potter want? Voldemort thought, and immediately he knew. The image arose of a mirror, the mirror, in fact. The Mirror of Erised. The Mirror showed Potter’s family: his parents first, and behind them, face upon face of Potter ancestors, stretching back as far as the eye could see. Potter must have looked into the Mirror before his confrontation with Quirrell. 

Voldemort filed this information away, but it wasn’t immediately useful. What else did Potter want?

The next answer was difficult to look at. Not because it was difficult to find, but because it unearthed memories and emotions of his own that he had sought to bury decades ago. Memories of the orphanage. Of the older children who hurt him and stole his food. The utter lack of safety, the constant need for watchfulness, the constant state of fear. And above all, the desire to leave the orphanage and never, ever return. 

Every year at Hogwarts had offered him a taste of freedom, the hope of escape, of something more. And then every summer they’d sent him right back to hell. 

Voldemort withdrew his hand from Harry’s arm and looked at him. Warily, Harry met his gaze.

Voldemort had grown to be charming in his teen and young adult years. His good looks combined with his natural skill at Legilimency allowed him to manipulate most people with ease. Later, as he had grown in power, he’d needed his talent for manipulation less and less. He thought he could still pull it off, though, especially for his own Horcrux. He would save the Imperius Curse as a last resort. 

The Imperius made people stupid. It dulled their minds and slowed their reflexes. Voldemort wanted his Horcrux in full possession of his natural abilities for self preservation. 

Overall, he would prefer to have Harry’s willing cooperation. He was sure he could find the right buttons to push to get it. 

“Harry,” Voldemort said, looking the boy in the eye. “If you stay with me now, I swear, as long as I am alive, you will never have to return to the Dursleys.”

***

When Harry was thirteen, he went, in the course of an hour, from trying to kill Sirius Black with his bare hands, to eagerly demanding to know how soon he could move in with him. Of course, Sirius was Harry’s godfather and the best friend of Harry’s own father, and the change had happened after Harry learned that Sirius was innocent of the many murders he’d been accused of. But Sirius was still a complete stranger to Harry, and innocent or not, he’d spent the previous twelve years in Azkaban. He still looked like a convict, and none of his actions since his escape spoke positively of his mental stability. 

Yet Harry had jumped at the chance to live with him. 

Anyone who thought that Harry would not be swayed by Voldemort’s offer did not realize just how badly Harry wanted to get away from the Dursleys. 

Harry, for his part, told himself that he would stay so he could find out what Voldemort was planning. He would leave the first chance he got.

“I won’t join you,” Harry said. 

“I’m not asking that,” Voldemort said. “I only want you to stay here for now, until I can make plans to keep you safe.”

It wasn’t forever. Even Voldemort said it wouldn’t be forever. And the summer holidays were starting the very next week. If he went back to Hogwarts now, he would only end up at the Dursleys. 

Anyway, he didn’t really think he had a choice. Voldemort wasn’t going to let him just get up and walk away. 

*** 

Peter interrupted them at that point, much to  Voldemort’s annoyance. He poked his head in the door, whimpering about his hand. The man had a wand; surely he had staunched the bleeding and numbed the wound by now? 

But Voldemort had gotten what he wanted from Harry, so there was no reason to put Peter off further. He fashioned a flexible, functional silver hand for Peter (he’d worked out the design and the spell beforehand), and Peter cheered up considerably. 

“What about your other followers, my lord?” Peter asked. “Are you going to summon them now?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Voldemort said. “I will summon them… later.” (It was another week before he finally got around to summoning most of them, though he did summon Lucius Malfoy two days later because he wanted to use his library.)

Peter made dinner. He was a decent cook, but Harry seemed to have focused all of his ire on him (judging by both the scowl on his face and the simmering waves of anger Voldemort could feel emanating from him), so Voldemort made Peter eat in the kitchen while he and Harry ate in the dining room. 

Voldemort had a spacious bedroom in the Riddle House with a large bed for him and a smaller one in the corner for Peter. But he didn’t need Peter to care for him anymore, so Harry could have the second bed and Peter could go find a different room for himself. 

It didn’t occur to Voldemort to put Harry anywhere other than his own room. He liked to keep his living Horcruxes close. 

Voldemort used his wand to clean and freshen the blankets on the smaller bed. When he was done, Harry sat down on it, looking rather lost. But then Nagini came in, slithering through the doorway, and Harry perked up. The huge snake climbed curiously up onto the bed with Harry, and the two of them hissed quietly to each other. 

Voldemort left them like that, murmuring back and forth about nothing in particular. He was glad to discover that Harry had his Parseltongue abilities. It was nice that his Horcruxes could talk to each other (even if he had no intention of telling Harry that Nagini was also a Horcrux). 

When Voldemort returned to the bedroom an hour later, Harry was curled under his blankets, fast asleep, his back pressed up against Nagini, who was coiled over the blankets behind him. 

Chapter Text

Over the next week, Voldemort sent Peter out to get clothes for Harry. He summoned Lucius and made him grovel. Then he visited Malfoy Manor and picked out a stack of books which he brought back to the Riddle House where he could peruse them without Lucius hovering anxiously in the background. 

And he slept a lot, because his new body tired easily. Harry also slept a lot, often with Nagini curled at his side. Some days, Harry didn’t get out of bed at all. 

This was not ideal behavior for a living Horcrux. Voldemort wanted Harry healthy for the time being, both mentally and physically. 

On one of those days when Harry had failed to get out from under his blankets, Voldemort leaned over the boy’s bed and put the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead like he was checking for a fever. 

“What are you doing?” Harry said. 

“You feel depressed,” Voldemort said. “I’m looking for something to cheer you up.”

Harry snorted. 

Later that day, Peter brought a treacle tart back to the Riddle House. Voldemort placed a slice on the dining room table and sent Nagini to fetch Harry (of the three other occupants of the Riddle House, Harry seemed to like her the best, as she was the only one who hadn’t killed someone he cared about). Then Voldemort left the room. 

The slice was gone the next time Voldemort checked. 

Voldemort went back to the study to read. It was so difficult to find reliable information on Horcruxes. So few people had practical experience with them. 

***

Voldemort had never regretted killing anyone before, but he wished he hadn’t told Peter to kill Cedric. Harry was so cut up over it, and Voldemort could sense his unhappiness constantly. He did not enjoy the feeling, and he couldn’t ignore it. It was just there, all the time. 

***

“I could kill Peter if that would help,” Voldemort said one day, standing in the bedroom. Harry was sitting in the window seat looking out the window and leaning against Nagini, who was coiled in a great, tall pile at his back. He didn’t have the splint on his leg anymore; Voldemort had taken it off. 

“What?” Harry said, looking up and frowning. 

“Peter killed Cedric. If it would make you feel better, I could kill Peter.”

“He only killed Cedric because you told him to,” Harry said, his frown deepening. 

“I’m hardly going to kill myself,” Voldemort said. “I could kill Peter, though. He also betrayed your parents. I’ve noticed you’ve been thinking about that too.”

“But you’re the one who killed my parents!”

“It would be inconvenient to get rid of Peter,” Voldemort continued as if Harry hadn’t said anything. “He does the cooking and cleaning. I suppose there’s Barty…”

“Who is Barty?” Harry asked. 

“He’s… one of my people,” Voldemort said. He thought about telling Harry that he’d already met Barty (had, in fact, been his defense student for the last school year). But it seemed like a lot of effort to explain everything. 

“But he’s a rich kid,” Voldemort said instead. “Grew up with a house elf. I doubt he’d be any good at cooking and cleaning. I could ask Lucius to find us a housekeeper. It’s just that Peter is so convenient. He can’t tell anyone about me because he’s supposed to be dead.”

“Why do you care if people know about you?” Harry asked. 

“I’m not exactly powerful at the moment,” Voldemort said. 

“Oh,” Harry said. This had not occurred to him before (Voldemort could hear it in his emotions). 

“I’m working on it,” Voldemort said, feeling a bit defensive. “So. Do you think you’d feel better if I killed Peter?”

“No,” Harry said. “I would feel worse.”

“Hmm,” Voldemort said. “Tell me if you change your mind.”

***

When Voldemort returned from Malfoy Manor with a new stack of books, he found Harry sitting in his large, red armchair in the study. Voldemort put the books down and then went to Harry. He pressed the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. 

He wasn’t checking for a fever, but he’d found the gesture appropriate for what he was doing: checking on Harry. 

“Where did you get the books?” Harry asked. 

“Malfoy Manor,” Voldemort said. “Most of them are probably irrelevant, but I don’t want Lucius to know what I’m researching.”

“What are you researching?” Harry asked. 

“Horcruxes,” Voldemort said.

“Lucius doesn’t know?”

A series of images flew across Harry’s mind. Voldemort, with his hand still on Harry’s forehead, saw them clearly:

Lucius. A thin black book. His black book. A basilisk fang…

“LUCIUS!!!” Voldemort roared. He disapparated with a crack. 

***

Harry’s heart was racing. He supposed he was getting hit with a spillover of Voldemort’s emotions. He also really wanted to know what was happening. He lay down on the ground of the study, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift into Voldemort’s. 

It was a lot easier than he would have liked to admit. 

Voldemort was standing in front of Lucius, who was on the ground screaming. Narcissa and Draco were huddled together behind him, looking terrified. 

Voldemort lifted the Cruciatus Curse he’d been casting. Lucius stopped screaming and lay gasping on the floor. Voldemort turned his wand on Narcissa and she fell screaming to the floor behind her husband. 

“Not them… please…” Lucius begged weakly. 

Voldemort lifted the curse from Narcissa and turned his wand on Draco. Draco’s grey eyes were very wide. 

“Crucio,” Voldemort said. 

Draco screamed. 

Voldemort was hurting Draco. 

Stop! Harry shouted in his head. It’s my fault! I destroyed your Horcrux!

Because that was what the diary was. With his mind linked to Voldemort’s, Harry knew that plainly. 

Harry thought of young Tom Riddle in the chamber, thought of himself stabbing the diary. Hoped Voldemort could see. 

Voldemort slowly dropped his wand, and Draco, to Harry’s great relief, stopped screaming. 

“You are not forgiven, Lucius,” Voldemort said coldly. “I will not forget your lack of respect.”

Then he disapparated. 

***

Back at the Riddle House, Voldemort sat down in his armchair in the study. Harry, on the floor, was slowly sitting up, watching Voldemort warily. 

“My Horcrux tried to kill you,” Voldemort said. This was troubling news. 

“You had a Horcrux before me,” Harry said. 

“Yes,” Voldemort said. That was right. He’d had “a” Horcrux. 

“That shouldn’t have happened,” Voldemort returned to his own train of thought. “My Horcruxes shouldn’t try to kill each other.”

Harry just looked at him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Voldemort said. “I’m not going to torture you.”

“I can feel how angry you are,” Harry said. 

“It’s not your fault,” Voldemort said. “You were defending yourself. If my diary had killed you, I would be equally angry.”

“Oh,” Harry said. 

“It shouldn’t have happened, though. One Horcrux trying to destroy another Horcrux from the same person… This is a serious flaw.”

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“I’m going to need more books,” Voldemort said. 

He gazed pensively at Harry. 

“You’re feeling better,” Voldemort observed. It was true. Harry’s green eyes were clear, his mind more alert and awake than it had been since he had agreed to stay at the Riddle House. 

***

“So, Draco must be a close friend of yours, then,” Voldemort said over dinner. 

“What? No! I can’t stand him! Why would you say that?” Harry said. He knocked over his glass of water as he tried to reach for it. 

“Oh. My mistake,” Voldemort said. He vanished the spilled water with his wand and refilled Harry’s glass with an aguamenti . 

“I forgot to put out the butter,” Peter said, poking his head around the doorway. 

“Go away, Peter. Harry was happy until you showed up,” Voldemort snapped, using his wand to accio the butter from Peter’s hands. Peter scurried away. 

“He’s so annoying,” Harry said. Voldemort thought he was talking about Peter at first, but then realized he was still talking about Draco. 

“You know how I was in the Triwizard Tournament?” Harry said. 

Voldemort refrained from informing Harry that he had gotten him into the tournament in the first place. 

“Malfoy—Draco—he made these badges. They said ‘Potter Stinks!’ And everyone was wearing them!” Harry said, waving an arm in indignation. 

Voldemort waited, but apparently that was the extent of the story. 

“That must have been… very difficult for you,” Voldemort finally said. 

“He’s a prat, and I hate him,” Harry said. 

***

That evening, Harry burst into the study where Voldemort was reading. He was surprisingly loud when he wasn’t lying around, all lethargic and mopey. 

“It’s just that he’s kind of a sissy,” Harry said. 

“Who?” Voldemort said. 

“Draco. You thought he was my friend because I asked you not to torture him. But he’s not. I just didn’t want to have to see him blubbing.”

“I see,” Voldemort said. 

“Because he’s kind of a sissy,” Harry said. “Once a hippogriff scratched him. Madam Pomfrey healed him right away, but he whinged about it for weeks. He can’t handle being tortured.”

“I’ll remember that,” Voldemort said. 

Harry nodded. He stood there indecisively for a moment, and then left very quickly (and not very quietly). 

***

Voldemort thought that Harry had been doing better, so he forgot about him for the next several days as he lost himself in his research. Then one evening, he went into the bedroom and remembered to check on Harry. 

Harry was lying in bed again. Voldemort put his hand to the boy’s forehead, and all he saw was grey. 

Did he get up today?  Voldemort asked Nagini, who was lying next to Harry. 

Not much, Nagini said. 

Did he eat?

He ate some, Nagini said. The rat man brought him food, but the boy gets upset when he sees him.

Peter had been bringing Voldemort his meals in the study lately, since Voldemort had become absorbed in his research. 

Voldemort was going through a lot of books. He was getting tired of hauling them back and forth from Malfoy Manor. 

Maybe Harry could use a change of scenery. 

***

That was how Harry ended up in Malfoy Manor, though Voldemort didn’t tell him where they were. 

“You can go anywhere in this wing,” Voldemort told him, “but the wing ends here. Don’t go past this doorway.”

Harry looked at the closed door, then looked at Voldemort. Then he turned around and walked to the bedroom, where he lay down on his bed, pulling the blankets over himself. 

Well, that was Harry settled, then. 

The Malfoys had house elves, so Harry wouldn’t have to see Peter here.

***

And that was how Harry came to be standing in the doorway to the hall at Malfoy Manor, wondering if he was curious enough to disobey Voldemort and leave the wing he’d been confined to. 

Everything had been different than he had expected. Harry had thought he’d be able to find out Voldemort’s plans, but so far, all Voldemort had done was read a lot of books and occasionally take a few notes. He did seem to meet with some of his Death Eaters—he’d mentioned Lucius Malfoy and someone called Barty—but he didn’t invite them to the Riddle House, so Harry didn’t know what they talked about. 

In some ways it would have been easier if Voldemort had been as horrible as he’d expected. It was hard to maintain his rage, his sense of purpose, in the face of a man who brought him treacle tart without even having to ask what his favorite dessert was. 

When Harry asked Voldemort something, he answered. He didn’t tell Harry that he wasn’t old enough to know about things. Sometimes, because of the Horcrux link, he responded to Harry without Harry needing to say anything. 

Harry had never been good at expressing his emotions. That wasn’t a skill that the Dursleys had encouraged in him. But he never needed to explain how he felt to Voldemort. Voldemort always knew how Harry was feeling without Harry having to say anything. 

It wasn’t exactly that Voldemort made him feel better. But after a lifetime of being misunderstood and disbelieved by adults, it felt good to be so thoroughly known. 

And Harry felt very weird about this, but he thought that Voldemort actually cared about him, at least as much as he cared about Nagini. 

He cares about you because you’re holding part of his soul, Harry reminded himself sternly. That’s all. 

Cedric was still dead. 

But Voldemort had offered to kill Peter for Harry. That was nice. 

No, that… that wasn’t nice at all. The only reason he’d thought that was because he had Voldemort’s soul inside him. It must be influencing his thinking. 

But it reminded him of Sirius a bit. Sirius had tried to kill Peter for Harry’s parents. 

Was Sirius looking for him now? Sirius would be so angry when he found out that Harry had chosen to stay with Voldemort… 

Voldemort who had killed Harry’s parents. Who had ordered Cedric’s death. 

But there was nothing to fight against when Voldemort was protecting him instead of threatening him. 

Harry didn’t know what to do. 

The world had taken on a cast of grey. Harry hadn’t been outside in weeks. Voldemort had apparated him directly to their new lodgings. The new rooms were cleaner, better kept and better furnished. But the same dull, grey feeling persisted, hanging over Harry’s vision and painting over everything he saw with a sort of sleepy lethargy. 

And then Malfoy stepped in front of him, and Harry woke up. 

Chapter Text

The Malfoys were sitting at dinner with the Dark Lord at the head of the great, long table. 

“Pass our Lord the butter, Draco,” Narcissa urged. Draco swallowed and placed the butter near the Dark Lord without looking at him. 

Draco had been raised on stories of the “good old days,” back when the Dark Lord reigned and Mudbloods knew their place. But the reality of the Dark Lord was something else entirely. The Lord Voldemort of the stories was a noble figure, powerful and majestic, champion of pure-bloods everywhere. The Lord Voldemort in Malfoy Manor was a monster. His very face was monstrous: the red eyes, the deathly pale skin, the flattened nose with slitted nostrils like a snake. And like a snake, he could strike at any moment, and there was nothing Draco or his parents could do about it. 

“Draco,” the Dark Lord said, and Draco cringed. “I see you’ve been looking into my wing. Looking at my things.”

Draco looked up then. His parents were looking back at him, horrified. 

“I didn’t! I—the door was open! I just walked by!” Draco protested. 

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort,” the Dark Lord said. “He always knows.”

Circe, he was so creepy. 

“He meant no harm, my lord,” Narcissa said desperately. “He would never disrespect your privacy. We will make sure Draco stays far away from your wing.”

“In the future, if I am not in my wing, I will leave the door open. If the door is open, you may visit my wing if you choose, Draco.”

“I—what?” Draco said stupidly. His parents were staring at the Dark Lord. 

“My study will be locked, but you have my permission to enter the other rooms.”

“Um. Oh,” Draco said. 

“My lord, please,” Narcissa said. She didn’t trust that the Dark Lord didn’t mean to punish Draco in some way. Draco tended to agree with her. 

“I have a guest staying in my wing, and I suppose he could use some company,” the Dark Lord said. “I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. Things will go better for your family if his presence here remains unknown.”

“My lord?” Lucius said. He looked, if anything, more alarmed, as if Draco were being offered up as a sacrificial victim to this unknown wizard.

“It’s just Harry Potter,” Draco muttered. 

***

Draco told himself he wasn’t going to go see Harry Potter. The Dark Lord hadn’t told him he had to. And it was such a bad idea to just wander into the Dark Lord’s wing, even if he had permission. It was asking for trouble. 

Yet somehow, after lunch, Draco found himself standing at the open door to the Dark Lord’s wing yet again. He swallowed and looked uneasily down the hallway behind him. The Dark Lord had been in the library last time he checked. He could come back at any time… but he would probably be there for a while. 

Draco took a deep breath as if he were about to dive into the Hogwarts lake. Then he stepped over the threshold. 

He stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he would be hit by a curse. When nothing happened, he pressed tentatively forward. 

He was in a sitting room with antique chairs upholstered with embroidered cushions. A silver tray sat on the coffee table with what looked like an untouched lunch: an egg and cress sandwich on sourdough bread, some fruit, cut vegetables with dip. It was the same thing Draco and his parents had just had for lunch. 

Draco moved on, peering into open doors and ignoring closed ones without checking to see if they were locked or not. He found a small dining room with a round dining table and chairs. He found a large coat closet with multiple fur coats that Draco thought probably belonged to his own family and not to the Dark Lord. He found a bathroom with an ornate clawfoot bathtub.

The whole wing was eerily quiet. Draco tiptoed about like he was in a museum. He didn’t see any sign of Potter, and he thought maybe he wasn’t here any longer. 

And then he found the bedroom. 

Draco hadn’t intended to go into the Dark Lord’s bedroom. That would be weird. But after glancing over the large four-poster with the heavy curtains, Draco’s eyes caught on a smaller bed tucked in the far corner of the room. 

There was a lump on the bed. Someone was lying there, under the blankets. 

Draco crept through the gloom of the darkened room. Then, as he got closer to the smaller bed, he slowly released the breath he’d been holding. 

He recognized the messy dark head on the pillow. He’d found Potter. 

But then he started back in alarm, because there was something… something large and coiled and slithering, and it was moving behind Potter, and raising its great, scaly, fanged head to look at Draco. It flicked a forked tongue out at him, watching him with round, yellow eyes. 

“Potter,” Draco hissed urgently. “Potter!”

There was no response. 

Draco looked around quickly and grabbed a wooden figurine of a hedgehog from off the mantel over the bedroom fireplace. He chucked it at Potter. It hit him in the back. 

“Ow!” Potter said, his body giving a surprised jolt. 

“Don’t panic, Potter,” Draco said, “but you’ve got to get off the bed very slowly. No sudden movements. Or you might die.”

“What are you on about?” Potter pushed himself up on one elbow, looking about blearily. 

“Seriously, Potter, don’t freak out. But there’s a giant snake on your bed.”

“Oh, is that all?” Potter sat up fully, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Oh, my bad, is a giant monster snake not worthy of the great Harry Potter’s attention?” Draco said, half exasperated, half frantic. 

“It’s just Nagini,” Potter said, running a careless hand down the smooth scales at his side. 

Draco yelped involuntarily. 

“You’re not scared of snakes, are you?” Potter said, sounding amused. “I thought Slytherins liked snakes.”

“I’m not scared,” Draco said. “I have a healthy respect for snakes. And the one next to you looks big enough to swallow a human.”

“She’s a sweetheart, really,” Potter said. And then he hissed softly at the snake, who turned to look at Potter with her face inches from his. Her tongue flicked out and brushed the tip of his nose. 

“Morgan, I forgot you could do that,” Draco said, suddenly aware that his heart was pulsing very fast. “That’s incredibly unsettling, I hope you know.”

A ghost of a smile fluttered across Potter’s lips, and he pulled his legs out of his blankets and set his bare feet on the ground, turning to consider Draco. 

“You came back,” he noted. “Wasn’t sure if you would, after you ran off last time.”

“I thought I heard someone coming,” Draco said, looking away. “Why are you still in bed? It’s after lunch.”

Potter shrugged. 

“I’m not going anywhere. No reason to get up.”

“You’re sounding kind of pathetic, Potter,” Draco said. 

“Says the bloke who was panicking over a pet snake,” Potter said. 

