Chapter Text
"Oh God, don’t panic, Harry!" he shouted to himself on his bed, totally panicking. His breathing was erratic, and his heart pounded wildly as a wave of terror crashed over him.
This was a disaster. Mortifying. What was he going to do?
Should he confide in his friends? They'd probably hurl at the mere thought of him and Voldemort together.
Tell Professor McGonagall? She'd march him straight to St. Mungo's for a mental health evaluation.
Or maybe Dumbledore? Merlin knew he should tell him, but how could he even begin to explain? "Hello sir, I’ve been having erotic dreams about Voldemort for weeks and then I imagined him fucking me, and the real Voldemort hijacked my mind. Oh and by the way I swore a stupid oath to do whatever he wants because I WANTED TO CUM SO BADLY!”
This was going to be the end of him and the side of Good. Utter annihilation. Because he was too horny for his own good.
He wanted to cry, to turn back time and stop himself from making that choice. It all felt so deeply unfair. Why had he even listened to Hermione or Madame Pomfrey?
Now, he was sure everyone would laugh at him. Voldemort would waste no time spreading the story, turning it into a spectacle and using him like some kind of puppet.
They would all regard him with suspicion and revulsion. But really, what difference did it make? It had always been him against the world.
Harry walked quietly to the darkened bathroom and took a cold shower, washing away the last traces of what he’d done. Then he climbed into bed and let sleep pull him into the quiet emptiness.
The next morning, he woke up to the bird singing and a beautiful sun shining outside the window.
The world was still unaware that everything had changed overnight.
He dragged himself out of bed and went through the motions of getting ready for school. Each movement felt automatic, as if his body was operating on autopilot while his mind worked to stay blank.
For a moment, he almost believed it had all just been another nightmare, if not for the dirty dildo he found hidden under his pillow while making his bed.
Once again, he dragged his feet all the way to the breakfast table where he found his friend already eating. His mind was racing now, turning over the same thoughts again and again, searching desperately for a way out of this awful situation.
He dropped into his seat with a sigh, piling food onto his plate more out of habit than appetite, as he was way too anxious to eat.
“Good morning!” Hermione greeted him far too cheerful for such a horrible day.
Harry poked at his food with a morose expression, “Hm. Morning.”
“You seem off today. Did you sleep badly?” she asked. It was the same question every morning since he had told his friend about his dream problem, and it had become part of their daily routine.
This time, he flinched and looked away, afraid she might somehow see the truth written across his face.
“I… don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh... alright,” Hermione replied, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The last thing he needed was for her to press him further, because if she did, he might just tell her everything.
Ron sat across from him at the table, slouched over his plate and barely awake. Despite his drowsiness, he was still shoveling generous helpings of sausage into his mouth with mechanical determination.
“Wellf, I–howfpe they let’f us slee’p in classf,” Ron mumbled through a mouthful, spraying crumbs as he chewed with his mouth half open.
It was rather disgust—
“Disgusting.”
At that precise moment, his scar flared with pain, just as the now-familiar voice curled its way into his thoughts.
Harry froze, trying not to react. He stopped himself from lifting a hand to his forehead, not wanting Ron or Hermione to notice his strange behavior.
No. It couldn’t be starting again, not so soon. He wasn't ready! He didn't have time to think about what to do!
"These are the kind of people you surround yourself with," Voldemort sneered, "it's pathetic.”
Harry wanted to argue but was too scared the man would make his scar hurt even more. It was best to not say anything and Voldemort would get bored, right?
“I guess the girl is more interesting. Granger, is that it? Lucius told me she’s the most intelligent of your year.”
“Don’t– talk about her.” Harry said worriedly inside his head.
“I’ll say whatever I want, boy.” Voldemort snapped with a pulse of pain going straight to his scar, “Nevermind, these worms do not interest me. No, I thought I would take a look at what my new servant is up to.”
“I’m not your servant!” Harry said with aggravation.
“Aren’t you?” Voldemort mocked, then Harry’s mind was assaulted by images from yesterday.
Harry saw himself moaning on the floor of the Chamber, crying out that he would do anything the Dark Lord asked if only he would let him come. Then he saw himself cumming all over himself.
His face burned red and his finger started trembling. He could feel his cock hardening against his will at the dirty vision.
“Stop that,” he whimpered, confused about the mix of fear and pleasure filling his mind.
“Mmm, I don’t think so. I quite like that expression of debauchery on your face, trying to hide your reactions from your classmates. Do you think I can also send feelings of pleasure through your scar? Should I try it? ” Voldemort offered wickedly.
Harry rubbed his legs against each other, trying to alleviate the pressure on his groin. “I– no…”
He was way too sensitive down there if only a few images could put him in this state of arousal. If Voldemort started sending feelings of pleasure too, Harry was going to cum in his pants and it would be a disaster.
“I– Leave me alone! Or I’m going to tell Dumbledore!” he tried to scare the man.
“Will you, now? And what are you going to tell him? That you let your enemy into your mind so he could watch yourself get fuck by a clone of himself?”
“I didn’t do that… on purpose. I’ll say you pushed into my mind by force! I'm not going to tell him about… that.”