“Pet snake,” Draco said scathingly. “Calling that behemoth a pet doesn’t make it safe.”

Potter shrugged again and put a hand on Nagini’s coils as she began to slither across his lap. Draco took a step back. 

“So, what are you doing here?” Draco asked when he had assured himself that the snake wasn’t moving any closer to him. “Is the Dark Lord experimenting on you with dark magic?”

“Hm, not at the moment, I don’t think,” Potter said.

“You don’t think?” Draco was looking around the room now, taking in the details. His eyes caught on the large four-poster and the expression on his face became complicated. 

“Potter,” he said, “you’re not… sleeping in the Dark Lord’s bedroom?”

“Yeah?” Potter said. 

“You are? Seriously? This is his bedroom?” Draco's eyes darted around nervously and he backed away closer to the door. 

“He feels better when Nagini and I are close by,” Potter said. 

“How can you sleep with him in the same room with you?” Draco was getting more and more horrified. 

“He’s actually not as bad as I thought he would be,” Potter said. 

Draco stared. 

“I know, I was surprised too,” Potter said. 

“You’re weirder than I thought you were,” Draco said. “Creepier too.”

“I guess,” Potter said. 

“Your lunch is in the sitting room. Did you know?”

“Mm.” Potter stood up slowly and ambled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the sitting room. Draco followed close behind, casting a nervous glance at Nagini as they went. Luckily, the snake stayed put in the bedroom. 

In the sitting room, Potter sat down on the sofa and picked up a sandwich half. Draco sat down awkwardly on a nearby chair and watched him as he took a bite. 

“Look, Potter. Do you—” Draco paused and looked around the room anxiously. Then he started again more quietly. “Do you want me to tell someone you’re here?”

Potter looked up from his sandwich, his green eyes curious. 

“Malfoy. Are you trying to save me?” 

“Circe, don’t put it like that,” Draco said. “It’s just. I could get an owl to one of your friends. If you want.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what Voldemort would do to you?” Harry asked. 

“Merlin’s sake, Potter, keep your voice down,” Draco said, shifting uncomfortably and glancing around the room again. “I wasn’t planning on telling him, obviously.”

“But you hate me. Why would you risk that for me?”

“Just because you’re a spoiled prima donna doesn’t mean I want to see you dead,” Draco snapped. A simple yes or no was all he needed. Why did Potter have to keep talking about this?

“A spoiled prima donna?” Potter’s mouth fell open. “Are you sure you’re not describing yourself?”

“Please,” Draco said. “I’m not the one with the Firebolt. I’ll have you know, I asked my father for a Firebolt after you got yours. Do you know what he did? He laughed at me. Laughed! He said there was no earthly reason why any teenager should have a Firebolt.”

Harry gave a short, involuntary laugh at that too, and Draco looked at him in surprise. Harry quickly hid his face in his sandwich and took another bite, not looking at Draco. 

“Well,” he said. “Maybe I’ll let you have a go on it sometime.”

“Really?” Draco said, surprised again. 

“Yeah, why not,” Harry said, and busied himself with his chopped veggies. 

Draco stared at him for a while before remembering himself. 

“So. Do you want me to send that letter?”

“No, but thanks for the offer,” Harry said. He continued to eat, and Draco, feeling off-kilter, continued to stare. 

***

Draco had spoken to Potter twice now in the manor, and both conversations, while not entirely friendly, had lacked the venom that had always infected their interactions until now. Perhaps part of it was that they had no audience here, no friends to posture in front of or to spur them on. 

Perhaps it was because, for the first time in years, Draco hadn’t gone on the offensive the second he saw Potter. He’d thought he needed to stay on the offensive after Potter had been so callously cruel to him, turning down his offer of friendship their first day of school. But apparently if Draco didn’t go on the offensive, then Potter… didn’t respond defensively? This came as something of a revelation to Draco. 

A few things had happened with Draco over the last year. First, Potter had been chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. The first task had pitted each champion against a literal dragon. 

When Draco saw Potter take off into the air on his broomstick with the Hungarian Horntail at his heels, his heart stopped. He didn’t start breathing properly again until Potter was back on the ground with the golden egg in his arms, a safe distance away from the dragon. 

Draco was horribly embarrassed with himself for being so upset over Potter. To make up for it, he threw himself into the project of designing a new set of badges. He drew a small cartoon of a boy with a large lighting bolt on his forehead flying on a broom and being chased by a dragon. Draco drew a tiny flame on the end of the broomstick which he enchanted to flicker red, yellow, and orange in imitation of real fire. Over the drawing, Draco wrote the words “Potter’s on fire!”

He was halfway through making the first badge when he realized the whole thing was more complimentary than not, and he scrapped the whole idea. 

The lake task had come second. The champions had all gone into the lake, but Potter hadn’t come back. The other three champions returned, and the time limit came to an end, and still Potter did not emerge from the dark waters. 

Draco was sure Potter had drowned. He imagined the professors dredging Potter’s dead body out of the depths, the screams from the students that would greet the terrible sight. There would be a funeral, and half the wizarding world would show up. Everyone would be weeping. 

“He survived the Dark Lord, only to die for the sake of glory in a vain competition,” people would say at the funeral. 

When Draco was younger, his father had often said he had an overactive imagination. 

“Hey, are you crying?” Greg had asked, sitting next to Draco in the spectators’ bleachers overlooking the lake. “Did you get hurt?”

“When did he have time to get hurt? We’ve been sitting here doing nothing but stare at this stupid lake for over an hour,” Vince griped. 

“I’m not crying!” Draco protested. “I have allergies.”

Harry had eventually emerged from the lake, dripping and shivering, but very much alive. 

Unlike the third task. Harry had never returned from the third task. The scenario Draco had imagined during the second task suddenly became a reality. The British wizarding world reeled, and Draco reeled along with it. 

No more Potter. No more Quidditch matches. Hogwarts would never be the same again. What was the point to anything? There wasn’t one, as far as Draco was concerned. 

And then Draco found Potter in his own house, of all places. Potter wasn’t dead. He was still alive. 

After speaking to him for the second time, Draco began to consider reviving a project he had given up years earlier. He’d thought it was a hopeless case, but suddenly it didn’t seem quite so impossible. He tried to tell himself it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. He was seriously thinking about restarting Project Befriend Potter. 

***

Most of Draco’s efforts to befriend Potter in first and second year had involved Draco showing off how much money he had. Every time, Potter had remained stubbornly unimpressed. 

So, don’t show off, Draco told himself. He doesn’t like that. He also knew that he shouldn’t criticize Harry’s friends or call them names. And he shouldn’t make fun of Harry for having no parents, or for looking like a bespectacled, facially disfigured plonker. 

Easier said than done. Maybe it would be better if Draco didn’t speak at all. 

***

Draco knew what Potter didn’t like. Did he know anything about what he did like? Well, there was always Quidditch.

After far too much deliberation, Draco made a pile of his favorite copies of Quidditch Times and Seeker Weekly. Then he carried the magazines into the Dark Lord’s wing. 

Potter was already awake today, sitting on the couch in the sitting room. The plates on his lunch tray were empty. Draco set the magazines down on the coffee table next to the tray. Then he stepped back. 

Potter looked at him, then looked at the magazines. Looked at Draco, looked back at the magazines. He picked up the one on top and began leafing through it. 

The next day, Draco brought a small, cylindrical golden cage with a rounded top. Inside fluttered a golden ball with white wings. Draco opened the door to the cage while Potter watched, alert as a cat watching a bird. 

The Snitch flew out of the cage and darted up and across the room. Draco jumped up on the coffee table and made a leaping grab after the Snitch. He didn’t even come close to catching it, but Potter’s face lit up and he ran over to a chair. He jumped up on top of it, and then made his own flying leap in a bid for the Snitch. 

Before long, the two of them were running up and down the entire wing, launching themselves off of antique furniture, racing each other to the Snitch. Silent aside from their panting breaths, the pounding of their feet, and the occasional wordless shout. 

***

Could Draco say something nice to Potter? What would he even say?

The next day, as they sat collapsed on the couch, exhausted from chasing after the Snitch, the giant snake came slithering into the sitting room. Draco quickly pulled his feet up. 

“Your snake is looking very shiny today,” Draco said, peering nervously over the edge of the couch. 

Apparently that was the right thing to say, because Potter positively beamed. 

“She shed just last night!” Potter said. “That’s why she’s so shiny. Her colors are most vibrant right after a shed. You’re seeing her at her best right now. Do you want to see the shed skin?”

“Um,” Draco said. 

“I’ll go get it,” Potter said, jumping up. He ran into the bedroom and came back with a white, papery-thin snakeskin that trailed on the ground behind him. It was fully intact, all in one piece, and as long as Nagini herself. 

“Um. That’s very nice,” Draco said as Potter cheerfully dumped Nagini’s shed into his lap. Potter laughed.

***

Harry wasn’t very good at keeping track of time lately, but he knew that multiple days had passed and Draco kept coming to his wing with the Snitch. He brought other things too: books and puzzles and sweets. But the Snitch was Harry’s favorite. 

One day when they were dashing through the wing, looking for the Snitch, Harry spotted it hovering close to the floor at the foot of a side table. Draco saw it too, and he was closer. He went diving across the floor, falling on his stomach with one arm extended in front of him. 

Harry knew he was too late, but he lunged anyway, sprawling halfway on top of Draco. His hand closed around Draco’s narrow wrist seconds after Draco’s hand closed around the Snitch. 

“Oof,” Draco said. He laughed. “Ow. Potter. You're heavier than you look.” He did not tell Harry to get off. 

***

They were chasing after the Snitch again when the door opened. Draco nearly fell off the spindly antique chair he was standing on when he turned and saw the Dark Lord standing there, watching them. Draco hastily scrambled to the floor. He would have liked to flee the wing entirely, but the Dark Lord was blocking the exit. 

Harry, on the other hand, hopped off the sofa and trotted eagerly right up to the Dark Lord. 

“Draco says there’s a Quidditch pitch in the back garden,” Harry said. The Dark Lord looked down at him, his snake-like face impassive. He was tall, much taller than fifteen-year-old Harry, who had always been small for his age. Harry angled his face towards the Dark Lord, brushing his bangs away from his forehead as he did so. 

The Dark Lord raised his hand. Draco flinched back, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to see whatever curse the Dark Lord was about to throw at Harry.

But nothing happened. Harry didn’t scream. Nervously, Draco opened his eyes again. 

Harry and the Dark Lord were still standing as they had been before, but now the Dark Lord was holding the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead as if he were checking for fever. They stood there for what was, for Draco, a very awkward moment. Finally, the Dark Lord dropped his hand. 

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll check the privacy wards around the pitch tomorrow morning. I can probably have it ready for you to go out after lunch. But I don’t want you going out by yourself. Draco.”

The last word came out sharp, and Draco stiffened. 

“Yes, my lord?”

“You will escort Harry to and from the pitch when he wishes to go. You will ensure that he is not seen by any visitors at the manor.”

“Yes, my lord,” Draco said. 

“You may stay here for now,” the Dark Lord said, turning away from Draco (to his great relief). “I will not be here for long.”

The Dark Lord went to his study, opening the locked door. Harry trotted after him like a puppy. Draco would have liked to take the opportunity to make a run for it, but the Dark Lord had told him to stay. He stood where he was, afraid to move, until the Dark Lord came back out of his study carrying a book and still trailing Harry behind him. 

“I’ll tell you later,” the Dark Lord said, although Draco hadn’t heard Harry ask anything. “I’ll have dinner with you tonight, and we can talk about it.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and then the Dark Lord was gone, closing the door to his wing behind him. 

Harry jumped up onto the coffee table and took a flying leap. He landed in front of Draco and held up his hand to show off the fluttering golden ball clutched between his fingers. 

“I win,” Harry said. 

***

“I approve of you recruiting Draco,” Voldemort said. He and Harry were having an evening cup of hot chocolate in the study. 

“I’m not recruiting him for you,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. 

“Not for me. For you,” Voldemort said. “It’s good to start with people your own age. And the Malfoys make for useful followers, with their money and their political influence.”

“I’m not trying to make him my follower either.” Harry blew on his hot chocolate and took a small sip. “Didn’t you have normal friends when you were a teenager?”

“I was in Slytherin with a bunch of spiteful and wealthy pure-bloods with an over-inflated sense of self-importance. I didn’t have the luxury of making normal friends. I had to constantly put others in their place, or I would have been crushed.”

“Did you ever try being nice to people?”

“No. It’s a waste of time and it only makes people think you’re weak. If they think you’re weak, then they’ll take advantage of you.”

“That can be true,” Harry said, thinking of Dudley and his gang. “But it’s not a waste of time to be nice to someone who is nice back.”

“True. With some people the easiest way to get what you want is by being nice. I spoke hastily when I said I’ve never tried being nice. What I meant was I hate being nice. It’s the same as being fake.”

“Being nice isn’t the same as being fake,” Harry said. 

“It is. You have to pretend something you don’t feel.”

“Not—not always,” Harry said, frowning a little into the warm mug he was holding with both hands. 

“That’s how it always is for me,” Voldemort said. 

“So is that what you’re doing now?” Harry asked.  “Pretending to be nice to get me to do what you want?”

“Clever lad,” Voldemort said. “It’s different with you, though. You have a part of my soul. You’re like an extension of me. I don’t have to pretend to be nice to myself. Of course I care about my own wellbeing.”

“Oh,” Harry said. 

“So if you’re not recruiting, does that mean Draco is your friend now?” Voldemort asked. 

“Definitely not. Draco is the worst. I can’t stand him. Why do you keep asking that?”

“I’ve just noticed he’s on your mind a lot,” Voldemort said. 

“Of course he’s on my mind a lot,” Harry said. “He’s the only person I hang out with right now besides you and Nagini. That doesn’t mean I like him. How is the research going?”

“Slowly,” Voldemort admitted. “There’s precious little practical research on Horcruxes. A lot of what I’ve found is theoretical, and there’s not much of that either.”

“Tell me something anyway,” Harry said. He took a long, slow sip from his mug. 

“Well,” Voldemort said. “I found an account today of a wizard who made a Horcrux out of an egg, which he hid underneath an endangered species of bird. I don’t know if the story is true, or based on truth, or made up entirely. It read rather like a fairytale. An egg is a terrible choice for a Horcrux, for one thing. So breakable. Unless it was an artificial egg…” Voldemort paused to muse and drink his hot chocolate. 

“Sounds like a bad hiding place too,” Harry said. 

“It was. Someone found it and destroyed it.”

“Oh. Bad luck.”

“Seems more like stupidity.”

“That too.”

***

Voldemort was starting to shape the beginnings of a plan. He would have to craft his own ritual, but he’d done that before. He would be the first to remove a soul fragment from a Horcrux and to place it, unharmed, in a new container. A non-living container this time, one that could not be harmed so easily. 

The process would involve cracking Harry open like an egg (like the Horcrux egg in the fairytale story) to remove the soul fragment. 

Harry would not survive being cracked open. That was a shame. Voldemort was getting used to having Harry around. It was probably due to the fact that he held part of Voldemort’s soul, but Voldemort didn’t get angry or annoyed with Harry the way he so easily did with other people. They understood each other, even if they didn’t always agree on everything. 

But Harry was mortal. He was going to die at some point anyway, and Voldemort couldn’t risk it happening unexpectedly. If that happened, he would lose his soul fragment that was housed in Harry. He’d already risked too much with Nagini. One living Horcrux was more than enough. 

And if he could figure out a ritual that worked on Harry, then he could use it on Nagini too when she started to get old.

Chapter Text

Voldemort was feeling cheerful and lighthearted. He noticed when he caught himself beginning to hum. He never hummed… That was when he realized the feelings weren’t coming from himself. 

He closed the large spellbook he had been referencing and left the Malfoy library. Then he made his way to a third-floor balcony overlooking the back garden. 

After a few moments of searching, he saw him: Harry, flying over the Quidditch pitch that was just beyond the line of trees. Draco was following after him in hot pursuit. He’d clearly had training, but Harry was the better flier, just a fraction more confident in the air, moving with the broom as if he’d been born with it. 

Voldemort wasn’t close enough to see the expression on Harry’s face, but he didn’t need to see Harry to know how he was feeling. At that moment, Harry’s happiness was as clear as the summer sky. 

***

It was morning, and Draco hadn’t arrived yet. He usually showed up after lunchtime because Harry was still in the habit of sleeping in late, even if he no longer spent the entire day in bed. 

Harry was dozing under his heavy comforter when it hit. A flash of rage, and then Harry was in a different room, looking down at a terrified man with a pointed beard. 

Harry knew this man. It was Igor Karkaroff, the headmaster at Durmstrang. 

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort,” Harry said. No, that wasn’t right. It felt like it was Harry, but it must be Voldemort speaking. Harry was only looking out of his eyes. 

“I swear, my lord! I was going to come! I only got delayed…”

“It’s been weeks since I called you,” Voldemort (not Harry) said. “You were not going to come. Do not take me for a fool.”

“Please, my lord! I wasn’t trying to desert—”

Voldemort lifted his bone white wand, and Karkaroff screamed. 

***

Back in the bedroom, Harry sat up. Without really thinking about it, he set his feet down on the floor, stood up, and walked out of the bedroom. He continued down the hall and through the sitting room until he reached the door leading out of the wing. He opened it. 

He had been through the manor multiple times to get to the Quidditch pitch, but he always followed Draco directly there and back. He didn’t know where anything was in the manor aside from his own wing. 

He began walking anyway. As he descended a staircase, he heard a faint scream. It was real this time, and not just in his head. 

***

Voldemort stood over the shaking Karkaroff, feeling the simmering satisfaction that always came after appeasing his rage with someone else’s suffering. He raised his wand, preparing to hit Karkaroff with another curse. 

A sudden wave of fear washed over him, and Voldemort paused in surprise. He stood there looking down at Karkaroff in confusion for a moment, before he realized the fear was not his own. He looked up. 

Harry was standing in the doorway, watching the scene with wide eyes. 

Two of Voldemort’s Death Eaters, McNair and Avery, were also in the room. They were the ones who had tracked down Karkaroff and brought him to the manor. They looked up now, following Voldemort’s gaze. 

“Hey, isn’t that…” McNair began. 

“Go to your room,” Voldemort said to Harry. 

Harry didn’t move. He was looking at Karkaroff, who was whimpering on the ground. 

“Now,” Voldemort said. 

Harry turned and ran. 

***

Voldemort had been planning on torturing Karkaroff for a while longer before eventually killing him. There was a purpose to this. He was making an example of Karkaroff as a warning to any of his other followers who might be hesitant about rejoining him. 

But after Harry left, he found he couldn’t bring himself to resume his plan. Unsettled, he finally had Avery and McNair lock Karkaroff in the manor’s dungeon. 

He stayed away from Harry the rest of the day, but he finally returned to his wing late that night after nodding off several times in his armchair in the Malfoy library. 

Harry was lying awake in bed with one of Draco’s wizarding comic books in his hands and Nagini lying partially over his legs. 

“Karkaroff’s not important to you,” Voldemort said. “He’s one of my Death Eaters. You don’t care about him.”

“No,” Harry admitted. 

“Then why are you still upset?” Voldemort said impatiently. “I’ve felt it all day.”

Without waiting for an answer, he moved forward and placed the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. 

Harry’s mind was roiling with fear and guilt and Cedric. Harry was here and safe and idly amusing himself while Cedric was dead. Harry should have tried harder to get away; he shouldn’t have accepted sanctuary from Cedric’s murderer. He deserved to go back to the Dursleys for what he’d done. 

Curiously, the one thing Harry was not thinking about was his parents. He never seemed to think of his parents anymore. Voldemort supposed he was blocking out those thoughts. It was simply too much, in the face of his current situation. Whether subconsciously or not, he was fixating on Cedric instead. 

Voldemort didn’t have much practice caring about other people. He certainly didn’t have the skills to handle a situation as complicated as this. 

“If you don’t want to see things that upset you, stay in this wing like I told you to,” Voldemort said. 

***

Two days later, Voldemort returned to the manor after meeting with several of his death eaters. He was looking forward to relaxing in the library by himself with a book or three. But he’d only just settled into his armchair when Harry came stomping into the library, trailed by an anxious looking Draco. 

“Draco got his Hogwarts letter, with his book list for school,” Harry said. 

“Oh?” Voldemort said. 

“I haven’t gotten mine yet.”

“Ah. I’ve blocked all owls to you. Made you undeliverable for post. I thought it would be safer that way.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “But I want to go back to Hogwarts next month.”

“Absolutely not,” Voldemort said. “It’s not safe for you there.”

“I said I would stay with you for the summer instead of going to the Dursleys. I didn’t say I would stay here forever!” Harry protested. 

“I can’t protect you from Dumbledore if you’re living in his castle. Not to mention, your sudden reappearance will raise some awkward questions. How will you explain where you’ve been without attracting suspicion?”

“It’s not fair! You never let me do anything!” Harry shouted. “You’re not my… my legal guardian! You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Harry!” Draco gasped. He put a hand on Harry’s arm and tried to pull him away, but Harry didn’t move. He stood there scowling at Voldemort, who looked up at him from his armchair in faint surprise. 

Voldemort didn’t need a parenting book to tell him that Harry was testing boundaries. Harry’s emotions were frank and unhidden in the air between them. He wanted to know if he really was safe with Voldemort. He was pushing to see what Voldemort would do. After what he’d seen with Karkaroff, he didn’t want to live on tenterhooks, wondering if Voldemort would hurt him too. If Voldemort was going to hurt him, Harry wanted to find out right now. 

“You said I could leave when I wanted! You promised!” Harry said.

Voldemort did not think he had promised anything, but that was besides the point. 

“You’re not ready to be on your own,” Voldemort said. 

“You’re not doing anything to get me ready!” Harry raged. “You don’t want me to be ready! You’re trying to keep me here forever!”

“Fine,” Voldemort decided abruptly. “I will teach you to defend yourself. You will have to work hard to be ready by September. If you can master everything to my satisfaction, you may go to Hogwarts.”

“Really?” Harry said, his rage punctured and deflating. 

“Yes. Now go away. You’re getting your emotions everywhere and I can’t breathe. That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”

“Ok,” Harry said, looking like he could hardly believe his luck. He turned around and left with a very relieved Draco. 

***

Draco followed a now cheerful Harry outside to the back garden. Draco’s heart was still racing from their encounter with the Dark Lord. He couldn’t believe the Dark Lord had let Harry get away with that. 

It seemed Harry got special treatment wherever he went. 

Draco and Harry went to the broom shed (which was really more of a clubhouse, with comfortable sofas and large windows with a view of the pitch). Harry opened up the storage room and surveyed the wide selection of broomsticks. 

“I haven’t tried this one yet,” Harry said, picking up a broom that was sleeker and thinner than the others. 

“That’s a racing broom,” Draco said. “It’s not sturdy enough for Quidditch.”

“It’s just you and me, though,” Harry said. 

“Look, Potter,” Draco said, frowning. “About what you said in there… You didn’t mean you chose to stay with the Dark Lord rather than go to your Muggles… did you?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked down at the broom in his hands. 

“You did? ” Draco gaped. “You—They’re that bad? Worse than the Dark Lord? ”

“Look, I—” Harry cast around a bit desperately. “I just needed some time to think and figure things out, okay? And I can’t think when I’m hungry.”

“You can’t think when you’re hungry?” Draco wrinkled his nose. Harry wasn’t making any sense. “You stayed with the Dark Lord because you were hungry when you met him?”

“Oh, excuse me for having a weakness,” Harry snapped, annoyed now. “Voldemort said if I stayed with him, I’d have plenty of food this summer, and he’s kept that promise, so…”

Draco was staring at him. 

“What are you saying?” he said slowly. “You wouldn’t… You wouldn’t have food with the Muggles? Are they poor or something?”

“No,” Harry said shortly. 

“What, then? Don’t they give you food?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said, still avoiding Draco’s eyes. 

Draco felt a tightness in his chest, constricting his breathing. Harry’s Muggles didn’t give him enough food? He suddenly remembered how very thin and small Harry had been when he first arrived at Hogwarts. He’d filled out and grown some since then, but he was still small for his age. 

“Anyway, it’s not like I had a real choice,” Harry said. “Do you really think Voldemort would have just let me walk away if I had picked the Dursleys?”

“Not likely,” Draco said. “Do you really think he’ll let you go to Hogwarts?”

“He has to; he said he would,” Harry said. 

“Well,” Draco said uncertainly. 

“Race you!” Harry said. He ran out of the broom shed with the racing broom in his hands. Draco swore, grabbed a different racing broom, and took off after him. 

***

Harry started his new training program the next morning (Voldemort told him he would have to start getting up at a decent hour if he wanted to train with him). Voldemort took him to the manor’s ballroom. 

“We’ll pick a different room each day so you can practice defending yourself in different environments,” Voldemort said. 

“My lord,” Lucius said timidly from the doorway. “You had a meeting with several of your Death Eaters scheduled for this morning.”

“Cancel it,” Voldemort said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?

Lucius scuttled away and Voldemort turned back to Harry. 

“You’re going to need this.” Voldemort produced Harry’s wand from his robes, and Harry accepted it eagerly. 

“Won’t I get in trouble for using magic outside of school?” Harry asked. 

“They don’t track underage magic in homes with magical adults,” Voldemort said. “It’s too tricky to figure out which person is doing the magic.”

“That is so unfair!” Harry said. 

“Just another advantage for the pure-bloods,” Voldemort said. “I’m going to test your reflexes first. You know how to shield?”

“Yes.” Harry barely got a shield up in time to block the first hex Voldemort sent at him. He knew Voldemort wasn’t going to seriously injure him, but he felt a chill of fear as the Dark Lord began to circle him slowly, like a predator cornering its prey. Harry’s feet moved automatically to keep Voldemort in front of him. 

Then Voldemort was throwing more hexes in quick succession, and Harry had no more time to feel afraid. He had to concentrate, blocking each of the hexes as they came. 

“Your reflexes are good,” Voldemort said, and Harry couldn’t help feeling a rush of pride at the praise. Then Voldemort threw another hex, and Harry had to scramble to catch it. 

“I do not mean for you to duel Dumbledore directly,” Voldemort continued. A spark flew from his wand, and Harry blocked it. “If you duel him, you will lose. So. First things first. Any time he speaks to you, any time at all, I want you to reach out to me in your mind, to get my attention. Let me see through your eyes.”

“I don’t know if I can do that on purpose,” Harry said uncertainly. He blocked a green spark from Voldemort’s wand. 

“You will spend your afternoons studying Occlumency and Legilimency. That will be for later. But for now, for your mornings, we will focus mostly on charms and transfiguration. In the case that Albus Dumbledore decides to actively attack you, your goal will be to get away as fast as you can. Not to fight. To flee. We will practice transfiguration to help you use your surroundings to slow Dumbledore down. You will use chairs, tables, statues, chandeliers, whatever you can see, to create obstacles that will attack your opponent and fight in your place. We will practice charms to conjure obstacles out of thin air: darkness, fog, wind storms, and blinding lights. 

“In the event of an attack, you will cast your magic and get away as soon as you are able. Once you are away, you must hide. You have an Invisibility Cloak, do you not?”

“Not with me,” Harry said. “But it should be in my trunk. My friends probably have it…”

“Keep it with you always. Put it on as soon as you are out of Dumbledore’s sight. We will practice stealth charms so you can move silently as well as invisibly. You will find a room with a door to hide in. I will teach you warding charms to keep the door closed. You won’t have time to do more than the most basic wards. The best wards take days, months even, to set up.

“But you only have to keep the door closed until I can get there. If you are being attacked, I will come instantly. I will apparate to the gates of Hogwarts, and I will find you. You only need to hold out until I arrive.”

Voldemort stopped and waited for Harry to respond. 

“You don’t…” Harry stopped and swallowed. “You don’t really think I’ll need all of this, do you?”

“I hope not,” Voldemort said. “But I can’t send you back to Hogwarts unprepared.”

Harry ran a hand slowly through his unkept hair. 

“If… if something does happen… you promise you’ll come?”

“I promise,” Voldemort said. 

***

Draco and Harry were sitting cross-legged in the grass underneath the shade of a flowering tree in the back garden of Malfoy Manor. The summer afternoon was hot and bright, but Harry had insisted on going outside after spending the morning indoors with the Dark Lord. 

Harry was facing Draco, and he was sitting very close, their knees almost touching. Draco had told him that Occlumency became more difficult the closer you got to the other person, and Harry had instantly accepted the challenge, moving right into Draco’s space. 

Draco had been alarmed to learn that the Dark Lord intended for him to be Harry’s tutor in the mind arts. The Dark Lord had said that Harry would be unsuccessful in attacking the defenses of or defending his own mind against anyone else at the manor (anyone else being Voldemort or Draco’s parents). Harry needed someone weaker to practice with first. 

Draco was not at all comforted by this. 

An insect buzzed past, and a nearby lion-headed dahlia opened its mouth and snapped at it. It shook its tiny golden petal mane. 

Draco took a deep breath to calm his mind. 

Theoretically, he knew what he was doing. His mother was talented at the mind arts, and she tried to teach him over the summers when he was home from Hogwarts. He wished now that he had been a more dedicated student. 

Draco cleared his throat and held up his wand. 

“Ok. Are you ready?”

“Ready when you are,” Harry said. He sounded nervous, which made Draco feel a bit more confident. 

“Legilimens,” Draco cast. 

Harry was looking directly at him. Harry’s eyes were very green. If nothing else, at least this exercise gave Draco the excuse to stare into Harry’s bright green eyes. 

But then Harry’s eyes faded from view as Draco’s consciousness pressed forward into Harry’s mind. 

At first Draco saw only darkness. But as he concentrated, an image came into focus. Grey eyes, a nose, a mouth. White blond hair. 

It was his own face. 

Draco tried to push past it to see something different. But the image only focused in on his grey eyes, then on his thin, pink lips. 

After a few more moments of fruitless probing, Draco’s concentration slipped, and his connection with Harry’s mind broke. Harry was sitting in front of him again, frowning slightly. 

Draco cleared his throat again. 

“Ah. So, I see you’ve opted for the strategy of staying aggressively in the present. Focusing on what’s in front of you, so no one can see what you’re trying to hide.”

“Right,” Harry said. “I was—that strategy.”

“Right,” Draco repeated. “Well, it worked. All I could see was my own face.”

“Er,” Harry said. 

Draco really wasn’t looking forward to what came next. But there was nothing for it. It had to be done. 

“Your turn, then,” he said, resigned.

Harry nodded. He took a breath, lifted his wand, and looked deep into Draco’s eyes. 

“Legilimens.”

***

Harry found himself in Draco’s mind, staring at his own face. Apparently Draco was copying Harry’s so called “strategy.”

Harry had been incredibly lucky that Draco had explained away his thoughts like that. He didn’t know what he would have said if Draco had demanded an explanation for why Harry was fixating on his lips. 

Harry prodded at the image of his face, trying to look for something different in Draco’s mind. 

Kiss me.

Harry didn’t actually see or hear the words. They merely floated by, brushing past his awareness with a feather-light touch. 

Harry was so surprised he lost his focus and fell out of Draco’s mind. 

Back in the garden, Draco was looking mortified. His cheeks were quickly going pink.

“Er,” Draco said. 

Harry wanted Draco to know that it was okay, that he didn’t need to feel embarrassed. It felt suddenly very urgent for Draco to know this, urgent for Harry to put an end to Draco’s embarrassment. 

Harry leaned forward and kissed him. 

***

Voldemort was in the library when he felt a burst of joy, shocking and overwhelming and stronger than anything he had ever felt from Harry. 

What had happened? Harry was supposed to be practicing the mind arts. Was he skiving off already?

Voldemort left the library and went to the window, but he couldn’t see Harry flying over the Quidditch pitch. He went down the stairs and out to the back garden with the thought that he would just make sure Harry was actually studying. It was only the first day, and if Harry wasn’t going to take his studies seriously, he couldn’t let him go back to Hogwarts. 

The back garden, in between the house and the pitch, was filled with multiple grass paths winding whimsically through the brightly colored flowers and trees. It was always springtime in the Malfoys’ garden; the blossoms never stopped blooming. 

The maze of garden paths was large, but Voldemort could sense Harry by now without even seeing him, and he followed the feel of Harry’s magic. 

When he turned around a bend and saw the two boys some distance away, sitting underneath a tree, it took him a moment to understand. Harry and Draco were sitting side by side, very close, their bodies turned towards each other. Draco had an arm around Harry’s back, and Harry’s hand was on Draco’s knee. Their faces were touching. 

Oh, Voldemort realized suddenly, and he quickly closed his mind to Harry’s and went back the way he had come to give Harry some privacy. 

He’d begun to think of Harry, like Nagini, as an extension of himself. This was a reminder that Harry was his own person. Voldemort had never been interested in romantic relationships, and he would have preferred for Harry to be the same. But that would be too much to ask, he supposed. Not everyone could be like him; he had always known he was different. 

Back in the library, Voldemort sat down at his desk and got out the papers he had been working on. 

“My lord.” Lucius had followed him into the library. “The Selwyns have been asking about rescheduling their appointment with you.”

“Not now, Lucius,” Voldemort said impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I have to plan out Harry’s studies for the next few weeks.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lucius said. 

***

That evening Voldemort and Harry sat in the study drinking hot chocolate. Voldemort was in his chair behind the huge wooden desk. Harry was on the cushioned sofa at the side of the desk. 

“I take it the reason you didn’t want Draco for a friend was because you wanted him for a boyfriend,” Voldemort said. 

“What?” Harry yelped. His hot chocolate spilled onto his plaid pajama bottoms and he yelped again. Voldemort waved a lazy hand to clean up the spill. 

“Were you watching?” Harry said indignantly. “In my mind?”

“No, thank Merlin,” Voldemort said mildly. “But I thought you were neglecting your studies and I went to check on you. I will be lenient this once, but if you are serious about returning to Hogwarts, you must complete your studies for the day before indulging in other activities.”

“Circe,” Harry muttered into his hot chocolate, his face turning very red. 

***

Harry and Draco were out in the back garden again, lying side by side in the grass, heads propped up on elbows and faces inches apart. They were playing a game that Draco had learned from Narcissa. 

“Legilimens,” Draco murmured, staring into Harry’s eyes. 

From the tree branches overhead, a bird chirped. An iridescent dragonfly flew over Draco’s head, but neither he nor Harry reacted. 

Finally, after a long period of quiet, Draco shifted and blinked. 

“Nagini,” Draco said. “You were thinking of Nagini. Is that the image you were trying to show me, or the one you were trying to hide?”

“That’s the one I meant for you to see,” Harry said triumphantly. “I win.”

Draco sighed. 

“The only reason you’re picking up on this so quickly is because I’m such a good teacher,” he said. 

“Speaking of Nagini…” Harry said. 

“I would rather not,” Draco said. Harry ignored him.

“It’s feeding day!” Harry announced. 

“Ugh.” Draco made a face and turned away from Harry. 

“Wanna come watch? We’re going to feed her after dinner.”

“Do you really have to ask? Of course I don’t want to watch. That’s barbaric. Cruelty to animals.” Draco wrinkled his nose. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a vegetarian,” Harry said sarcastically. 

“That’s not the same,” Draco said. 

“No, it’s not,” Harry agreed. “Because you could be a vegetarian if you wanted to, and you would be fine. Nagini, on the other hand, would die. She has to eat meat. It would be cruel not to feed her meat.”

“But I don’t eat animals when they’re still alive!” Draco protested. “That’s the cruel part.”

“Oh, we don’t feed Nagini live animals.” Harry waved a dismissive hand. “Voldemort got someone to bring a couple dead chickens to the manor. It’s dangerous for the snake to feed them live prey.”

“It’s dangerous for the snake,” Draco repeated scathingly. 

“It is!” Harry said. “Nagini could get hurt if a chicken scratched or pecked at her.”

“We can’t have that,” Draco said sarcastically. 

“No, we can’t,” Harry said. “Anyway, he only feeds her every three weeks, so this is your last chance to see it before we go back to Hogwarts.”

“Three weeks?” Draco’s eyes widened. “Is he starving her to make her more blood-thirsty?”

Harry laughed. 

“Older and bigger snakes eat less often,” he said. “Their metabolism works differently from ours. So are you going to come?”

“Setting aside the issue of the giant, hungry snake, I’m not hanging around the Dark Lord if I don’t have to. Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand it, being around him all the time after he killed—” Draco stopped himself and went quiet. 

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“Has he… has he ever hurt you?” Draco asked hesitantly. 

“No. I mean, not counting the time he tried to kill me as a baby.”

Draco thought it bordered on demented to not count that, but he didn’t comment on it. 

“Maybe that’s why you’re not afraid of him,” Draco said. “But… just be careful. Just because he hasn’t hurt you yet doesn’t mean he never will. He’s definitely capable of it. He… he used the Cruciatus Curse on me and my parents once.”

Harry reached out and took Draco’s hand in his as Draco swallowed. 

“He—you saw the curse in Moody’s class last year?” Draco asked. 

“Yes,” Harry said quietly. 

“It was—like my whole body was on fire. It was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. I wanted to die. I would have begged him to kill me, but I couldn’t speak, the pain was too intense. And my parents couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t, or didn’t. I don’t know.”

Harry squeezed his hand. 

“I’m not going to let him hurt you again,” Harry said. 

“Harry…”

“You don’t believe me. I know he tortured you. I saw it happen. And I told him to stop, and he did. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Draco frowned. 

“What do you mean you saw? Were you at the manor already?”

“No…” Harry trailed off. His eyes strayed to the branches above their heads. 

“I shouldn’t have said… I know you don’t have a choice about being here,” Draco said when Harry didn’t say anything else. “You're just doing what you have to to survive. I know that. If he wants you there when he feeds the snake, you have to be there. It’s not like you have a choice.”

“No, that’s not it,” Harry said. “It’s just… I haven’t forgiven him, okay? I haven’t forgiven him for any of the murders he’s committed. But the problem is, I understand him.”

“…Sorry?” Draco said faintly. 

“Sometimes he looks at me, and I can see glimpses of what he’s thinking. He remembers being an orphan, like me. A kid who no one wanted, who no one cared about. Only I went to Hogwarts, and I found people who cared about me. He went to Hogwarts, and he was still alone. He was scared all the time.”

“The Dark Lord was scared? Harry… do you mean to say you used Legilimency on the Dark Lord?” Draco was alarmed. 

“Not… not exactly,” Harry said. “It’s just that… I can understand him. Where he’s coming from. Not that it excuses what he’s done. But that’s not all.”

The wind rustled the leaves above them, and Harry watched them shiver. Draco, meanwhile, watched Harry’s face and waited. 

“I can stop him from hurting people,” Harry said. “I know I can. It’s something I can do, and I’m going to do it. I’ll keep everyone safe from him. I’ll be… like his conscience, or something.”

“You think you can be the Dark Lord’s conscience?” Draco said dubiously. 

“Yeah. So don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you.” Harry brought Draco’s hand up to his mouth and kissed Draco’s fingertips. Draco blushed. 

Then he sat up abruptly, pulling Harry with him. 

“I don’t trust you to keep me safe if the Dark Lord finds you messing around again when you’re supposed to be studying,” he said briskly. “It’s your turn.”

“Right,” Harry said, settling cross-legged in front of him. “Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

Severus Snape was sitting in the Dark Lord’s study, occluding for all he was worth. The Dark Lord was sitting behind his large desk, treating his high-backed desk chair like a throne. 

It was the first time Severus had been summoned by the Dark Lord since his return. He’d heard rumours—Death Eaters talked to fellow Death Eaters. And he’d seen the Dark Mark on his own arm grow darker and darker. But this was his first time facing the Dark Lord in fourteen years. 

The Mark had become fully defined the day Harry Potter disappeared. Severus did not think that was a coincidence. Was Harry Potter here in Malfoy Manor, languishing in the dungeons? Or had he been the human sacrifice the Dark Lord used to gain his new body? Severus was not looking forward to discovering the grisly details, though of course Dumbledore would be anxious to learn the truth, no matter how difficult it was to accept. 

Severus was actually relieved to see that the Dark Lord had created his own body, rather than just stealing Harry Potter’s. It would have been disturbing and humiliating to have to scrape and bow to a Dark Lord wearing Potter’s face. But that wasn’t what had happened. Potter was probably just dead. Severus hoped he was dead, after so many weeks. The alternative was that the Dark Lord had kept him alive all this time to use him for some ghastly form of entertainment. 

If Severus could confirm that Potter was dead, then at least the Order of the Phoenix could stop their fruitless searching for the boy. 

“Tell me what Dumbledore knows,” Lord Voldemort said. 

Severus tried for all he was worth to convince himself he was relaxed and carefree. He had nothing to hide. Nothing at all. 

“Dumbledore suspects that you are gaining power, my lord. After Potter told him that Pettigrew survived, he started asking me to show him my Mark. He knows it is fully black again, so he guesses you’ve gained a new body. But he knows nothing specific. He’s only guessing.”

“And will you tell him you’ve seen me?” Lord Voldemort said, calm and unruffled. Severus suppressed a shudder. 

“He will expect me to be summoned, my lord. When, at some point, he discovers that you have indeed returned, he will be suspicious if I have not informed him about being summoned to your side.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Lord Voldemort said carelessly. “Very well. You may tell him I am back. You will not tell him where you met with me, or where I reside.”

“Of course, my lord,” Severus said. 

“What does Dumbledore—”

Lord Voldemort was cut off as the door to the study burst open. 

“Oh… sorry…” A teenage boy was standing in the doorway. He was thin, with round glasses and untidy black hair. His wizarding robe was short, and it was paired with trousers meant for sports. He was apparently unhurt, unbound, and, most importantly, very much alive. 

It was Harry Potter. 

“Harry, I assume you are acquainted with Professor Snape,” Lord Voldemort said mildly. 

“Er, yeah.” Potter had the gall to look annoyed to see Severus there. “I think I left my…” Potter sidestepped behind the Dark Lord, placing a casual hand on his chair as he squeezed past. He went to the couch on the far side of the desk, then leaned over and picked up something from off the floor. 

“Yeah, here it is,” Potter said, lifting up a small golden cage containing a fluttering, winged Snitch. “Er. It’s after five, so Draco and I are going out to the pitch before dinner.”

He squeezed behind the Dark Lord again on his way back to the door. 

“Very well,” Lord Voldemort said. “I’m dining alone in my quarters tonight. You may join me, if you wish.”

Potter answered with a thoughtless, crooked grin. 

“Alright, then.”

And then he was gone as quickly as he had come, and Severus was left staring at the closed door. 

What had just happened? The Dark Lord must have enchanted the boy. That was the only explanation. Potter must be under the Imperius Curse. 

But then… why had the Dark Lord allowed Severus to see him? It hadn’t been an accident, surely. The Dark Lord was not so sloppy. And he knew that Severus reported to Dumbledore. Officially, Severus only reported what the Dark Lord instructed him to report, but still. No one really trusted a double agent. 

Severus had expected to have to work surreptitiously to uncover what had happened to Potter. He could only think of one reason why the Dark Lord would knowingly allow him, and by extension, Dumbledore, to know that he had Potter. 

Lord Voldemort was gloating. 

***

“Well? Do I pass?”

It was two days before the first day of school. They’d started out in Voldemort’s study, because he said Dumbledore would be most likely to confront Harry in his office. Voldemort had tested Harry’s Occlumency first, and had then attempted to stun him. Harry ducked and turned Voldemort’s robes into bees. Then he raised a cover of darkness and ran out into the sitting room, where he turned the couch cushions into a flock of aggressive, dive-bombing crows. He turned the rugs behind him into tar, and then ran out into the hall, shutting the door behind him and barricading it with locking spells as well as with a boulder which he transfigured out of a nearby decorative vase. Then he ran for all he was worth, finally stopping to throw himself into a random guest room, where he locked and warded the door. Next he lay down on his stomach and scooted himself under the bed. He cast a charm to muffle his breathing (and any other noise he might inadvertently make), and then he put his head down on his arms and waited until Voldemort found him, drawing him out from under the bed with a swish of his wand. 

“You’ve made… adequate progress, I suppose,” Voldemort conceded in answer to Harry’s question. Harry whooped and jumped into the air, raising one fist above his head. 

“Can I go tell Draco?” he asked, already making for the door. 

“You may tell Draco,” Voldemort said. 

“Draco!” Harry shouted as he ran into the hall. “I’m going back to Hogwarts!”

***

Narcissa emptied a spare trunk from a guest room for Harry. She owl-ordered his school supplies. Harry still hadn’t received a letter from Hogwarts, but Narcissa wrote to Flourish and Blotts to find out what books Harry needed based on his classes. Narcissa herself took Harry’s measurements and sent them to Madame Malkin for a new set of uniforms. 

Harry was happy for a while, with all the preparations for returning to Hogwarts. But by the evening before September 1st, the first day of school, Harry’s excitement had faded to be replaced with a dull, melancholy anxiety. 

“Harry,” Voldemort finally said. They were in the private dining room in their wing and they’d been eating dinner in silence for the last fifteen minutes. “Cedric is already dead. Nothing you do now is going to change that. So why don’t you look after yourself? Stick to the story we planned when you go back to Hogwarts tomorrow. Keep yourself safe.”

Voldemort paused. Harry didn’t say anything, but when Voldemort began speaking again, he responded as if Harry had. 

“There’s no point in being a martyr for someone who is already dead. If you stick to our story, then you stay safe from the Dursleys. Safe from Dumbledore.”

“It’s an insult to Cedric’s memory to lie about how he died,” Harry said quietly, finally speaking up. 

“And you’re feeling bad about it, I know,” Voldemort sighed. “You have to look out for yourself, Harry. No one else will. You know that.”

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“How long has it been?” Voldemort asked. “Thirteen years? And I’m the only one to get you away from the Dursleys.”

“Ron did, before second year,” Harry said. 

“He tried,” Voldemort said. “But after second year you were right back at the Dursleys. Even though Ron told his parents that there were bars on your window and the Dursleys were starving you. What happened after that? Did his parents not believe you?”

Harry looked unhappy. Voldemort hated to do this to him, but he needed him to understand what was at stake. 

“It wasn’t the Weasleys’ fault,” Harry said. “They wanted to help. Dumbledore—”

“Yes?” Voldemort prompted when Harry stopped talking. 

“Dumbledore says I have to go back to the Dursleys every summer,” Harry said. 

“Does he know they’re abusive?” Voldemort said. 

“I told him they’re horrible, and that they hate me,” Harry said. He shook his head. “He probably didn’t understand. No one ever does. They just think we don’t get on, and I’m just acting out. Everyone always thinks it’s my fault.”

Harry went quiet again. 

“I’m sorry about Cedric,” Voldemort said. 

Harry looked up at him and met his eyes with a searching gaze. 

“You are, aren’t you,” he said, sounding surprised. 

“I would take it back if I could,” Voldemort said. He wasn’t lying. It would have been so much easier to keep Harry on his side if it hadn’t been for Cedric’s death. 

“If you really mean that, then you won’t do it again,” Harry said. 

“If I had a chance to do it over, I would spare him,” Voldemort said. 

“No, I mean in the future,” Harry said. “If you’re really sorry, you won’t kill again.”

It was Voldemort’s turn to fall silent for a moment. 

“In general, I do not kill without cause,” he finally said. “I admit I was hasty with Cedric. But usually I have a definite reason for what I do.”

Voldemort could feel Harry’s misery rising. 

“If it helps, I haven’t killed anyone since Cedric,” Voldemort said. 

“You haven’t?” Harry’s misery evaporated to be replaced with surprise. Surprise and… hope?

“I can’t make any promises,” Voldemort said. “But I currently have no plans to kill anyone.”

Harry took a bite of his potato and chewed thoughtfully. 

***

Draco opened the window of his train compartment and leaned out. Below him, the noisy crowd bustled about on the platform: students looking for friends, parents pushing carts with trunks and owls. 

“Draco, who are you looking for?” Pansy complained from inside the compartment. 

“No one,” Draco said. “I’m just looking.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Pansy pouted. “Where have you been?”

Draco, busy scanning the faces in the crowd, didn’t answer. 

Yesterday Draco had kissed Harry. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. Or like a dream, something he’d imagined. He’d kissed Harry in the back garden, cloistered in the privacy of the purple butterfly bushes. Harry had kissed him back like nothing was wrong. 

Harry was thrilled to be going back to Hogwarts. If Draco were a good boyfriend, he would be happy for Harry. Instead, he selfishly wished he could keep Harry at the manor forever. 

“See you at school,” Harry had said only half an hour earlier in the entrance hall at the manor. Like they were friends or something. But Draco had no idea how things would be between them when they got back to school. The manor was a safe haven for both of them. They were going back to the real world now. 

Draco leaned further out the window. 

He and Harry had had to arrive separately at Platform 9 ¾ to avoid suspicion. Lucius didn’t want anyone realizing that Harry had been with the Malfoys for most of the summer. 

Someone’s cat leaped up at a caged owl, and the owl flapped and squawked. Someone shouted. 

They need to put that cat in a carrier, Draco thought. 

And then he saw him. Harry Potter, making his way through the crowd, head held high and eyes staring straight ahead. The people he passed were pausing, turning to gawk openly at him. 

“Is that—”

“No…!”

“Harry Potter?”

“It is! It’s him!”

The murmurs were growing louder and louder. More and more people were turning towards him, craning their necks to get a better look. 

Harry had been famous before he disappeared two months ago. Now… he needed to get in the train before he got mobbed. Draco started to lift his hand to get Harry’s attention. 

“HARRY!!!” someone bellowed. It was Weasley, shoving his way towards Harry. Granger was following close behind. Weasley reached Harry and didn’t stop. He barreled right into him, throwing both arms around him in a hug. Granger came up a second later and put her arms around both of them. They stood there for a second, holding each other, and then Weasley and Granger were hurrying Harry into the train, standing on either side of him to fend off the eager and curious onlookers. 

Draco caught a glimpse of Harry, a huge grin on his face, and then Harry disappeared into the train. 

Draco retreated slowly back into his own train compartment. He closed the window and sat down on the seat next to Pansy. 

“Did something happen out there?” Pansy asked. 

“Potter’s back,” Draco said. 

So this was how it was going to be. It wasn’t a surprise. He’d known things couldn’t stay the way they had been at the manor. Of course not. Harry had his friends, and Draco had his, and… Of course Harry wasn’t going to sit in Draco’s compartment. How silly to think he might. 

***

“Harry, we were so scared,” Hermione said for perhaps the fifth time. “We thought you were dead.”

Harry was sitting in a train compartment on the Hogwarts Express with Ron and Hermione sitting close on either side of him. Hermione was holding onto his arm with both hands as if he might vanish again at any second. 

Harry hadn’t realized just how upset his friends would be at his disappearance. He knew they would wonder where he had gone. But four years of friendship hadn’t been enough to counter what the Dursleys had taught him for an entire decade. Deep down, Harry had assumed that no one really cared what happened to him. 

Now, confronted with his friends’ suffering on his behalf, Harry began to feel bad about not accepting Draco’s offer to send someone an owl. 

But he couldn’t have done that, Harry reminded himself. Did he think he could have just sent a letter saying, “Hey Ron, I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” and that that would be that? No. A letter would have only made his friends more determined to find him, and Harry couldn’t risk the letter being traced back to Malfoy Manor. He couldn’t let anyone know where he’d really been. They wouldn’t understand. 

“Really, though, Harry. Where have you been?” Ron’s freckled face looked down at him, his brown eyes warm and still worried. 

“I—” Harry cleared his throat. “I saw Cedric die, and I couldn’t go back to the Dursleys. I just couldn’t. So… I left. I’m sorry. I should have gone back for Cedric’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to see everyone, with him dead.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione squeezed his arm. “What happened to Cedric?”

“It was…” Harry faltered for a moment. “Pettigrew.”

“Pettigrew?” Ron repeated, surprised. 

“The Cup in the maze, I don’t know how he did it, but it was a Portkey. It took us somewhere… I don’t know where, really… and Pettigrew was waiting there, and he killed Cedric, and I ran. Threw some hexes behind me, I don’t know. But I lost him somehow.”

“Why was Pettigrew after Cedric?” Ron said, frowning. 

“Obviously Cedric wasn’t his real target,” Hermione said. “He was trying to kill Harry. Oh, but, Harry, you weren’t safe being on your own if Pettigrew was after you. Where did you go? Where have you been all summer?”

“Muggle hotels,” Harry shrugged. “Hiding out. Watching the telly.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay away from Hogwarts after that, mate,” Ron said. “But you should have come to the Burrow. You know you’re always welcome at my house, right?”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said. “But I couldn’t. If I’d gone anywhere magical, Dumbledore would’ve found me, and he would have made me go back to the Dursleys. And… I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t deal with them this summer.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Hermione said, patting his knee. “It’s not fair that Dumbledore keeps making you go back to them.”

“It’s so stupid,” Ron agreed vehemently. “I don’t know why he won’t let you come straight to us. Mum would love for you to stay with us the whole summer.”

“Thanks, Ron. ‘Mione,” Harry said with a weak grin. His friends were being too good to him, accepting his explanation so easily. He felt bad for lying to them, but on the other hand, most of what he had said was true. He was just… leaving out a few details. 

Ron and Hermione were supposed to go to a prefects meeting on the train, but they skipped it and spent the train ride hovering over Harry instead. Harry was grateful to them for guarding his privacy. They firmly kicked out anyone who tried to poke their head in their compartment to talk to or stare at Harry. 

Hermione asked about Harry’s trunk, and Harry claimed he had purchased the trunk and his school supplies through owl order. He was relieved to hear that Ron had his old trunk in his room at the Burrow, and Ron assured him that his mother could send Harry’s things to him. 

They changed into their school robes, and shortly after, the train came to a stop. They waited for the rush in the hallway to die down so Harry could avoid the crowd as much as possible, and then they finally left their compartment. Harry walked down the aisle to the stairs, then out the open train door and onto the platform… and straight into the wands of the waiting Aurors. 

***

“Have you got an arrest warrant?” Hermione demanded, planting herself aggressively between Harry and the Aurors. Ron was standing at Harry’s side, but with his shoulder in front of Harry’s, as if he were prepared to shove Harry behind him at a moment’s notice. 

“Look, missy, we just want to talk to your friend here,” said one of the Aurors, a large man with thinning hair. 

“If you haven’t got a warrant, he doesn’t have to talk to you,” Hermione said. 

“Hermione, it’s fine,” Harry said. “I’ll talk to them.”

“You don’t have to.” Hermione turned to him, her expression concerned. “We can get Professor McGonagall—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “I knew they’d want to talk to me.”

The last thing Harry saw before the Aurors apparated him away was his friends’ faces, worried and unhappy. 

Chapter Text

The Aurors apparated Harry directly into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They took him from a wide hallway into a cramped one, and from there, to a small room with a large, bare desk in the middle, two padded, swiveling office chairs for the Aurors, and one rickety metal folding chair for Harry. 

An interrogation room, Harry realized. But just as he was about to step inside, he heard someone call out his name, and he paused and turned to look. 

“Mr. Potter! One moment, Dawlish!” A middle-aged woman was striding confidently towards them, sure-footed despite her thin, black heels. She was wearing a pinstriped, knee-length pencil skirt and a matching pinstriped outer robe over a green blouse. Her outfit was perfectly tailored to her slender frame, and the tight precision of her appearance made her look more menacing than alluring. Dawlish, the larger Auror, frowned when he saw her. 

“I am here to represent Mr. Potter,” the woman announced imperiously. “Mr. Potter, I am Arminta Selwyn, your barrister. So pleased to finally meet you in person.” She held out a thin hand, and Harry shook it. 

“Hello,” Harry said, feeling a bit nervous. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Selwyn.”

“You may call me Arminta,” the woman proclaimed. 

“Now, look here, Mr. Potter, there’s no need for this,” Dawlish said, looking dismayed. “You don’t need a barrister to answer a few simple questions. Makes you look like you’ve got something to hide.”

“My client is your only eyewitness in an open murder investigation,” Arminta said sharply. “He’s a minor, and he doesn’t even have a legal guardian present. Of course he needs a barrister. I’m only here to protect his rights.”

“Look, Potter, can I have a private word with you?” Dawlish said, squinting uncomfortably at Harry. “Just for a moment.”

“No, Dawlish,” Arminta sighed. “That’s the whole reason I’m here: to see that you don’t get a private word with him.”

“Fine,” Dawlish said. “I was trying to be polite and not say this in front of you, but someone’s got to tell him. Like you said, he’s just a kid, and his guardians are Muggles. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Tell me what?” Harry asked, feeling more nervous by the second. 

“Arminta Selwyn has a reputation for getting Death Eaters off easy,” Dawlish said bluntly. “She’s the reason Lucius Malfoy walked free and everyone knows it. If you use her as your barrister, it makes you look guilty.”

“Oh,” Harry said, thinking this over. “So… you’re saying she usually defends people who are guilty?”

“Too right she does,” Dawlish agreed. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “In that case, is there a barrister who only defends the innocent people?”

“Well… no,” Dawlish admitted reluctantly. “All the defense barristers represent people who are found guilty. More are found guilty than not. There’s a reason most people find themselves in criminal court.”

“Never take legal advice from an Auror,” Arminta said, leaning in towards Harry as if she were speaking to him in confidence. “They’re not on your side.”

“We’re not accusing Mr. Potter of anything!” Dawlish protested. “We only want to talk.”

“Fine, but I’ll keep Ms. Arminta with me, thanks,” Harry said. 

Dawlish sighed, but he nodded to his partner, who reopened the door to the bleak little room, and the four of them filed in. 

“Mr. Potter would like to give his statement under Veritaserum,” Arminta announced when the door was closed. 

“That’s really not necessary,” Dawlish said. 

“And I would like all your questions written out beforehand so I can approve them,” Arminta continued, ignoring him.  

“Of course you would,” Dawlish sighed. 

Arminta’s process was time-consuming, but she seemed more than capable. It was a novel experience for Harry, having someone to advocate for him like this. 

First Dawlish wrote out a long list of questions, which he handed to Arminta. Arminta took out a white quill and promptly crossed out the majority of the questions, much to the Aurors’ dismay. 

“He won’t even tell us where he went after the murder?” Dawlish said in disbelief. “Can’t you see how guilty that makes him look?”

“My client is famous, Dawlish,” Arminta said, her expression serene as she crossed out another question. “His location over the summer is private information, as a matter of security.”

When Arminta finished her culling of the Aurors’ questions, she passed the remaining ones to Harry. He wrote out his responses and then handed them to Arminta, who reviewed them before passing them on to the Aurors so they could add follow-up questions. 

“Cedric Diggory was killed by… Peter Pettigrew?” Dawlish’s partner asked, reading over Dawlish’s shoulder. “Who is that?”

“You don’t mean the Peter Pettigrew who was killed by Sirius Black, do you?” Dawlish’s heavy eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sirius Black didn’t kill him; he was framed. By Pettigrew. Pettigrew is still alive and Black is innocent,” Harry said wearily. Then a thought crossed his mind and he sat up straight. “Wait, what if I tell you under Veritaserum that Black is innocent? Could you clear him of the charges against him?”

Dawlish shook his head. He was also giving Harry a cautious look, as though he thought Harry might be a few cards short of a full deck. 

“That would only prove that you believed he was innocent. Veritaserum can’t draw out absolute truth; it only makes you say what you believe to be the truth,” Dawlish said. 

“What if… what if Sirius Black said, under Veritaserum, that he was innocent? Would that be enough?” Harry pressed. 

“It would help, but he’d have to have his case reopened and get another trial,” Dawlish said. He looked very confused about why they were discussing this. 

“But he never got a trial to begin with!” Harry protested. 

“Look, son,” Dawlish said. “You’d have to get Black to show his face, to begin with, and we all know that’s never going to happen.”

“Arminta,” Harry said, turning towards her. 

“Harry, as your barrister, I advise you to stop talking about this right now,” she said. “You and I can discuss it later, in private.”

“Okay,” Harry said, his mind tumbling with the possibilities. He had money. Sirius had money. Why had they never thought to get Sirius a barrister? Maybe Sirius thought any barrister he contacted would immediately turn him in to the ministry. But Harry had the feeling that if anyone could help, it would be Arminta. 

The Aurors had returned to inspecting Harry’s written responses. They wrote out a long list of follow-up questions, and Arminta crossed out most of them, and then Harry wrote out his answers to the remaining ones. 

It was only after the entire interview, as edited by Arminta, was written out that Harry finally took the Veritaserum. Then the Aurors read their questions aloud and Harry read his responses, all of which were sufficient to satisfy the demands of the truth potion. All the while Arminta sat with her wand in hand, ready to silence Harry at a moment’s notice, should the Aurors deviate from the approved list of questions. 

The Aurors’ scribing quill recorded the following:

Why did you and Diggory both touch the Triwizard Cup at the same time?

We got to the end of the maze at the same time and we agreed to a tie. 

Where did the Cup take you?

To a graveyard. I don’t know where it was. 

What did the area look like around the graveyard?

It was out in the country. I think there was a village nearby, but it was too far for me to see any details. 

What happened after you landed in the graveyard?

Peter Pettigrew walked up to us and killed Cedric. 

Why do you think this man was Peter Pettigrew?

I’ve seen him before. He framed Sirius Black for all the murders Sirius was accused of. He faked his death. He’s an unregistered animagus and a Death Eater. He went into hiding as a rat after Voldemort’s fall.

How did the man, whoever he was, kill Diggory?

I told you, it was Peter Pettigrew, and he used the killing curse. 

Did you know the Cup would take you and Diggory away from Hogwarts before you touched it?

No. 

Did you know or suspect that Diggory would be harmed if he touched the Cup?

No. 

Did you intend for Diggory to be harmed after he touched the Cup?

No. 

Did you take any action or inaction to contribute to the cause of Diggory’s death?

Yes. I told him to take the Cup with me.

Did you do anything else to contribute to the cause of Diggory’s death?

No. 

Did you kill Cedric Diggory?

No. 

Who killed Cedric Diggory?

Peter Pettigrew. 

***

The second Harry finished giving his last answer, Arminta uncorked a vial with the antidote to the truth serum and handed it to Harry. Harry took it and swallowed the potion down with a gulp. It fizzed a bit, but was mostly tasteless. 

“We still don’t know why Potter disappeared after the murder and didn’t show up again for two months,” Dawlish grumbled as he looked over the transcription. “Makes him look guilty as hell.”

“But he didn’t kill Diggory,” Arminta said briskly, packing up her papers and quill in her briefcase. “He said so under Veritaserum.”

“I suppose he’s a bit young to know how to lie under Veritaserum,” Dawlish said doubtfully. 

After that, Arminta set an appointment to meet with Harry on the next Friday after his classes ended, and Dawlish and his partner apparated Harry back to Hogwarts. Harry’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, though, because Dumbledore was there waiting for him at the gates. 

***

“I’ll admit you had us worried, Harry.” Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk in his office, peering at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. “We’re all relieved you’ve made it back to Hogwarts safe and sound.”

Harry was not opposed to lying per se. Voldemort was right: he’d had no one to look after him but himself throughout childhood, and he did what he could to protect himself. He never felt bad for lying to the Dursleys (not that lying helped much with them). Back when he was in primary school, if he needed to lie to a teacher or a classmate to keep himself safe, then he did it, and he didn’t waste time worrying about it. 

So the reason he was feeling so terrible now was not strictly because he had lied. It was because of Cedric. Good, kind, and handsome Cedric, who had died for no reason at all. And Harry was helping to cover up his murder. 

He had already lied to his best friends. That should have been the most difficult lie to tell: the first one, and to the people closest to him. But Harry had said what Voldemort had told him to say; he stuck to the script. 

Lying to the Aurors had not been so hard. Arminta had been there to take control. Harry only had to follow along. 

Now Dumbledore was here, waiting patiently for Harry to speak. 

Voldemort wanted Harry to blame Dumbledore for the Dursleys. He said it was Dumbledore’s fault that Harry had to return there every summer even after the Weasleys had offered to let him stay with them. 

It wasn’t that Harry felt like he owed Dumbledore anything. He’d always admired Dumbledore from afar, though he barely knew him outside of a handful of conversations he’d had with him. It wasn’t anything personal to Dumbledore, outside of the fact that he was an authority figure. It was just that the weight of what Harry had left unsaid was sitting heavily on him, and he realized he couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t go through with the plan, not for Voldemort’s sake. Not even for his own sake. 

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, his light blue eyes serious. “I need you to tell me what happened after you touched the Cup in the maze.”

***

The welcome feast seemed to drag on forever. Draco was a prefect now, so when the feast was over, Draco had to help the new first years get to the dungeon. Once all the first years were finally tucked away in their dormitories, Draco was free to look for Harry. Only, he didn’t even know if Harry was in the castle. 

From the window of his carriage, Draco had seen the Aurors on the train platform as they pulled Harry away from his distraught friends and disapparated with him. There was nothing Draco could do about that. But… if Harry came back tonight, he wouldn’t be able to get to Draco if Draco stayed in the Slytherin common room. 

So Draco went to the library instead. 

The library was nearly empty. Draco saw a seventh year Ravenclaw shuffling about, already picking out some books for NEWTs study. Madame Pince was at her desk, and she gave Draco a suspicious look. 

Draco wandered around for a while and picked out a few books that he thought looked interesting. Then he sat down on a sofa with a clear view of the doors. 

He hoped Harry would think to look in the library. 

Draco had become engrossed in one of the books (Men Who Love Dragons Too Much), when he became aware that someone was watching him. He looked up to see Harry standing a little ways away, his hands in his pockets, his expression uncertain. 

Draco, affecting nonchalance, hooked an arm around the empty spot on the couch next to where he sat. He raised his eyebrows and made a small beckoning motion with his fingers. He thought, if Harry rebuffed him, he could play it off as a joke. At least no one was watching (except maybe Madam Pince). 

But at the gesture, Harry visibly relaxed, his hunched shoulders dropping. A few steps and he was right in front of Draco. Then he turned around and sat down in the curve of Draco’s arm. Draco tightened his arm around him. 

“You ok?” he murmured. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s fine.”

“Did our barrister find you?”

“Yeah, she found me right after the Aurors brought me to the ministry. They weren’t too happy about that,” Harry snorted. “Tried to tell me an innocent person didn’t need a barrister to talk to the Aurors.”

“Bet Selwyn didn’t like that.”

“No, she didn’t. But everything went as planned. They’re not going to blame me for what happened to Cedric. I consented to Veritaserum. Arminta made the Aurors write out all the questions they wanted to ask me, and then she crossed out all the ones she didn’t agree to. Made it sound like she had good reasons for it too. Like they wanted to know where I’d been all summer, but Arminta said that’s a security issue for me, that because I’m famous and all, she doesn’t want me telling them where I live.”

“That’s good,” Draco said. 

Harry nodded, but his eyes darted around the empty library, distracted and fidgety. 

“Draco…”

“Yeah?”

“I, uh.” Harry took a deep breath. “I told Dumbledore.”

“What did you tell him?” Draco said, a feeling of unease creeping over him. 

“I told him… Voldemort’s back. And that I was with him all summer.”

Draco didn’t trust himself to speak right away, so he only gave Harry a squeeze with the arm around his shoulder. Draco could feel his heart rate speeding up, and he tried to smother the rising feeling of panic. Voldemort would be furious… But it was stupid of him to think Harry would keep his secrets. Harry had every right to hate Voldemort. Of course Harry couldn’t lie for him. 

“What did Dumbledore say?” Draco finally asked. 

“You know, I—I think he already knew. He didn’t seem surprised. Snape saw me at the manor once. I think he must have told Dumbledore who I was with, but not where. Dumbledore said they’d tried all summer to find me… But what he was really interested in was the details of Voldemort coming back. The ritual he used and stuff.”

Draco didn’t know what ritual he had used. Harry had never talked about it, and Draco preferred to know as little as possible about the Dark Lord. 

“He hardly asked anything about Cedric. Just wanted to know about Voldemort,” Harry said, frowning a little. “I told him Voldemort made me go with him, but then Dumbledore wanted to know how I got away, so I had to tell him that Voldemort let me leave. And that he treated me okay while I was with him.”

“What did he say about that?” Draco asked, watching Harry’s dark eyelashes as he blinked. 

“To be honest, I don’t think he was very happy about it,” Harry said. “I think he would have been happier to hear that Voldemort tortured me all summer.”

“Is he… do you think Dumbledore is going to do anything to you?” Draco asked hesitantly. He knew Harry admired Dumbledore, and he didn’t want to offend him. 

“He spent a long time checking me for curses and trying to take the Imperius off me,” Harry said, “but I don’t think he’s going to do anything else. Not right now, at least.”

Draco thought for a moment, rubbing his thumb back and forth along Harry’s shoulder. 

“Did you get dinner?” he asked. 

“No. And I’m starving,” Harry said, sounding surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed earlier. 

“Come on, then. Let’s get you to the kitchens.” Draco stood up and held out his hands, helping Harry to his feet. They left the library hand in hand, even though Madam Pince was watching. 

***

The next morning, Draco was eating breakfast at the Slytherin table with his friends when Pansy, sitting across the table from him, stopped talking mid-sentence, her attention caught on a point above Draco’s head. Draco turned when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Er, excuse me,” Harry mumbled to Greg as he squeezed into the gap on the bench between Greg and Draco. Greg’s wide face was impassive as he stared at Harry. Draco scooted closer to Blaise to give Harry more room. 

Once he was settled on the bench, Harry yawned and slumped against Draco, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder, seemingly oblivious to all the Slytherin fifth years who had gone silent and were staring at him. Harry took a piece of bacon from Draco’s plate and took a bite, adjusting his head so he could chew, but still leaning against Draco. 

Draco used his wand to accio a spare plate and fork, which he placed in front of Harry. Then he went back to eating his beans on toast, trying very hard to act casual and unaffected, as if he ate breakfast with Harry attached to his side every morning. 

Harry had sat with him in the library the night before, but the library had been practically empty. Draco had thought that Harry would avoid him when their friends were around. Especially when it came to the crowded Great Hall, Draco had thought that Harry would stay away. 

Draco had a weakness for showing off. He’d wanted to have Harry Potter at his side ever since he’d learned that they would be in the same year at Hogwarts. But he hadn’t thought that Harry would let Draco show him off. He’d been prepared to keep his head down, keep their relationship a secret if that was what it took to keep Harry. 

But that wasn’t who Harry was. Harry didn’t do things underhanded. He wore his heart on his sleeve. 

And now here he was, allowing Draco to show off just by sitting there. 

“What do you have this morning?” Potter asked, sitting up so he could serve himself some fried eggs. 

“Defense,” Draco answered. 

“Yeah? Who’s teaching? I missed the announcements at the feast last night.”

“It’s still Moody,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose at the thought, because Moody was the only teacher he’d ever had who openly disliked him. 

“He’s still here?” Harry brightened, and Draco couldn’t help feeling a flash of annoyance. Of course Harry liked Moody. Moody favoured him!

“Did he break the curse on the D.A.D.A position?” Harry asked. 

“Maybe,” Draco said. “Or maybe there never was a curse.”

“What, you think it’s a coincidence that, for decades, no one’s been able to keep the job for more than a year?” Harry asked. He put a piece of toast on his plate and then reached for the marmalade that was sitting in front of Pansy.

“If it’s a curse, it would be a tricky one,” Draco said. “A general bad luck curse would be one thing, but the defense professors all have something unlucky happen to them at the end of the school year, always at around the same time. And it’s always something different that happens for each one. I don’t know what kind of curse that would even be.”

“But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? If people knew what the curse was, they could get rid of it,” Harry said. 

“Draco, what is Potter doing here?” Pansy interrupted, finally voicing the question all of the Slytherin fifth years wanted to ask. 

“Having breakfast?” Draco said. 

Pansy rolled her eyes, exasperated. 

“So what, are you friends now?” she demanded. 

“I guess so,” Draco said. 

“Since when?!”

“I’m not sure,” Draco said. Pansy glared at him. 

“Mr. Potter!”

The Slytherins all started as Professor McGonagall’s severe voice sounded directly behind Draco. Draco looked up to see the Head of Gryffindor House looking down at Harry, her lips pinched. 

“You’re supposed to sit at your own House table the first morning back so I don’t have to hunt you down to give you your schedule,” Professor McGonagall said. She handed Harry a piece of parchment while casting a suspicious look over Draco and his friends. 

“Sorry, miss,” Harry said. 

“Well,” Professor McGonagall said, squinting at Harry wedged in between Draco and Greg. “It’s good to see you getting along for once. We’re glad to have you back with us, Mr. Potter.” She nodded decisively, then turned and went back to the staff table. 

Harry finished eating breakfast at the Slytherin table. After some hesitation, the other Slytherins restarted their conversations, though they kept darting glances at Harry and Draco. Over at the Gryffindor table, Draco could see Weasley and Granger whispering furiously to each other, watching Harry all the while. 

Then it was time for class, and Harry went to join his friends while Draco and the other Slytherin fifth years left for Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

“You look like the kneazle that got the cream,” Pansy said, narrowing her eyes at him as they started down the hallway. Draco allowed himself a smug smirk now that Harry wasn’t there to see him gloating. 

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” Pansy demanded. 

“Maybe later,” Draco said. 

“Draco!” Pansy wailed. 

***

“What was that?” Ron demanded when Harry joined him and Hermione as they were standing up to leave the Gryffindor table. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Harry said. 

“You think?” Ron said, his ginger eyebrows rising in disbelief. 

“You can tell us on the way to class,” Hermione said. “We’ve got Transfiguration this morning.”

Harry and Ron followed Hermione, who wasn’t willing to be late for class even for something as shocking as Harry sitting with Malfoy at breakfast. 

“So? Have you lost your marbles or what?” Ron said grumpily when they got out of the bustling Hall and into the somewhat quieter corridor. 

“Voldemort’s back,” Harry said, deciding it would be best to spit it out all at once. 

“What?” Both Ron and Hermione stopped in their tracks, staring at him, but Harry kept walking, so they both jogged to catch up. 

“The portkey in the maze took me to him. Pettigrew killed Cedric because Voldemort told him to,” Harry said. 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes wide and horrified. 

“Afterwards, Voldemort made me come with him, so that’s where I was all summer. With him.”

“I knew something had to be wrong when you didn’t write to us all summer! Oh, Harry!” Hermione put a distressed hand to her head. Harry, meanwhile, felt a twinge of guilt because Draco had offered to help Harry write to his friends and Harry had chosen not to. But he couldn’t write to them, he reminded himself, because they would have come looking for him and they could have gotten hurt. 

“How did you get away?” Ron asked, his forehead creased with worry. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well. He let me go, since it was time for school to start.”

Ron and Hermione stared. 

“He cares about education!” Harry said, waving a hand vaguely. 

“What?” Ron said blankly. 

“It wasn’t that bad, staying with him over the summer. It was loads better than staying with the Dursleys, anyway,” Harry said. 

“Harry…?” Hermione said, and then she seemed incapable of saying anything else. 

“So… he didn’t hurt you?” Ron said, still frowning. 

“No. It was fine,” Harry said. 

“It was fine,” Ron repeated. He seemed to think about this for a while before speaking again. “And what about Malfoy?”

Of course, Harry thought. Voldemort was bad, but Malfoy was the immediate threat in Ron’s eyes. 

“I was in a bad place earlier this summer. Mentally, I mean. And Malfoy helped me,” Harry shrugged. “That’s all.”

“You talked to Malfoy and not us!” Ron exclaimed. 

“You wouldn’t have written to him,” Hermione said slowly. “So wherever you were, Malfoy must have gone there too. I suppose he was there because his father supports You-Know-Who.”

Harry shrugged again. Luckily, they’d reached the Transfiguration classroom and McGonagall was calling for everyone to take their seats, so Harry would have a respite from answering his friends’ questions. 

***

Voldemort swept into the Malfoys’ dining room and seated himself at the head of the long, grand table. His plate instantly filled with his supper, and Voldemort picked up his spoon and took a bite of his mashed potatoes. It was only then that he looked up, while chewing, to see Lucius and Narcissa watching him with apprehension from their places at the table. 

“Yes? What is it?” Voldemort said impatiently. Spit it out already, he thought. 

“My lord,” Lucius began hesitantly. “I attended the Wizengamot session today. And… my lord. Dumbledore addressed the Wizengamot.”

“And?” Voldemort said, stabbing his slab of beef with his fork. Both Lucius and Narcissa jumped. 

“And… I very much regret to tell you, that Dumbledore, that meddling old fool…”

“What did he do, Lucius?” Voldemort said, his red eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Lucius swallowed. 

“He announced your return, my lord.”

Voldemort stared at Lucius, thinking. (Lucius trembled.) 

It had been months since Voldemort had fashioned a new body for himself. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Dumbledore was only now finding out about his return, right after Harry returned to Hogwarts. 

And Voldemort had specifically told Harry not to tell Dumbledore anything. Apparently the boy wasn’t capable of following even basic instructions. He’d told Harry to get his attention through their mental link anytime Dumbledore spoke to him, so that Voldemort could monitor their interactions. Yet Harry had clearly spoken to Dumbledore, and Voldemort hadn’t been invited to eavesdrop on the conversation. 

Was Harry still testing boundaries? Voldemort had thought he’d handled that. Teenagers were more trouble than they were worth. He should have locked Harry in the Malfoy dungeons where he couldn’t cause any trouble. 

Come to think of it, why had he let Harry go so easily? He would have been safe in the dungeons. 

But he also would have been miserable, and Voldemort would not have been able to ignore that. Harry had been so certain that he needed to go back to Hogwarts to be happy, and Voldemort had… well, Voldemort had believed him. 

Harry’s thoughts were affecting Voldemort’s. The notion was concerning, but Voldemort had already been working on the solution for weeks now. He thought he could have the ritual ready in time for Harry’s Christmas break. Once he removed the Horcrux from Harry, he would not need to worry about his thoughts being unduly influenced by the boy. 

“What was the Wizengamot’s response to Dumbledore’s announcement?” Voldemort thought to ask Lucius, who was still watching him with concern. 

“They asked for proof,” Lucius said. “All Dumbledore had was Potter’s word.”

“Was Harry there?” Voldemort asked. 

“No,” Lucius said. “To be frank, I don’t think anyone wanted to believe Dumbledore. Fudge was furious. I spoke with him afterwards. He thinks Dumbledore is trying to incite panic to convince people to turn to him as their protector. He thinks Dumbledore is after his job.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave Harry alone for too long,” Voldemort mused. “Do you think it’s too early for me to check up on him?”

“Oh, certainly not,” Lucius said. “Children thrive on attention.”

“Do they? How often do you visit Draco when he is at school?” Voldemort asked. 

“Draco?” Lucius looked alarmed. “Why, he… he comes home for holidays… Do you want me to visit him?”

“It was just a question, Lucius,” Voldemort said. “Do what you like.”

Chapter Text

Harry received a package from Sirius at breakfast. Inside was a mirror and a note:

Find a private place and call me immediately!!! Say my name to activate the mirror. 

Harry showed the note to Ron and Hermione to let them know where he was going (he was sitting with the Gryffindors this morning). Then he wrapped his bacon and toast in a napkin and hurried out of the Great Hall. 

On his way back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry was stopped by no less than six different people who all wanted to know if it was true that Voldemort was back. 

“Yes, it’s true. I saw him,” Harry told each of them before hurrying away. It was only the first day after Dumbledore made his announcement to the Wizengamot, and already Harry was getting tired of this. He was so sick of going over the story again and again, and now he was going to have to do the whole thing once more with Sirius. 

“Sirius!” Harry said into the mirror when he was finally back in his dorm room, the curtains to his four-poster closed even though his roommates were all at breakfast. 

The mirror shimmered, and then Sirius’ face appeared. 

“Harry!” he exclaimed. The background moved behind him as Sirius walked through a room and found a place to sit. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry said. “Where are you?”

“I’ve got a place,” Sirius said. “We were so worried about you. They said Voldemort kidnapped you?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine now, he let me go,” Harry said. “Look, Sirius, I talked to a barrister about you, and she said she could help.”

“Harry,” Sirius’ nose wrinkled in distaste. “Please tell me you don’t mean Arminta Selwyn.”

“She seems really capable,” Harry said doggedly. “I think she knows what she’s doing.”

“Oh, she knows all right,” Sirius growled. “I heard she represented you when the Aurors called you in. How did you even meet that snake in the grass?”

“She came highly recommended,” Harry said. 

“By who?” Sirius demanded. Then he groaned and put a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Harry. This isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Are you okay? Did that bastard hurt you?”

“He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine,” Harry said. 

“I don’t want to push you,” Sirius said. “I’m just glad you’re back. I want you to know you can trust me, and if you want to talk, then… I’m here. So, do you… want to talk about what happened?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “It’s fine. I promise. It wasn’t bad at all, actually. I had a fairly quiet summer with plenty to eat. Actually…”

Harry frowned, remembering. 

“Sirius, do you need me to send you food? I can go down to the kitchens right now—”

“No, Harry, I have enough food here,” Sirius said. “Your friends visited me over the summer when we were organizing search efforts, looking for you. Maybe you could come visit too, for Christmas? Harry, I want you to know we never gave up hope. We never stopped looking for you. I was out there every day, as Padfoot, trying to find you.”

“Thanks, Sirius.” Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. Everyone had been so worried, and all the while Harry had been… playing Quidditch and snogging Draco. “I would love to come visit you for Christmas.”

“Yeah?” Sirius said, starting to smile. 

“I also want you to talk to Arminta,” Harry added, and the smile dropped from Sirius’ face. 

“Harry, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you're talking about with that woman,” Sirius said. “She’s the reason people like Lucius Malfoy walk free! She defends Death Eaters!”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but Sirius… people think you are a Death Eater,” Harry pointed out. “Arminta has a reputation for defending people who were accused of being Death Eaters… She’s actually perfect for this situation. Sirius, please. I really think she can help. And if she can… Just imagine! You could finally be free! You could… you could come to my Quidditch games as a human instead of as a dog!”

Sirius groaned, running a distressed hand through his dark, tousled hair. 

“Arminta Selwyn,” he grumbled. 

***

It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Harry was following Ron and Hermione down a flight of stairs on their way out of the castle. 

“What should we do first, do you reckon?” Ron was chatting to them cheerfully. “I was thinking Honeydukes. Got to build up our supply of sweets to get us through our O.W.L.s year!”

“Ron,” Harry said hesitantly. “I, er. Probably should have told you both earlier but. I told Draco I’d… um. Hogsmeade. Draco asked…” Harry ended in a mumble, his face turning red. 

“Really, Harry?” Ron made a face. “You want me and Hermione to hang out with Malfoy?” 

“Well, no,” Harry said. “I was going to. Um. Go with him. Alone.”

“You’re ditching us for Malfoy?” Ron said, his voice rising in incredulity. “On a Hogsmeade weekend?”

“Ron, I think Harry is trying to tell us that he’s going on a date,” Hermione said. “Is that right, Harry?”

“Um,” Harry said. His face felt very hot. It was easy to do things like sit with Draco during meals. It was so much harder to talk about it with his friends. 

“A date?” Ron said, glancing curiously over his shoulder at Harry as he walked. “Who do you have a date with?”

“Ron,” Hermione said impatiently. “He’s going on a date with Malfoy, obviously.”

“So… you’re going on a double date with Malfoy and Parkinson?” Ron frowned. “You know you could have asked me and Hermione, mate. I mean, I know we’re not actually together, but—”

“Draco is not dating Pansy!” Harry said indignantly, his jealousy overcoming his embarrassment. “He’s dating me!”

Ron stopped walking and stared at Harry, gobsmacked. 

“He… what?”

Harry pushed past him, annoyed, and after a moment Ron hurried to catch up with his friends. 

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione said, “what exactly did you think Harry was doing sitting with Malfoy at the Slytherin table?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ron said. “He’s been acting really bloody weird, hasn’t he? Blimey… dating…? ”

They’d reached the entrance hall and Harry saw Draco leaning casually against the stone wall, waiting for him, his blond hair sleek and shining. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. 

“So, I’ll see you around?” Harry said, not looking at his friends because he was too busy looking at Draco. 

“Come on, Ron,” Hermione said, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. Ron looked like he wanted to protest, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to him anymore and Hermione was insistent, so he allowed himself to be led away, grumbling as he went. 

Harry went to Draco, feeling suddenly nervous. In all the time they’d spent together, they’d never done anything as formal as going on a date. 

“Hey,” Draco said, pushing himself off of the wall. “Ready?” He held out his hand. Harry grinned and took it, his heart rate already speeding up. 

It was a mild fall day, and Harry and Draco walked to Hogsmeade hand in hand in the cool morning air. Other students kept staring at them, but it was easy to ignore them with Draco nearby. Draco was in a good mood, and he chattered away, telling Harry all the Slytherin gossip and making Harry laugh with his imitations of his dorm mates. 

“—and then Blaise said—”

“Who?” Harry interrupted. 

“Blaise Zabini?” Draco said. “In our year?”

“Oh,” Harry said, uncertain. 

“Honestly, Potter, don’t you even know the names of the people in our year?” Draco laughed. “Maybe I should be relieved that you haven’t noticed him. He’s Italian, very good-looking.”

“Is he?” Harry said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. 

“Not better looking than you, you prat,” Draco said, bumping into him with his shoulder. 

“Oh,” Harry said. He could feel himself going pink again. He couldn’t remember anyone ever telling him he looked good. 

“Blaise doesn’t talk a lot,” Draco continued. “Thinks he’s above it all, like some kind of ice prince. I call him Italian Ice. He hates it.”

Harry laughed. 

They’d reached the little village of Hogsmeade, and Draco led Harry to a small ice cream parlour. It was still morning, and they’d only recently had breakfast, but Harry wasn’t going to complain. Draco made Harry pick out five different flavours, and they ended up at a little round table, each of them sitting in front of a small mountain of ice cream topped with whipped cream, chopped nuts, and bright red cherries. Draco insisted on paying for both of them, and Harry let him because it seemed to make him happy. 

They left the shop sometime later, holding hands again. The shop door closed behind them, and they started down the street, but they hadn’t gotten very far before Harry slowed and came to a stop. 

There was a man standing on the other side of the street, watching them. A tall, thin man, standing beneath an awning, cast in shadow. Happy, chattering students were passing him by, none of them sparing him even a glance, but Harry could practically feel the man’s eyes on him. 

Harry dropped Draco’s hand and began walking curiously towards the tall man, feeling drawn like a moth to a flame. 

“Harry?” he heard Draco say behind him, but he didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of the stranger. He looked up into the man’s face, and the man met his gaze, impassive at first, but as Harry searched his eyes, the man offered up a slow, self-satisfied smile. 

“It’s you!” Harry said, lighting up. 

“Yes,” Voldemort said. “It’s me.”

Harry circled around him, looking him up and down, and Voldemort obligingly stepped forward to let him. 

“You have a nose!” Harry said when he had finished his inspection and was facing him again.

“Keep it down, Potter,” Draco muttered behind him. “You sound demented.”

“And your skin!” Harry said, choosing to ignore Draco. “It’s human-colored! You look almost normal now! Is it permanent?”

“Just a glamour,” Voldemort said. “I thought it best not to draw too much attention today.”

“Your eyes are still red, though,” Harry pointed out. 

“Wizards are allowed to have some peculiarities,” Voldemort said. 

“And you’re still bald. Couldn’t you have added some hair while you were at it?” Harry asked. 

“I didn’t know you cared so much about appearances,” Voldemort sniffed. “Don’t you think that’s a bit shallow?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize,” Harry said. “This is a huge improvement, really. You look, er, a lot healthier.” It wasn’t shallow to say someone looked healthy, right?

“Thank you,” Voldemort said. “Harry, I have something I want to show you. Will you come with me?”

“Where are we going?” Harry asked. 

“The Ministry of Magic,” Voldemort said. 

“Oh…” Harry hesitated. “But I’m not supposed to leave Hogsmeade.”

“I’ll have you back before you have to return to the castle,” Voldemort said. “No one will know you were gone.”

“Okay,” Harry said, starting to feel excited. He’d never been to the Ministry of Magic. He wondered what Voldemort wanted to show him. 

“But… I had the whole day planned!” Draco protested quietly, whispering into his ear. He was still standing behind Harry, keeping Harry between himself and Voldemort. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Harry said, turning to look at him. “I’ll eat every meal with you tomorrow.”

“Every meal for a whole week,” Draco bargained. 

“Fine,” Harry said, “but you have to sit at the Gryffindor table for half the time.” Harry turned back to Voldemort and took hold of his arm with both hands while Draco sputtered. 

“Okay,” Harry said. “Let’s go.”

They disapparated and the world went black. 

***

Voldemort brought them out into an alleyway across from the entrance to the Ministry. Harry loosened his death grip on Voldemort’s arm (the boy still wasn’t used to side apparition) and looked around. 

This way. Voldemort let the words drift into Harry’s mind. It always surprised him how easy it was. 

Wait. Should you be going inside the Ministry? Harry hesitated in the alleyway. What if they’re on the lookout for you?

You should have thought of that before you went running to Dumbledore, Voldemort thought. 

I’m sorry, was the thought that came back, and Voldemort realized with surprise that Harry meant it. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Voldemort by revealing his presence to all of magical Britain. Then what on earth had he been thinking?

Guilt. Voldemort caught the feeling coming from Harry easily enough. Harry had told Dumbledore because he felt guilty for hiding the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort wished he could stop Harry from feeling guilty. It was both annoying and inconvenient. Voldemort himself never felt guilt, and he didn’t see why Harry should. 

It’s a Saturday. Voldemort turned and swept out the alleyway. Harry trotted along behind him. The Ministry will be nearly empty. However, Lucius has pulled some strings to get us into the Hall of Prophecy. It wasn’t hard once he mentioned your name. 

Why my name? What’s in the Hall of Prophecy? Harry’s curiosity tugged on Voldemort’s thoughts like a hand on a sleeve. 

There’s a prophecy with your name on it. And mine. Would you like to hear what it says?

Yes! Harry’s thoughts were emphatic. 

So would I. Voldemort opened the door to a red telephone box and stepped aside to let Harry in. Once they were both inside, Voldemort shut the door behind them, picked up the receiver, and dialed 62442. The telephone box dropped like a lift and eventually deposited them in the high-ceilinged atrium of the Ministry of Magic. 

“Mr. Potter. Welcome.” A man with a deep, mournful voice came up to them as they pinned on silver badges that read “Visitor to the Hall of Prophecy.”

“Er, hello,” Harry said. 

“Broderick Bode,” the man said as he shook Harry’s hand. His skin was sallow, and he looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in a decade at least. He turned to Voldemort next. 

“Dr. Daimler Molotov,” Voldemort said, holding out his hand. Bode shook it, blinking owlishly at him. 

“Molotov, eh?” he said. “Not from around here, then, are you?”

Daimler? Harry’s eyes were slanting towards him. Molotov???

There was a reason Voldemort never consulted anyone before choosing a new name for himself. It was best to just start using it, and then force everyone else to go along with it. Voldemort didn’t like criticism. 

“My parents were Russian. I didn’t spend much time there myself, though. Today I’m just here to escort Mr. Potter to the Ministry and back,” Voldemort said, smoothly directing Bode’s attention back to Harry. 

“Ah, yes. Heard about your prophecy, did you?” Bode sniffed. “More’s the pity.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, shifting nervously. 

“Prophecies are rarely helpful,” Bode said dismally. “They most often bring misery and destruction to those who hear them.”

“Er,” Harry said, darting a look up at Voldemort. 

“But I’m legally obligated to allow you access to your own prophecy, so come along.” Bode heaved a sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”

He turned and began shuffling away. Harry looked up at Voldemort again. Voldemort raised his glamoured-on eyebrows. Harry shrugged and followed Bode. 

Bode led them to a different lift, which took them to level 9 and the Department of Mysteries. They went down a long hallway to the room with the spinning doors, and then finally they reached the Hall of Prophecy. Voldemort watched Harry, who gazed open-mouthed as they walked past row upon row of towering shelves, all filled with carefully labeled white orbs, each of them glowing faintly in the dim light. 

“Here’s the one we want,” Bode said gloomily, turning down one of the rows. 

And then there it was. The prophecy with Harry’s name on it. 

***

Voldemort sat in a booth across from Harry in a small restaurant, watching Harry poke at an oversized bowl of ramen with a wide spoon. The restaurant was Muggle because Harry attracted too much attention in the wizarding world. Voldemort was still wearing his usual black robes, but he had cast a charm to keep the Muggles from paying close attention to his clothes. Harry had worn Muggle clothes to Hogsmeade since it was the weekend and he didn’t have to wear his uniform. He was wearing a t-shirt and trousers that Voldemort had acquired for him over the summer. 

Neither can live while the other survives. The line was playing on repeat through Harry’s head. Voldemort could hear it plainly. 

“I already died at your hand,” Voldemort said. “We could consider the prophecy fulfilled.”

“But we both survived,” Harry said. Neither can live while the other survives. 

“I wanted to hear the full prophecy,” Voldemort admitted, “but I’ve also been doing some research on prophecies in general. And in general, they don’t seem to be very helpful to anyone. They have quite the opposite effect, in fact.”

Neither can live while the other survives. 

“Often, a person is doing just fine until they hear a prophecy. Then they go out of their way to try to avoid the fate foretold, and that is precisely what brings about their doom.”

“So if they had done nothing, they would have been fine?” Harry said. 

“It certainly seems that way.”

“Bode said prophecies bring misery.”

“Yes.”

Harry’s voice went quiet, but his thoughts did not. 

You killed my parents because of this prophecy. 

Killing your parents was never my goal, Voldemort thought. I only wanted to kill you. 

My parents died because of me. 

They died because of the prophecy, Voldemort thought. 

Will you kill me now?

I’ve told you before. You are my Horcrux. That hasn’t changed. I will protect you as I protect myself. Now eat your soup. You’ll feel better. 

Harry was still eyeing Voldemort warily, but he ate his soup. 

***

Harry did seem to feel better after eating. Also, he seemed happy that Voldemort had taken him to a Muggle establishment for some reason. 

Voldemort apparated them some distance from Hogsmeade so no one would see them returning. The students’ Hogsmeade hours were nearly over, so Voldemort walked Harry down the path back to Hogwarts. 

Dr. Molotov? Really?

Harry was back on this subject. 

Why "doctor"? Do wizards even have doctors?

People are easily impressed by titles, Voldemort thought. 

Can’t I just call you Tom when we’re in public? Harry asked. 

Absolutely not, Voldemort thought sternly. I hate that name. 

I don’t want to call you Dr. Molotov. That’s weird. 

They were nearing the front gates of Hogwarts. 

Harry, Voldemort thought. I want you to come home for Christmas. 

Home? Harry looked up at him, his green eyes widening behind his glasses. 

Yes. 

Oh! Well… Sirius wants me to come to his house, but… I could probably get away for a bit?

I could send you a portkey. 

Can’t you just come pick me up when Sirius isn’t looking? I can sneak out. I hate portkeys. Harry’s nose wrinkled with distaste. 

Apparently Voldemort had ruined portkeys for Harry after the affair with the Triwizard Cup. That was a shame. He should teach Harry how to apparate. The school didn’t teach apparition to students this young, but Harry was a quick study. Voldemort was sure he could learn it. 

Yes, I can come get you. I’ll be in touch. 

“Harry!” A girl with bushy hair and a tall red-headed boy came running up behind them. 

“Oh, hey,” Harry said to his friends, casting a nervous glance at Voldemort. 

“We saw Malfoy without you and he wouldn’t tell us where you were. Did you break up?” the boy asked hopefully. 

“Harry, who is this?” The girl was looking suspiciously at Voldemort. 

“Dr. Daimler Molotov,” Voldemort said, inclining his head slightly. “I’m a colleague of Ms. Selwyn, Mr. Potter’s barrister.”

We were discussing Sirius Black’s case, Voldemort added in Harry’s mind. 

“Oh?” The girl’s expression turned worried as she glanced between Harry and Voldemort. 

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry said to her. Then he turned to Voldemort. “Er, thanks for your help… Dr. Molotov.”

That felt very weird, Harry added. 

Voldemort watched Harry and his friends go for a moment before turning on the spot and apparating with a barely audible "pop." He was still going forward with his plan to extract his soul fragment from Harry. He wasn’t reacting to the prophecy. If he tried to prevent the prophecy, if he changed his course of action because of the prophecy, then, according to history, things would go badly for him. But this had been his plan for some time now. It was the smart thing to do. The logical thing. The prophecy had nothing to do with it. 

***

Back at Malfoy Manor, Voldemort found Lucius in his study poring over Wizengamot documents. 

“Lucius,” Voldemort said. 

“My lord.” Lucius stood hastily, nearly knocking over his chair. 

“I have a question for you, and I want your honest opinion,” Voldemort said. 

“Of course, my lord,” Lucius said, but his already pale skin seemed to go even paler. 

“Have I been acting… different, since Harry left for Hogwarts?”

“Different?” Lucius crumpled a paper in his fist in a nervous gesture. 

“Have you perhaps noticed a change in my temperament? Be honest, Lucius, I think this may be important.”

“I suppose it’s possible, my lord,” Lucius said slowly. 

“Yes? Go on,” Voldemort said impatiently. 

“If you will forgive the impertinence, my lord, you seemed happier when Potter was here.”

That was putting it delicately. Voldemort had wanted someone to confirm his theory, but the more he thought about it, the more sure he was. He’d been increasingly prone to anger, to fits of violent fury, since Harry had left. He’d always had a temper, so he hadn’t thought much of it. But then today, when he had seen Harry through the window of the ice cream shop, it was as if his anger had been doused by a cool rain. The whole time he was with Harry, he never had to suppress the fire of his anger, because it simply wasn’t there. He was calm and collected the entire time. 

He felt better when Harry was around. 

When Voldemort had made his first batch of Horcruxes, he had thought it best to hide them to keep them safe. There were good reasons to hide them, but perhaps there was also an argument to be made for keeping them close. Voldemort had always known that he liked having Nagini around. Perhaps it was time to experiment. 

Chapter Text

The Gaunt house was even smaller and sadder than Voldemort had remembered. It would have crumbled to bits by now if Voldemort hadn’t placed all those preserving spells on it. It had a purpose: it was a piece of his history, and it hid a piece of his soul. But it hurt to look at. Seeing it brought back memories that Voldemort had suppressed for decades. 

He’d been so excited that summer when he came to this house for the first time. He’d been a little disappointed when he saw the state of the house, but he’d still been cautiously optimistic. Maybe his wizarding relatives really hadn’t known about him. Maybe they would be thrilled to see him. 

But all he’d found was one mad, filthy uncle living in squalor. 

The uncle, however, did have one piece of information that set young Tom’s hopes soaring once more. He knew who Tom’s father was. 

As it turned out, it was Tom’s Muggle relatives who had money and lived in a grand, impressive house. Something twisted uncomfortably in Tom’s gut when he saw it. It was all wrong, he thought. Wizards were better than Muggles. How could his magical relatives be so poor when his Muggle relatives were so rich?

But even though Tom would have preferred for his rich relations to be magical, they were still his relatives. They were people he had a connection to, when he’d always been so alone in the world.

So again he hoped. He hoped that they, like his uncle, hadn’t known about him, that they hadn’t chosen to cut him off. And he hoped that they, unlike his uncle, would be happy to learn of his existence. 

His father. His father was in that house. Tom couldn’t help imagining his father welcoming him with open arms. 

He knocked on the door. A maid answered it and, staring, showed him into the drawing room. Three heads looked up at him, uncomprehending. Two older people who must be his grandparents. And a man who had to be his father. Tom could recognize himself in the man’s handsome face. 

“Good evening,” Tom said. He was trembling, but he had to be polite. He had to make a good first impression. “My name is Tom Riddle. My mother was Merope Gaunt.”

“You!” His father had risen. His face was rapidly losing its color, and he backed away while raising a shaking finger to point at Tom. 

“Merope!” Tom’s grandmother gasped. “Oh, Tom! You didn’t tell us!”

“Not mine!” Tom’s father cried. “You’re not mine, I tell you! Where is she? Is she here?”

“She’s dead,” Tom said numbly. This was all wrong. Everything was going so wrong today. 

“Good riddance,” Tom Sr. spat, and Tom felt it like a slap across the face. 

“Look boy, you’ve got to go,” Tom’s grandfather,  the elder Mr. Riddle, said. “You can’t stay here. You’re not wanted.”

It was a message Tom had been hearing all his life, but no one had ever come right out and said it before he’d met his relatives. 

“I’m not leaving until I have answers,” Tom said. 

“I’ll tell you nothing!” Tom Sr. had backed himself against the wall. He was sounding hysterical. 

“Leave him alone, you horrid thing!” Mrs. Riddle cried. 

“Tell the truth,” Tom said. 

“You’re just like her!” Tom Sr. wailed, his hysteria exploding like a bomb. “That witch!” 

Tom had been living in the magical world for so long that it was a shock now to hear his father say that word like a slur. 

“That gold-digging hussy thought she could run away with my son,” Mrs. Riddle said angrily. 

“She was unnatural, she wasn’t right. She was all wrong!” Tom Sr. said. 

“Worthless little tramp,” the elder Mr. Riddle said. “That whore, coming here and trying to trick her way into our money.”

“She bewitched me!” Tom Sr. said. “I escaped her, and I’m never going back! Never! You hear me??”

Tell the truth. It wasn’t a real spell, but it was one that Tom had used in the orphanage, and it worked well enough on Muggles. In Tom’s distress, this was the spell he reached for. Unfortunately, it couldn’t compel absolute truth. In this case, it only drew out the ugly truths of the Riddles' beliefs. 

Alone and unloved in the orphanage, Tom had held on to his magic as something that made him special, something that gave some importance to his life. At Hogwarts he had discovered that he inherited his magic from his mother. 

She had died while the Riddles sat here, careless in their luxury. They could have saved her, probably. Tom thought his mother had died mostly from poverty, her malnourished body unable to withstand the ravages of disease. And she would have been heartbroken after being abandoned by the man standing in front of him now, looking at him with disgust and horror written plainly on his face. 

“She died because you abandoned her,” Tom said. “You abandoned us.”

“I’m glad she’s dead!” his father said. “I’m so, so glad—”

In the orphanage, the only emotion that was safe to express was anger. If you smiled too much, you got stepped on; if you cried, you got stepped on. Anger, though, anger was safe. And Tom was no longer the weak, ignorant child of the orphanage. After five years at Hogwarts, Tom had the wand and the power to back up his anger. 

“Avada Kedavra,” Tom said as his wand snapped into his hand. Green light flashed three times. 

Tom was sixteen years old. 

***

The maid was hovering in the hallway, eavesdropping. Tom obliviated her and sent her home. Then he left the house, his heart racing. 

He’d never killed anyone before. Myrtle’s death had been his fault, yes, since he’d woken the basilisk. But it had been an accident. He hadn’t realized she was there in the bathroom. 

He’d used the killing curse on the Riddles. The Muggles wouldn’t be able to trace the deaths to him. But if the Aurors got wind of this…

Morfin Gaunt proved useful once more. Tom altered his memories, made him believe he was the one who had committed the murders. It wasn’t difficult. Morfin already nursed a violent hatred for the Riddles. 

Then Tom took one last look around the Gaunt house, regretful. He’d had such high hopes for that day, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it. What a waste…

His eyes caught on the heavy ring on Morfin’s hand. It was set with a large black stone that had a triangular symbol engraved on it. 

“Legilimens,” Tom murmured. Morfin’s mind was a mess, but Tom was able to understand that the ring was a family heirloom, passed down over generations. 

He took it off of Morfin’s unresisting hand and slipped it onto his own finger. 

***

Back in the present, Voldemort shook his head to dispel the memories. Then he slashed his arm with his wand and let his blood drip onto the ground to bypass the heavy magical protections he’d placed around the Gaunt shack. 

Voldemort walked forward. The inferi remained dormant under the ground. Voldemort pressed his bleeding arm to the door of the shack before he opened it, and the disemboweling curse attached to the doorknob stayed inert. 

Voldemort used his wand to pry up the floorboards inside the house. The ring was waiting for him there, along with the last safeguards: a powerful withering curse that would strike anyone who tried on the ring, along with an overwhelming compulsion to make whoever saw the ring put it on. 

Voldemort didn’t even try to fight his own compulsion. He reached for the ring with fingers already smeared with his own blood. He put it on. 

The only thing that happened was that Voldemort felt his shoulders relax. It was almost like being around Harry, though the effect was not as strong. Perhaps there was something about Harry being a living Horcrux, having a consciousness in his own right. 

But still, with the ring, Voldemort felt calmer, more in control. His mind was clearer, he was sure of it. 

Voldemort apparated back to the manor. He sat down in his study and considered. It would be difficult to access Hufflepuff’s cup, since it was in Bellatrix’s vault, and Bellatrix was in Azkaban. 

(Bellatrix was in Azkaban. Should he do something about that? Maybe if he decided he really needed the cup, then he would break her out.)

The diadem would be easy enough to access, though. 

Voldemort couldn’t speak easily to Harry through their mental link when he couldn’t see him. Harry had done it once, speaking directly into Voldemort’s mind when he was miles away. But that had been in a moment of great stress, when Harry was desperate to stop Voldemort from torturing Draco. Under less urgent circumstances, Voldemort could insert himself into Harry’s mind, but then he could only see what Harry saw, and he couldn’t communicate with him. 

He could pull Harry into his own mind, and then he could simply speak out loud and Harry would hear. But they’d tried this before, and it made Harry faint and have seizures. It would draw undue attention if this were to happen when Harry was at Hogwarts, where he was around other people. 

Voldemort decided to write Harry a letter. 

***

“Harry.” Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk in his office, peering over his half-moon spectacles. “It has come to my attention that you took a little, ah, detour, shall we say, during the last Hogsmeade visit.”

Harry squirmed in his seat. 

“What did you think of the Hall of Prophecy?” Dumbledore asked. 

“It was, er, fine, I guess,” Harry mumbled. 

“Did you find anything of interest there?” Dumbledore cocked his head as if he were only mildly curious. 

“Well. I went to listen to my prophecy. The one about me,” Harry said. Dumbledore knew where Harry had gone; Harry was sure he already knew what Harry had done there as well. 

“Ah. I see.” Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry, my dear boy. I wanted to keep this from you for as long as I could. I wanted you to be able to have a happy childhood, without this hanging over your head.”

If you wanted me to have a happy childhood, you shouldn’t have left me with the Dursleys, Harry thought. 

“I think I deserve to know about it,” Harry said instead. “It’s about me, after all.”

“Yes, and may I say, you are handling the heavy burden of this knowledge with grace. I admire your fortitude, Harry.”

“Oh,” Harry said. Should he be acting more upset right now? He probably should be. 

“May I ask how you learned about this prophecy?” Dumbledore asked delicately. 

“Er, Arminta told me,” Harry lied. Arminta was turning out to be a useful person even when she wasn’t around. 

“Arminta Selwyn?” Dumbledore looked politely concerned. “I wasn’t aware that barristers kept track of prophecies. Most prophecies are not widely advertised, you see.”

“I am her client, so I think it’s her business to know things connected to me,” Harry said, trying not to let his nervousness show. Maybe it wasn’t reasonable to assume Arminta would know about the prophecy. 

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed. “Harry, would you like to talk about it? About the prophecy?”

“Oh!” Harry considered. “Not really, no. Er, I’m good.”

“I’m sure this has been a very great shock for you.”

“Yeah.”

Dumbledore waited, but Harry didn’t say anything else. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dumbledore finally said. “If you find yourself wanting to discuss anything later, anything at all, my office is always open to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, feeling awkward. 

He left Dumbledore’s office at a quick pace, relieved to finally get away. Voldemort would be annoyed that Harry had been called in for a second private interview with Dumbledore, and that he had yet again failed to invite Voldemort to attend through their mental connection. But Harry didn’t think he’d been in any danger. He thought Voldemort was unduly paranoid where Dumbledore was concerned. 

A moving staircase creaked to a stop at Harry’s feet, and Harry began climbing. 

The visit to the Ministry had been less fun than Harry had hoped. He hated that stupid prophecy; it was because of the prophecy that his parents were dead. Bode had been right after all: prophecies brought nothing but misery. 

On the other hand, Voldemort had trusted him enough to tell him about it. Harry felt an odd sense of pride that Voldemort (unlike Dumbledore) had judged him mature enough to handle the information. Voldemort hadn’t even known what the whole prophecy said, and still he took Harry with him, so both of them would find out at the same time. 

It wasn’t like third year, when everyone had thought a murderer was after him, but no one thought he should know about it. They were lucky Sirius had turned out to be innocent. If he had actually wanted to kill Harry, he could have done so very easily the night Harry ran away from the Dursleys, having no idea that Sirius Black even knew his name. 

Honestly, everyone had been so upset when Harry left the Dursleys, and yet no one had bothered to warn him not to go! Did they really think that Harry would never even set foot outside the house? Sirius could have murdered him at the corner shop. 

Maybe they thought the Dursleys would lock him in his room again like they had the previous summer, Harry thought grumpily. 

But then Harry reached the seventh floor corridor, and he came to a stop. He pulled out the letter that had been practically burning a hole in his pocket since he’d received it at breakfast that morning. He opened it up and scanned it, reviewing the instructions. Then he folded it back up and paced purposefully back and forth in the corridor. 

A door appeared where none had been before, and Harry’s face lit up. Eagerly, he reached for the doorknob and pushed open the door. 

***

Voldemort had been on the lookout for… something. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but it had to be something suitable. Ideally, it would be something that had belonged to Godric Gryffindor. He already had artifacts from the other three founders, but he had nothing from Gryffindor. He would like to have a complete set. 

Eventually, he found what he was looking for right there in Malfoy Manor. Malfoy Manor was very large, larger even than it should have been from observing the impressive outside. It had rooms upon rooms upon closets that led to even more impossible rooms. The Malfoys had centuries of family history stowed away in their crypt of a mansion. 

Voldemort liked Malfoy Manor. There was so much there, and so much magic. So much to explore, so much to learn. Voldemort had taken to exploring the house systematically, mapping out each floor and taking notes on what he found in each room. And it was in one of these rooms, tucked far away from the main section of the house where the family lived, that Voldemort found it. 

It was an ornate comb made of gold, the teeth heavyset and spaced apart. It had a long handle which flared into a rounded end. That rounded end was meticulously embossed with the head of a lion, his mane rippling in the gold. The lion’s eyes were set with two tiny rubies. 

Directly after graduating from Hogwarts, Voldemort had worked for a shop that dealt in magical antiques. He had long ago learned how to tell the difference between something old and something that merely looked old. This comb was old. Very, very old. And it was humming with an ancient enchantment. 

It was sitting on a vanity beneath a large, oval mirror along with a variety of other objects—earrings and makeup and perfume bottles. A carved wooden chair with a cushioned seat was pulled out slightly ajar, away from the vanity, and the whole thing gave the effect that the owner had only just stepped out and would be back to finish her beauty routine at any moment. 

Voldemort checked the comb with his wand first to make sure it wasn’t cursed. When he satisfied himself that it was harmless, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. He would take it to his study for further examination. 

The Malfoy library, Voldemort discovered over the next few days, did not have the documents he needed to verify his find. He could have asked Lucius for help, but… Voldemort was reluctant to let Lucius know that he was taking something from him. He didn’t think Lucius would try to stop him from taking it, but still. Voldemort had always been secretive over his Horcruxes, and besides, Lucius had proved to be a poor Horcrux guardian. He’d actually dropped the diary in an eleven-year-old girl’s cauldron. The memory still made Voldemort’s blood boil. 

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Voldemort touched the Gaunt family ring, twisting it back and forth on his finger. He took a deep breath. 

He would write to Severus. 

***

Severus arrived at Malfoy Manor the following weekend. He was in a bad mood. Voldemort assumed this was because his research assignment had not involved potions or the dark arts, and because it had involved Godric Gryffindor. Severus objected to things relating to Gryffindor on principle. 

But despite Severus’ compunctions, he had completed the research assignment, and that was all Voldemort cared about. 

“It’s almost certainly Gryffindor’s comb,” Severus said. “The comb is a cataloged artifact, and the Malfoy family is on record as the last known owner. And your comb matches the description.”

“Funny that the Malfoys should have a Gryffindor heirloom,” Voldemort mused. “Thought they went in more for Slytherin.”

“They do now,” Severus said. “But Lucius had a grandmother who was in Gryffindor. She’s the one who bought the comb, years ago.”

“I see,” Voldemort said. “Did you discover anything about the enchantments on the comb?”

“Yes, it’s for de-lousing. When you use it to brush your hair, it’s supposed to kill any bugs.”

“How practical.” Voldemort felt a little let down. He had been hoping for something more exciting. 

“Lice were a huge problem back in the Founders’ day. Everyone had them,” Severus said. “They were very annoying. The non-stop itching could drive a person mad.”

“Of course,” Voldemort agreed. “What’s the status on Dumbledore?”

“He’s waiting for your next move. Trying to figure out what you’re planning, who you’re contacting. The Ministry won’t support him. Fudge still refuses to believe you’re back, and most people are on his side. Dumbledore’s only proof of your return is Potter’s word. And mine, but he wants me to keep a low profile as his spy, obviously. And Potter’s also saying that Pettigrew killed Diggory, so if Potter’s to be believed, then that’s two men come back from the dead. His version of events strains credulity, to put it mildly.”

“Very well, keep me posted if anything changes,” Voldemort said. “How’s Harry doing in Potions?”

“He’s hopeless. Abysmal. He’s going to fail his Potions O.W.L.”

“Maybe I should tutor him over Christmas,” Voldemort said. 

“Also he keeps partnering with Draco, and I have to see them together,” Severus said petulantly. “It makes me sick. All the teenage affection in that room is going to give me tooth rot.”

“Ah, well, you remember what it’s like to be young and in love,” Voldemort said. 

“No, I don’t,” Severus said. “Why, do you?”

“Of course not, but I thought you did,” Voldemort said. 

“If Draco’s grades drop this year, I blame Potter.”

***

Draco entered the Great Hall with the other Slytherins. They’d just finished with Transfiguration and they were all ready to sit down for lunch. Draco’s gaze wandered over the Gryffindor table, searching for Harry. 

He was near the table, but he hadn’t sat down yet. A group of hostile looking Hufflepuffs had accosted him, and Harry was scowling at them. Draco could read his tension from the line of his shoulders, his hands shoved into his pockets. Granger and Weasley flanked him, like guard dogs poised to attack. 

“Two months, Potter, two months you were gone,” Zacharias Smith was saying as Draco approached. “You say You-Know-Who killed Cedric, but he just let you go? And you expect us to believe that?”

The student body had initially responded to Harry’s return with warmth and jubilation, and even tears. For many celebrities, the best thing they can do for their popularity is to die, and over the summer, most people had believed that Harry was dead. Public opinion had been overwhelmingly in his favour: the brave, young hero of the wizarding world, shockingly and mysteriously stolen from them at the tender age of fourteen. The Daily Prophet printed tragic, embellished articles celebrating his accomplishments and bewailing his loss. Harry’s popularity had exploded. 

And then, on September 1st, he had arrived on Platform 9 ¾ like one returning from the dead. The response throughout Magical Britain had been euphoric. Harry dodged the attention as much as he could, but the response to his return had been no different inside Hogwarts. It had been enough, for a while, to distract people from asking awkward questions of Harry about Cedric’s death. 

But then news began to spread that Dumbledore was saying that You-Know-Who was back—and that Harry was the reason he was saying it. 

Thus far, from what Draco could tell, most students had responded to this news with an uneasy sense of confusion. In general, everyone still loved Harry. But they didn’t know what to do about this unsettling news about You-Know-Who—news which was not being acknowledged by the Ministry or the Daily Prophet. The Daily Prophet, incidentally, had run an article casting doubt over Dumbledore’s current mental faculties, considering his advanced age, and questioning his continued suitability to serve as a leader in the Wizarding World. They had not, as of yet, said anything disparaging about Harry, and the emotional outpouring over his return continued to bubble over in the letters to the editor. 

But the rosy halo that Harry had been wearing around Hogwarts was apparently starting to fade, and now Zacharias Smith and a couple of his cronies—all of them Hufflepuffs who had worshipped Cedric Diggory—were standing in front of Harry, faces accusing and suspicious. 

Draco paused in indecision. Should he go help Harry? He could go up and say something devastating to Smith. Something really cutting… That would show him. 

But would the Gryffindors want him to interfere? Weasley and Granger were right there. They might resent him getting involved. On the other hand, it didn’t seem to Draco that they were doing a very good job of protecting Harry. Smith was still there, for one thing, pressing for more information as Harry curled further and further in on himself, his expression darkening. 

Draco was still standing there hesitating when Greg lumbered forward and, before Draco quite knew what was happening, planted himself like a monolith in front of Zacharias, blocking his access to Harry. 

“Potter’s with Draco now,” Greg rumbled, his voice already ridiculously low for a fifteen-year-old kid. 

Zacharias screwed his face up and looked up at Greg, incredulous. 

“So?” Zacharias said. 

Greg considered this for a moment before responding. 

“So piss off,” was what Greg finally decided on. 

“That’s right, Smith,” said Pansy, who had come up to stand next to Greg. She had one hand on her jutting hip, and she was using her most bratty voice. “Learn to tell when you’re not wanted. Take a hint for once in your life.”

Zacharias looked like he was going to argue, but the other fifth year Slytherins had all gamely followed Pansy and Greg and were crowding behind them to stare down Zacharias and his friends. (Meanwhile, Harry, Weasley, and Granger were backing up to make room for them, looking bewildered by the turn of events.)

Zacharias, after a quick glance at his friends, made the decision to step down. He mumbled something rude to Pansy and then turned tail and retreated with his friends to the Hufflepuff table. 

“Well!” Granger said, sounding surprised. “That was unexpected.”

The Slytherins turned around to face the Gryffindors. 

“If you hurt Draco, you’re going down, Potter,” Greg said to Harry. 

“Goyle!” Draco protested, still on the sidelines to his friends’ confrontations. “That is not necessary!”

“Yeah,” Vince said, agreeing with Greg and ignoring Draco. “We don’t want to have to deal with his blubbing.”

“I don’t—! That is not a thing that has happened!” Draco sputtered. 

Weasley, meanwhile, seemed to have gotten over his shock, and he was now glaring at Greg and Pansy. 

“We didn’t need your help,” he said, folding his arms in front of his chest. 

“Right, because you were doing such a good job defending pathetic Potter from a few lousy Hufflepuffs before we got here,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. Her eye roll was legendary. 

“We were doing just fine!” Ron protested. 

“Don’t worry, we’re not here to make friends with Gryffindorks,” Pansy sniffed. “And this doesn’t change anything when it comes to Quidditch.”

“Good,” Ron said aggressively. 

“Good!” Pansy retorted. She tossed her hair and sauntered off to the Slytherin table. The other Slytherins, seeing that the entertainment was over, followed. 

Draco glanced hopefully over at Harry before he went with his friends, but it looked like Harry was going to stay at the Gryffindor table for lunch. That was alright. Draco knew that if Harry didn’t eat lunch with him, he would definitely join him for dinner. He could count on Harry for that. Draco turned to go. 

“Draco,” Harry called out. “Sit with us?”

Draco had sat with the Gryffindors before, at Harry’s insistence. It definitely wasn’t his idea of a good time, but… Harry was asking. And he might need more protecting from Hufflepuffs. 

Draco went to join him. 

***

Harry should have expected to see Voldemort at the next Hogsmeade weekend, but he was still caught off-guard when he saw him standing there outside of a shop. Time seemed to stop for a moment when Voldemort looked up and met Harry’s eye, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. 

The first time Harry saw young Tom Riddle—in his diary back when Harry was a second year—he’d had the strangest feeling that he was looking at someone familiar. A friend, a relative, even. Someone who Harry recognized. 

Now, standing here in Hogsmeade, Harry felt like he was a first year again, looking into the Mirror of Erised and seeing his family. 

Voldemort had hair again, black and neatly trimmed with just a hint of a curl at the ends. His nose was straight and pointed, his skin pale but alive, a faint tinge of color to his cheeks. He was older, but clearly recognizable as the handsome boy from the diary.

“Good day,” Voldemort said, shaking Harry’s hand formally. His eyes were dark, but they glinted with red in the sun. “I am Professor Milo Mordtov Adler.”

“Professor Milo…?” Harry repeated, bemused. 

“Professor Milo Mordtov Adler. I’m currently on sabbatical from my teaching post, working on some research projects. Harry hired me as his private tutor,” Voldemort added to Draco, who was hovering nervously behind Harry. 

“Private tutor?” Harry said dubiously. “No one else has a private tutor.”

“It’s not because you’re doing poorly in school. It’s because you’re so advanced,” Voldemort explained patiently. “You want to learn more, to be challenged beyond what they teach you in school. And you want to make sure you do well on your O.W.L.s. I’m concerned that Severus is sabotaging your Potions grade.”

“That’s definitely true,” Draco said. “Snape keeps giving me O’s while giving Harry T’s, even though we’ve partnered on every project.”

“Besides, you received private tutoring in the past for advanced defense work, did you not?” Voldemort said. “From Remus Lupin?”

“Oh! I suppose I did,” Harry said, surprised. 

“Have you had lunch? We could discuss your schoolwork over a meal,” Voldemort said. 

“Here in Hogsmeade?” Harry asked. Where people can see you?

There’s no reason why Harry Potter cannot be seen with his tutor, Professor Adler, Voldemort said. 

Ok then. Yeah. Lunch. Harry grinned, feeling unexpectedly cheered. 

“Um, Three Broomsticks?” Harry said out loud. 

“Lead the way,” Voldemort said. 

Harry took Draco’s hand and the three of them set out for the pub. 

Milo Adler? Harry thought as they walked. 

Milo Mordtov Adler, Voldemort confirmed. 

Wait… is this another anagram? Milo Mordtov Adler—Tom Marvolo Riddle? Harry asked, suspicious. 

I like anagrams, Voldemort said, unbothered. I think they’re clever. 

Was the Molotov one an anagram too? Dr. Daimler Molotov?

I wondered how long it would take you to notice, Voldemort said. 

Milo Adler’s not bad, Harry said. 

Thank you. 

But Mordtov? Really?

The middle name is doing a lot of heavy lifting, Voldemort admitted. I think I’ll say it’s a family name from Moldova. 

Voldemort bought them all fish and chips at The Three Broomsticks (he charged it to Lucius’ account, as he always did when he needed to make a purchase). They found an empty booth and settled down with Harry and Draco on one side and Voldemort on the other. 

“Did you get a new ring?” Harry asked when Voldemort reached for his glass. 

“It’s an old ring actually. A family heirloom.” Voldemort took a sip of water, considering Harry. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes,” Harry said without thinking. 

Voldemort took the heavy ring off his finger and dropped it into Harry’s waiting hand. 

“Oh,” Harry said, his eyes widening. He’d learned some things since the beginning of the summer, when he’d leaned against Nagini, oblivious as to why he found her so comforting and familiar. 

It’s another Horcrux, isn’t it? he said. 

Yes. 

How many of these do you have? Harry asked, his indignation warring with the warm, calming feeling from the ring. 

Not that many, Voldemort said vaguely. He held out his hand, and Harry reluctantly returned the ring. Instinctively, he put his now empty hand on his book bag to sooth the strange sense of loss. 

He’d been carrying it there ever since he took it from the Room of Requirement. It made an awkward lump next to his textbooks, but Harry couldn’t bear to leave it in his dorm room. Often, before he went to sleep at night, he would take it out and just hold it and look at it, the curtains drawn tightly around his bed. 

He knew it was kind of weird for a teenage boy to be so fixated on a tiara, but it wasn’t like he wanted to wear it. He just liked having it. He liked being able to slip his hand into his book bag and feel it there, the weight of it reassuring under his fingers. 

He wasn’t looking forward to giving it up. 

And your appearance? Harry said, changing the subject. Is this another glamour?

No. I’ve been trying out some charms. Permanent ones. It’s a tricky business, altering the human body. Even if you succeed in getting the result you’re looking for (which is not at all guaranteed), most people can’t manage a charm that will last more than twenty-four hours. Luckily for me and my return to society, I am not “most people.”

So, this—how you look—it’s real, then?

Do you approve?

Tom Riddle from the diary had told Harry that they looked alike. Now that Voldemort looked more like his younger self, he also looked more like Harry. Did Harry approve of having something like a real relative for the first time in his life? Not someone like the Dursleys, but someone who looked like him and who cared about him and who had a real connection to him?

Yeah, I approve. It’s brilliant. 

Voldemort (or Professor Adler) quizzed Harry on his Potions while they ate their lunch. 

“You have a decent grasp on the subject,” Voldemort said when they were done, “but I want you to let Draco look over your homework before you turn it in. Draco, when he gets something wrong, don’t just fix it. Make sure he understands the reasoning behind the issue.”

“I know that,” Draco said indignantly. “He’s not bad at Potions, really. Snape just doesn’t like him.”

“Luckily, Snape won’t be grading your O.W.L.s,” Voldemort said. “I won’t take up all your free time, Harry, but I think you have something for me before I go?”

Harry sighed inwardly. It was time to give up the tiara. He put his hand into his book bag and reluctantly drew out the ungainly package, which he’d wrapped up in one of Dudley’s old t-shirts. 

And this will help you… get better? he asked, holding the tiara to his chest. 

Yes, Voldemort said. 

Well… okay then. Harry slowly handed over the ratty, lumpy package, while Draco watched, looking confused. 

Voldemort took a deep breath when he took the tiara. His shoulders dropped and he instantly looked more relaxed. 

Thank you, Harry. 

Anytime. 

***

Voldemort wandered around the unused wings of Malfoy Manor until he found a hat that he liked. It was a short top hat made of dark green felt, and Voldemort thought it looked distinguished. 

It was old. Not old as in shabby, but old enough to be an antique. Voldemort liked antiques. They had history, and possibly secrets. 

Voldemort spent the evening carefully charming Ravenclaw’s diadem into the inside of the hat, spinning the felt around it to secure it in place and to hide it from view. The felt would also keep the diadem from actually touching his head. Ravenclaw’s diadem was said to grant wisdom, but Voldemort didn’t trust it enough to try it. Besides, he had plenty of wisdom on his own. He didn’t need Rowena’s help. 

When he was satisfied with his work, he placed the hat on his head and went to look in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Nagini looked up when he came in, curious as always. She left Harry’s old bed where she had been sleeping and slithered up Voldemort’s leg to rest about his shoulders like a very thick and scaly scarf. Voldemort lifted one hand to stroke her, and the black stone of the Gaunt ring gleamed on his finger. 

Voldemort was wearing three of his Horcruxes. He hadn’t felt this good in years. This called for a celebratory cup of tea. Voldemort used his wand to fill his teapot with hot water. He added the tea leaves, and then he sat down in his armchair to wait for the tea to steep. 

Voldemort had always liked the idea of being in charge. How could he not, when his formative years in the orphanage had taught him that the only person who was safe was the person who was in charge. But the truth was, conquering magical Britain had never been a goal that he’d pursued with single-minded focus. 

After graduating from Hogwarts, the first thing young Tom Riddle had done was to get a job at a magical antiques shop. He liked it there because, as mentioned before, he liked antiques. Magical antiques were not like Muggle antiques. They could contain any number of obscure enchantments. Each one was a potential learning opportunity. 

Also, the hours were good. No one ever asked him to do overtime, and once Tom showed his skill at charming clients, things got even better. Tom got to travel around the country, visiting the estates of the wealthy (or the formerly wealthy), selling them showy but overpriced trinkets or swindling them of their treasures, as the case might be. He might have stayed at that job for a very long time, had it not been for one particular client. 

Hepzibah Smith was an older woman. She was overweight and she wore too much makeup, but she was very wealthy and she was respected in wizarding society. 

At Hogwarts, Tom had been admired for the first time, but his admirers had only been children and professors (who were scarcely better than the children they taught, since they were so closely connected to Hogwarts in Tom’s mind). Hepzibah was the first person out in the “real” world to pay attention to Tom, the first really important person to affirm Tom’s high opinion of himself. 

It wasn’t that Tom liked Hepzibah. He didn’t. But he liked the way she treated him. He liked the way she looked at him, as if he were something special. He liked the attentions she paid him, the little favors she bestowed on him. She kept asking for him to come to her house to show her treasures from the antiques shop, and Tom went willingly. She bought expensive items on occasion, so Mr. Burke, who owned the shop, didn’t mind Tom going to her often. 

But Tom was in over his head with Hepzibah. She held all the power: her wealth, her position in society. Tom was an orphan with nothing: no money, no connections outside of the friends he’d made at school. Hepzibah could ruin him. She wasn’t a person that you could just walk away from. When her ties became too tight, her hold too stifling, Tom couldn’t just tell her he was done. She could get him fired. She could make sure he never held a job in wizarding Britain ever again. 

Tom killed two birds with one stone when he slipped poison into Hepzibah’s cocoa and made off with her two greatest treasures: Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s locket. 

It was easy to poison the cocoa. Hepzibah liked it when Tom did things for her, and she was pleased when he offered to mix her cocoa himself. After that, it was only a matter of planting a tiny false memory in the house elf’s mind, to make her think she had accidentally poisoned her own mistress. 

Slytherin’s locket was Tom’s by right, anyway. Tom was the one who was Slytherin’s heir, not Hepzibah. And she didn’t need the cup anymore, so Tom might as well have that too. 

And if Tom used her death to create another Horcrux, what of it? He was only being practical. It would be a shame for poor Hepzibah to die for nothing. 

In the end, Tom left his job and magical Britain anyway. He thought it best to be out of the country while the investigation into Hepzibah’s death blew over. But he could come back once he knew he was in the clear, which he would not have been able to do if Hepzibah had still been alive. 

Tom enjoyed traveling abroad. There was so much magic to learn, and it wasn’t hard to travel without money when you had magic and the guts to use it. Tom passed years in this way, and he might have forgotten to return to Great Britain altogether, had he not received a letter from his former Potions professor, Horace Slughorn. 

Slughorn wrote to tell him that there was an opening in the Hogwarts staff for the post of Defense against the Dark Arts professor. 

I immediately thought of you, Slughorn wrote. Who would be better for the position than my favorite star pupil?

Slughorn encouraged him to apply. 

Once the seed was planted, Tom couldn’t get it out of his mind. He could go back to Hogwarts, the first place he had called home. Hogwarts had set the scene for the happiest years of his life, the first place he had had friends, the first place he had felt safe. It was where he had learned who he was. 

If Tom were a professor, he could get paid for learning about magic, which was what he was doing anyway. He could still travel during the summer, when school was out of session. The investigation into Hepzibah’s death had been closed years ago, and no one had ever pointed a finger at Tom. There was no reason why Tom shouldn’t return to Hogwarts. 

Of course, Dumbledore had ruined his plans by refusing to hire him all those years ago, but the point was, Voldemort thought as he sipped his tea in his study at Malfoy Manor, the point was, world domination had never been his only goal in life. He’d spent a lot of years as a dark lord and a magical terrorist. Maybe it was time for a change. 

Voldemort had truly enjoyed teaching Harry over the summer. It had been an interesting challenge, and it had been so rewarding to see Harry’s progress. Voldemort had felt proud of Harry, which was a new experience for him. He wasn’t used to feeling happy about someone else’s success. On the other hand, since Voldemort had been the one to teach Harry, that meant Harry’s success was Voldemort’s success. So that made sense. 

Voldemort had wanted to be a professor once. Maybe it was Milo Adler’s time to shine. 

Chapter Text

On the first day of Christmas break, Harry went home with Ron. He spent a cheery evening with Ron and his family, eating dinner and letting Mrs. Weasley fuss over him. When everyone got too sleepy to stay up any longer, Harry went to bed in Ron’s room on a transfigured mattress on the floor, stomach full of Christmas cake and spiced cider. 

The next morning, Remus Lupin came to pick Harry up. 

“Now Harry, if you want to come back to the Burrow at any time, any time at all, you just tell Remus and he’ll apparate you back,” Mrs. Weasley said, hovering nervously over Harry at the breakfast table while Harry ate his toast. “Or send a note with Hedwig, and one of us will come get you right away.”

“It’s going to be alright. Sirius is innocent, remember?” Harry said with a grin. 

“I—I know that, dear.” Mrs. Weasley didn’t look at all assured. “I just thought you might get bored with only two adults for company for two whole weeks. Wouldn’t you rather come back and be with Ron and the twins after a day or two? You could play Quidditch with them out in the garden!”

“I do like being here,” Harry told her. “But I really want to get to know my godfather.” Which was true. And also he needed to go visit Voldemort. 

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, and she gave him a hug. 

Remus side apparated Harry to a street in London in front of a line of looming row houses. 

“Sirius Black lives at Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” Remus said, leaning over to whisper the words in Harry’s ear. The two houses in front of them seemed to shudder and wiggle, and suddenly there was one more row house squeezed in between them. It was similar in style to the others, but it looked darker and dingier, and it had an unlived in, abandoned look to it. 

“Sirius didn’t want to do the whole secret keeper thing,” Remus said. “So many bad memories. But in the end, I convinced him that it was his best bet for staying hidden. Now, be very quiet when we go through the entrance hall. There’s a rather unpleasant portrait there that we don’t want to wake up. She doesn’t like me very much, I’m afraid.”

Remus unlocked and opened the front door to Number 12. The hallway was dark, and Harry squinted as they crept quietly through the dimly lit space. They moved past a similarly dim living room, with sofas and armchairs draped in heavy crocheted throws, but there was light coming from the room ahead. Harry moved forward into a brightly lit kitchen, where he was promptly pounced upon by his scruffy godfather. 

“Harry!” Sirius cried, wrapping Harry in a warm embrace. 

“Sirius!” Harry said, returning the hug. Sirius was taller than him, but his frame was still bony and thin from too many years in Azkaban. 

Sirius pulled away and held Harry out by his shoulders to look at him. 

“It’s so good to see you looking healthy and well,” Sirius said, his thick, dark eyebrows furrowing in concern. “We were so worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Sirius,” Harry said, embarrassed. “Er, cool house you have here.”

“It was my parents' house. I grew up here,” Sirius said. “Sounds like a bad idea, I know, being on the run and hiding in my own house. Seems like that would be the first place they’d look, right?”

“Has anyone come looking for you here?” Harry asked, suddenly worried. 

“I’m sure they did when I first escaped,” Sirius shrugged, tossing back his mass of dark, wavy hair. “That’s why I didn’t come here earlier. But things have died down quite a bit since then, and Remus kindly agreed to be my secret keeper…”

“Would you mind… could I get a tour of the house?” Harry asked hopefully. 

“A tour?” Sirius looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t anticipated that Harry might actually look at the house while he was here. “It’s not much to look at. It’s in pretty bad shape right now, to be honest. I’ve cleaned out the kitchen, my bedroom and yours, and the living room. And two bathrooms, so you can have your own. But the rest is practically rotting away.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry said. “I still want to see it all.”

“Well… sure, why not?” Sirius said. 

Sirius led Harry through one dark room after another. Remus trailed behind them, and all three of them lit their wands. Sirius also used his wand to light the lamps every time they came into a new room, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. 

Like Malfoy Manor, the Black house seemed to have far more rooms than it should have, based on its appearance from the outside. Many of the rooms had shelves that were filled with a variety of strange and unfamiliar objects. Sirius caught Harry’s wrist when he reached curiously to open a small silver treasure chest inlaid with emeralds in the shape of a snake. 

“Harry, I don’t want you touching anything in the rooms I haven’t cleaned,” Sirius said. “My ancestors collected a lot of dark objects, and I don’t want you to get hurt. If there’s something you want to get a better look at, ask me or Remus to check it out for you first.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “What do you think about that chest?”

“I’ll take a look at it,” Remus said, raising his wand. “You two can continue with your tour. I’ll bring you the chest when I’m done with it, Harry.”

“Will it take a long time?” Harry asked. “Sorry, you don’t have to. It’s… I just wondered if there was anything inside. But it’s not important.”

“It’s no trouble,” Remus said. “We’d have to do it eventually. Sirius and I are in the process of sorting through everything anyway.”

“Come on, Harry,” Sirius said. “Let’s leave him to it.”

As they continued their slow progress through the house, Harry kept stopping to investigate interesting objects that caught his eye: an onyx figurine of a thestral that flapped its wings and tossed its head; a grandfather clock embellished with carved flowers that bloomed and wilted before Harry’s eyes. 

“So… you like old stuff?” Sirius asked, sounding bemused as Harry paused at a mantle piece to inspect a pair of eyes set into the woodwork that followed him when he moved. 

“I’m not really interested in Muggle old stuff,” Harry said, watching the eyes blink back at him. “But this is magical old stuff. There’s like… lots of secrets here. They could be hiding all sorts of interesting magic that no else knows about. Just… you know. All the possibilities.” Harry gestured vaguely. He wasn’t explaining himself very well. It wasn’t a subject he’d given much thought to until that moment. 

“You’re sounding more like Lily than James right now,” Sirius said with a chuckle. 

“Yeah?” Harry turned around to look eagerly up at Sirius. “Can you… can you tell me about her?”

“Sure, kid,” Sirius said, reaching out a hand to ruffle Harry’s hair. “I’ve got a photo album in my room. I think it might help me remember some stories. Should we go get it?”

“Yeah!” Harry grinned. 

“Want to race?” Sirius said, and promptly turned into a large, black dog. Harry laughed and ran out of the room, chasing after Sirius. 

***

Remus brought the little silver treasure chest to Harry when Sirius was fixing sandwiches for lunch. 

“It’s a good thing Sirius stopped you before you touched this one,” Remus said, placing the chest on the kitchen table in front of Harry. “It had some nasty curses on it. All clean now, though.”

“Is there anything inside it?” Harry asked, putting a hand out to finally touch the cool metal. 

“I’ll let you see for yourself,” Remus said with a wink. 

The treasure chest had a clasp on the front. Harry undid it and then slowly lifted the lid, a strange thrill of anticipation fluttering in his stomach. 

There was only one thing inside the chest. It was a locket on a chain, and it matched the chest: silver, inlaid with emeralds. The emeralds on the locket curved in the shape of an ‘S.’ Harry picked up the locket to get a better look at it, and then he stilled, staring. 

“What’d you find, then?” Sirius said, holding up a butter knife and leaning over to look. “A necklace? Huh.” Sirius went back to the sandwiches, clearly uninterested. 

“It looks old, though,” Remus said. “And someone thought it was important enough to protect with a lot of curses.”

“More old stuff,” Sirius said. “Right up your alley, Harry.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was trying very hard not to react, because he’d known from the second he touched it. He knew the feeling now, as familiar as his own face in the mirror. 

He was holding another piece of Voldemort’s soul. 

***

Voldemort used his wand to etch the final rune in the complicated circular pattern he’d carved into the stone floor in front of his sitting room fireplace. Then he covered the runes with the heavy Persian rug, and he charmed the rug to make sure it would stay in place. 

He had already carved an identical pattern onto a loose stone, wide and flat, which was sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Gryffindor’s golden comb lay out in the open, on top of the stone. 

Harry would be coming in a few short days. Voldemort had the ritual all ready for him. He’d done all the calculations, run through all the magical theory. He was certain it would work. All he needed was for Harry to stand on the rune circle in front of the fireplace. He could immobilize the boy and place him there himself, but he knew that wouldn’t be necessary. Harry would stand there if Voldemort asked him to. 

Once Harry was there, Voldemort would only have to raise his wand and recite the spell he’d created for the occasion. Then it would all be over. Voldemort would have a safe, new Horcrux in Gryffindor’s comb. A Horcrux that could never die, just like Voldemort himself. 

He would be sorry to lose Harry, but it was for the best. Harry was going to die eventually anyway, and if he died outside of Voldemort’s control, then Voldemort would lose the Horcrux. This was just the way things had to be. 

***

Monday was Christmas. Harry received presents from Remus and Sirius, and Hedwig brought him presents from Hermione and Ron. Mrs. Weasley sent him a new sweater with a note reminding him that he could come back to the Burrow “at any time.”

Harry spent his mornings over the following week wandering about Grimmauld Place with Sirius, picking out items for Remus to tackle. Then he would help Remus check the selected objects for curses and hexes. By the third day, Remus said he trusted Harry to do the checking on his own, and Sirius said that Harry could wander about the house as much as he liked now. Harry couldn’t actually remove any curses or hexes if he found them, but he was able to figure out whether something was safe to touch. 

After lunch, Sirius would become Padfoot, and the three of them would go out into Muggle London. They did a lot of walking outdoors, since most of the shops didn’t allow dogs. But they were able to find some lovely outdoor Christmas markets where they bought bread and cheese and cider to warm their hands (Remus also bought a cup for Padfoot, which the big dog lapped up happily as soon as Remus determined that it was cool enough). 

On Friday, over dinner, Sirius announced grudgingly that he had been corresponding with Arminta Selwyn. 

“Only because she’s the only barrister who wouldn’t turn me in soon as look at me,” Sirius said. “Not that I’ve given her the chance to look at me, mind.”

“What did she say?” Harry asked eagerly. 

“She’s looking into getting proof that Peter is still alive. I can submit to Veritaserum, of course, but some people can use Occlumency to lie under truth serum. Peter’s continued existence is the best proof of my story.”

“I’m going to write to Arminta too,” Harry said. He was pretty sure he could convince Voldemort to get Arminta some proof that Peter was alive, but he couldn’t say that to Sirius. Better to let Arminta handle things. 

Harry told Sirius and Remus that he would spend the second week of Christmas holidays with the Weasleys. He also told them not to worry about getting him there; one of the Weasleys would come fetch him when they were ready for him. 

Sunday was New Year’s Eve. Harry stayed up late playing exploding snap and celebrating with Sirius and Remus, and then he went to bed. But he got up again at three in the morning, when he hoped Sirius and Remus would be fast asleep. He crept past their bedroom with his travel bag and went down to the kitchen where he placed a small note on the kitchen table. 

Ron’s brother stopped by for me early—sorry I didn’t have time to say goodbye. Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the great Christmas! I’ll call you later on the mirror. 

He’d already let Hedwig out from his bedroom window with a note for Ron. He’d told Ron that he was going to go visit Draco, but to please not tell anyone unless they realized he was missing. He hoped it would not come to that. He would have to call Sirius as soon as it was morning so that Sirius wouldn’t contact the Weasleys to ask if Harry got there safely. 

Harry tiptoed through the darkened entrance hall, moving even more cautiously now so as not to awake the supposedly angry portrait (he had yet to actually see her for himself). Then he opened the front door and stepped out into the night. 

Voldemort was waiting for him outside of Number 10 (that was the address Harry had given him since Sirius’ house was hidden). 

Hey, Harry thought. Nice hat. 

Thank you. Did anyone see you leave?

I don’t think so. They’re asleep. 

Good. 

Voldemort held out his arm. Harry took it, and they disapparated with a faint pop. 

***

Voldemort apparated himself and Harry into their wing at Malfoy Manor. He could have done the ritual right away, but it was three in the morning and he was very tired. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. 

Your bed has been made up for you, Voldemort said, yawning as he made a beeline for his own luxurious four-poster. 

Move over, Nagini, Harry said, pushing at the large snake coiled in the middle of his bed. 

Food? Nagini said, sleepily raising her head. 

No food. It’s me, Harry. Go back to sleep. 

Warm, Nagini said, contented. 

Voldemort lay down and closed his eyes. He would do the ritual in the morning. 

But when he woke the next day, Harry was already gone. Voldemort found him downstairs at the breakfast table, eating French toast while Draco chatted animatedly to him. 

Harry looked so happy. Voldemort could let him have one last good day with his boyfriend. He couldn’t begrudge him that. 

After breakfast, Harry decided he wanted a tour of all the parts of the manor he hadn’t seen before. Draco was only too happy to oblige. It took them the better part of the day. They had to take a break halfway through to go outside and fly in the snow. 

All five of them ate dinner together that evening: Voldemort and Harry, Draco and his parents. Voldemort was thinking that he would probably do the ritual that night before Harry went to bed, but then Draco asked if Harry would like to go see his family’s stone circle the next day. 

“What kind of stone circle?” Harry asked, curious. 

“Oh, you know, the standing stones,” Draco said. “This one’s quite ancient, actually, built by the druids back in the day. My family’s been using it for generations. My ancestors chose this spot in Wiltshire to build the manor precisely because of its proximity to this particular stone circle.”

“You really should see it,” Voldemort had to admit. 

“We can all go tomorrow,” Narcissa said. “We’ll bring a picnic.”

So the next morning after breakfast, the five of them apparated to the Malfoys’ private apparition point, and then walked the rest of the way. They couldn’t apparate directly to the stone circle because of all the Muggle tourists. 

“Your family’s stone circle is Stonehenge?” Harry’s eyes were wide in disbelief. 

“Have you heard of it?” Draco asked, his face polite and innocent. 

“Have I… of course I know about Stonehenge!” Harry said indignantly. 

“You’re ignorant about so much, I didn’t want to assume,” Draco said. Harry shoved him and Draco laughed. 

Tonight, then, Voldemort thought as they circled the towering stones, craning their necks to look up at them. I’ll do the ritual tonight. 

But when it was time to apparate back to the manor, Harry looked up at Voldemort and asked if apparition was very difficult to learn, and Voldemort remembered that he had wanted to teach Harry how to apparate. 

“You can’t get your license until you’re of age, and technically you’re not supposed to start learning until your sixth year. But the Malfoys won’t tell on you,” Voldemort said. “Would you like to learn?”

“Yeah!” Harry said. So the next morning, Voldemort gave Harry and Draco apparition lessons. Neither of them actually managed to apparate, but it was only their first day. They could work on it again the next day. It would be good practice for Voldemort’s potential career change. 

Then that next day, after their apparition lesson, Harry threw himself onto a sofa and asked if Voldemort knew how to remove curses from cursed objects. 

“Of course,” Voldemort said. “Why, do you have a cursed object?”

“Not here, no, but Sirius has a bunch at his house, and Remus was showing me how to check for curses. I didn’t get to learn how to break any curses, though.”

“You have to learn how to cast curses before you can learn how to break them,” Voldemort said. “That way you understand the magical theory behind what you’re doing.”

“Really? That’s not what Remus said,” Harry said, but he looked interested. 

“We’ll start small, with hexes,” Voldemort decided. So the next morning they started with an apparition lesson, and afterwards they practiced placing hexes on salt and pepper shakers shaped like nifflers that Voldemort had picked up from somewhere in the manor. The day after, Voldemort showed them how to remove the hexes. Draco whinged a bit about having to do lessons over the holidays, but his father said this was an excellent opportunity to learn from the Dark Lord, and he better not waste it. 

And then, before Voldemort quite knew what had happened, it was Saturday. Harry was supposed to return to Hogwarts the next day so he would be ready for school on Monday. If Voldemort was going to do the ritual, he would have to do it soon. 

Voldemort sat on the sofa in his sitting room after dinner. He had written out all the instructions for the ritual on a single piece of parchment, and he reviewed it now, making sure he had every word of the spell memorized. He’d decided to write the spell in Latin. He thought it lent the whole thing an air of gravitas. 

The rune circle for Harry was still under the rug in front of the fireplace. He had Gryffindor’s comb and the stone with the runes for the comb out on the coffee table again with a scarlet cloth draped over both of them, hiding them from sight. 

Harry was not there. He was probably off with Draco somewhere. He would be back before long, though. Voldemort and Narcissa had agreed that the boys should have a curfew. They were only fifteen, after all. 

The minutes ticked by. Voldemort sat, unmoving, looking at the spell on the parchment in front of him. 

Eventually, he got up and made himself a cup of tea. Then he sat down and drank it slowly, his eyes on the spell on the table. 

His cup was empty, the remaining tea in the teapot cold when Harry finally came in. He was smiling and there was a faint pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Hey. You’re still up?

Yes. 

You don’t have to wait up for me, you know. 

I think I do if you ever want an invitation back to the manor. Narcissa is very protective of her son, you know. 

I didn’t—we weren’t— Harry’s cheeks flushed a darker red. 

Why are you still wearing that hat, anyway? Aren’t people meant to take their hats off indoors? Harry thought, changing the subject. 

I like it, Voldemort said. 

It’s the tiara, isn’t it?

Diadem. 

Yeah. I’m right, aren’t I?

Yes. 

Well. Harry took a deep breath and then let it out. As long as you're here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Or… give you, I mean. 

And suddenly Harry was nervous. Voldemort could feel it through their link. What on earth was Harry nervous about?

He watched as Harry’s fingers went to a silver chain around his neck. Voldemort hadn’t given much thought to it earlier, but Harry had been wearing that chain all week, with whatever was on the end of it tucked discreetly under his shirt. 

Harry’s fingers skirted along the chain indecisively for a moment, but then Harry lifted the chain over his head. The end of it came out from under the neckline of his shirt, and with it came…

Voldemort stared. 

Where did you… How…? Harry, that was dangerous! And foolhardy! How did you even know where to find it?

Voldemort took the silver locket from Harry, turning it over in his hands. There was no doubt about it. This was Slytherin’s locket. His Horcrux. 

It’s alright. Remus broke all the curses on the chest before I touched it. He made sure it was safe. 

Chest? What chest? And then Voldemort stood up impatiently from where he had been sitting on the sofa. He pressed the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. 

The memories came quickly. Voldemort rifled through them. Sirius Black. Sirius showing Harry around his house. Harry seeing a small, silver chest, reaching for it. Sirius stopping him. Remus working on the chest. Harry opening it. Taking out the locket. Recognizing it for what it was. 

This isn’t possible, Voldemort said to Harry. No one knew where I hid the locket. No one except… 

It shouldn’t have been possible. But the Black elf had known about the locket, and somehow the locket had ended up in the Black house. 

Thank you, Harry. Voldemort took off his hat briefly so he could put the locket’s chain over his head with trembling fingers. He hadn’t even known that his Horcrux hadn’t been safe. Anything might have happened to it. He might never have found it again. 

Only… that wasn’t the case. He had the locket around his neck. It was safe because Harry had returned it to him. 

You’re welcome, Harry said. And, um. 

And then something very unexpected happened. Harry suddenly surged forward and wrapped both arms around Voldemort’s waist. 

Happy Christmas, Harry said. 

Voldemort patted Harry’s head, bemused. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Possibly no one ever had. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do. 

You’ve been practicing your Occlumency, haven’t you? Voldemort said. 

Harry dropped his arms and stepped back, but he was smiling. 

Did you really not know that I had it?

It’s not something I was looking for in your mind. But no. I had no idea. 

Harry’s grin broadened. 

Well, guess I’ll go get ready for bed, Harry said. He turned to go. 

Harry?

Yes? Harry paused, looking over his shoulder. 

Happy Christmas to you too. 

Harry smiled and left. 

Voldemort sat down on the sofa again. He picked up the parchment with the spell and looked at it for a moment. Then he stood up, went to the fireplace, and dropped the parchment in the fire. He watched it until it was completely consumed by the flames.

He spelled the rug up from in front of the fireplace. He placed a muffling charm and a containment bubble over the stone floor. Then he cast a controlled bombarda. When the dust cleared, all traces of his carefully carved runes were gone, and the stones were a fraction lower in that spot than they had been before. 

As for the stone he’d had beneath Gryffindor’s comb, that he blasted entirely to powder within another contained bubble. He used his wand to drop the resulting sand into the fireplace. 

Now what to do with the comb?

He hadn’t given Harry a Christmas present. It wasn’t something he really thought about. But perhaps Harry would like to have the comb? It was a Gryffindor heirloom, after all, and Harry was in Gryffindor. 

He would give it to him in the morning. Now, it was time to sleep. 

Epilogue 

Dumbledore was sitting in his office. He peered over his half-moon spectacles at the man sitting on the other side of his desk. 

“I have read your application for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mr….”

“Adler,” Voldemort reminded him. “Milo Adler.”

“Mr. Adler,” Dumbledore repeated, looking uncertain. 

Voldemort was the only applicant for the job (he’d asked Severus). He hadn’t even had to scare any other applicants away. 

Voldemort had given Barty a countercurse to allow him to teach a second year as Alastor Moody. Voldemort had created both the original curse on the post of Defense teacher, and the countercurse. He had been mostly sure that the countercurse would work. If it hadn’t… well, his curse didn’t necessarily mean that Barty would die. He might have merely gotten fired for bad behavior. Or he could have contracted a highly contagious but non-lethal disease. 

But it had been fine. Barty taught a full second year, for Harry’s fifth year of Hogwarts, and Voldemort had two sources to tell him all about what was going on at the school. Well, four sources, actually, if you counted Harry and Draco. One could never be too well-informed. 

“Moody’s” two years as Defense professor might have given some people the courage to apply for the post, had it not been for what happened at the end of his second year. 

Professor Moody had administered his last final and had eaten dinner in the Great Hall. All who had seen him remembered him being as sharp, healthy, and fiery as ever. But the next morning, it was a very different Moody who emerged from his quarters. 

To the bewilderment of all, Moody was suddenly pale and thin, sickly looking as if he hadn’t seen the sun in over a year (or maybe two). He seemed disoriented, and he claimed he had never taught a day at Hogwarts. Not only that, but he seemed to have no memory of the last nearly two years of his life. 

The whole affair was unnerving to say the least, and anyone who had thought the curse on the the Defense position might have expired quickly retracted their opinions. 

The result was that at this point in time, the only person willing to take on the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts was the handsome dark haired gentleman with the green top hat who called himself Milo Adler. 

“You come highly recommended by Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, and… Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said, shuffling through the small pile of papers in his hands. 

“I’m Harry’s private tutor,” Voldemort said. “I realize it would usually be more appropriate to ask a student’s parents for a recommendation rather than the student. You’ll see I requested Lucius Malfoy’s recommendation because I also tutor his son, Draco. But in Harry’s case… His guardians are Muggles, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I’m afraid they’re not exactly supportive of Harry’s magical education.”

“I wasn’t aware that Harry had a private tutor,” Dumbledore said. 

“I believe he acquired his first private tutor his third year. Remus Lupin tutored him in Defense. That was when Harry learned the Patronus charm.”

“So he did,” Dumbledore admitted. 

“Harry’s always been a very ambitious student,” Voldemort said. 

Dumbledore steepled his fingers together, his forehead creased as he considered the man in front of him. Voldemort lifted a hand and toyed thoughtlessly with the locket hanging from the silver chain around his neck. 

“Why do you want to teach at Hogwarts, Mr. Adler?” Dumbledore asked. His eyes followed Voldemort’s hand to the emerald-encrusted locket, and then backtracked to Voldemort’s finger, which carried the heavy ring with the black stone. Dumbledore’s forehead creased further. 

“I am passionate about learning,” Voldemort said. “I would love to have the opportunity to inspire a similar passion in the hearts of the next generation. I feel Hogwarts would be the ideal place for me to do that. I love it here so much. If I had my wish, I would stay here forever.”

“But you did not go to school here?” Dumbledore said. 

“I’m afraid not. I attended Koldovstoretz, in Russia. My mother was Moldovan.”

“Ah, yes, Koldovstoretz,” Dumbledore said. “A most illustrious school, though one I have not had the pleasure of visiting, I’m afraid.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Voldemort said. “You should visit if you ever get the chance.”

Dumbledore nodded. Then he just looked at Voldemort, not saying anything. He looked like something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. 

“I confess we are in dire need of a new Defense teacher this year,” Dumbledore finally said. 

***

When Voldemort emerged from the spiral staircase next to the gargoyle, Harry was waiting for him in the corridor. He was looking out a tall window set deep into the castle’s stone wall, and he had Nagini draped around his neck. Voldemort had shrunk her for the outing, but she was still a good six feet long. 

Voldemort had given up on the idea of having a family on that day, so long ago now, that he’d first visited the Riddle House. In all the years since then, it had never occurred to him that he could have a family in a different way: by having a child of his own. Seeing Harry standing there now, Voldemort felt something warm and unfamiliar in his chest. 

Harry and Nagini both looked up as Voldemort approached. Nagini stuck her tongue out in greeting, and Harry’s face broke into a sunny smile. 

“Professor Adler,” Harry said. “Welcome home.”

***

Author's Note:

When Harry got off the train at the end of fifth year, Voldemort, Lucius, and Narcissa had all been at the wizarding part of the train station waiting for him and Draco. Harry was more than happy to skip the Dursleys and go straight to Malfoy Manor for the summer. 

Vernon Dursley, for his part, waited in the Muggle train station for a whole hour. When Harry never showed up, Vernon went home muttering about his unreliable, time-wasting nephew. Petunia was surprised when he returned home without Harry, but neither of them thought that Harry’s absence was worth doing anything about. Even if they’d wanted to make enquiries, they didn’t have an owl, and so could not contact the magical world. 

Arminta managed to clear Sirius’ name during Harry’s sixth year. Sirius became Harry’s guardian, and after sixth year, Harry moved in to Grimmauld Place. Sirius was, however, a very permissive guardian, and Harry spent half his time that summer living at Malfoy Manor. Sirius understood this as Harry visiting his boyfriend and nothing more. Sirius was not bothered by the fact that Draco was a Malfoy, since he himself had come from a prejudiced pure-blood family. He assumed that, since Harry liked him, Draco must be rebelling against his family as Sirius had done. 

Voldemort, despite the unofficial split custody arrangement, considered himself Harry’s only real guardian until Harry graduated from Hogwarts. And even after graduation, Harry would always be his favourite Horcrux. 

THE END