“Really now? You can’t even accept your own deviancy, so it’s easier to put the blame on the mean Dark Lord. But no, it was all you and your sick mind.”
Harry pinched his arm to try to pay attention to what his friends were saying, but it was useless. Voldemort’s presence was just too strong.
“Don’t say it like that.” he whined in embarrassment. It felt weird to realize he was talking to The Dark Lord, and that the man wasn’t even torturing him through his scar, yet. Voldemort was talking to him normally, like he was fully sane and civilized.
“Do you think Dumbledore will accept your words without asking questions ? He’ll probably want to see into your mind. Do you know what Legilimency is? I know for a fact the Headmaster is very fond of it. Go on, I'm curious what the old man will say about it. But be aware that if you do go tattle, I’ll have to punish you. I can’t have my new little pet go around telling all my secrets after all. You have to be trained to behave.”
Fuck, that was very bad. Harry didn’t know what to do or say to get out of this mess. It seemed every decision he made was the wrong one.
Perhaps he could just leave it all behind, get a new identity or something.
“You can’t run away from me. I will never leave you alone, Harry Potter,” Voldemort murmured darkly. And Harry knew deep in his bones that it was true, that the Dark Lord would never release him. Not until one of them was dead.
The voice fell silent after that, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts once more.
He blinked, as if coming back into his body, and turned slightly. “Sorry– what did you say?” His voice came out more unsteady than he meant.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You’re really not yourself this morning.”
Harry gave a weak cough into his hand and forced a grimace. “Yeah. Probably a cold...”
Voldemort came back into his own mind, leaning against his throne.
One of his death eaters was still in front of him, yapping about something useless, and unaware that his Lord had not paid any attention to his blabber.
He really shouldn't have sneaked into the boy’s mind so soon, but he couldn't help but be curious about his reaction to the events of the past day.
It was the boy’s own fault anyway.
It had all started a month ago during a meeting late at night, in the quiet of his new manor.
He sat in the shadows, half-listening to the dull reports of his followers. Things needed to be put into motion for his new plan of world domination.
He was on the verge of cursing the pathetic wizard in front of him, when something pulled at his consciousness.
At first, he suspected an intrusion via Legilimency, but quickly discarded it when he saw all his followers looking anywhere other than his face.
Something was beckoning him closer, calling, so he followed suit. To his surprise, he was drawn into Harry Potter’s dream.
The setting was unmistakable: the graveyard from the night of his return. Potter was reliving it with raw, vivid fear. It was so strong that Voldemort could almost taste it. He watched in silence, feeling deeply satisfied. This fear was proof of his power, that the boy was indeed still scared of him.
The next time it happened, Voldemort let himself be pulled once again, eager to glean more information on the boy’s inner thoughts. That strange connection was an unmistakable advantage.
The dream started the same as before, with Voldemort rising from the cauldron. But then, the dream began to change.
The boy’s terror remained, but it took on a strange shape. It was no longer just dread, but something warmer, more confusing.
Potter’s eyes started lingering on Voldemort’s form in odd ways, lingering too long where it shouldn't have. There was a tension now, something unspoken and far from innocent.
His doppelganger began taking liberties with Potter's body, pulling moans of pleasure instead of pain from the boy.
Voldemort pulled away, disturbed and unsure what to make of it.
And then it happened again. And again.
Each time, the dreams grew more intrusive, more erotic and sexual. They interrupted his focus, and disturbed his meeting. His own body was getting affected, leaving his cock aching at the least opportune moment. He couldn't deny that the boy was beautiful.
He tried to ignore the dreams and to shut down the connection, but the bond they shared refused to be silenced.
It was infuriating and distracting. So he made a decision.
If the boy’s subconscious insisted on dragging him into these twisted visions, then Voldemort would take control of them. He would turn them against the boy and make him pay for it.
Voldemort would make sure Potter felt every inch of it. He pushed the visions further, making the boy squirm in pain and arousal until he woke breathless and ashamed. Voldemort learned what made the boy shudder, what made him tremble. For weeks on end, he kept the tension alive.
He wanted to make the boy afraid not only of Voldemort, but of himself as well. For the boy to be afraid of his own thoughts and body.
At first, the dreams were mere retaliation, but slowly Voldemort started looking forward to it.
Watching from the dark corners of the boy’s mind, he began to feel something unexpected.
Pleasure. Eagerness.
There was a certain elegance in this form of punishment–no curses or screams, only pleasured moans and confusion.
At first, Potter tried to resist, of course. He avoided sleep and fought the dreams, trying to clench his mind shut. But he was young, undisciplined, and incredibly vulnerable. The bond was too strong to stop Voldemort from entering whenever he felt like it.
And then came that night.
The vision opened in the familiar stone room of the Chamber of Secrets.
Potter was at the center of it, waiting for something. The vision felt different, more deliberate, like it wasn't a dream but something the boy was actively conjuring on his own.
His old figure of Perfect Tom Riddle appeared out of thin air, walking toward the boy. Potter was trapped in his hand, shivering from excitement.
Voldemort considered leaving, the scene boring to him since he wasn't a participant. This figure was a weaker version of himself, pretty but empty of grandeur.
Still, as he was about to leave, a ripple in the fantasy happened, like the vision was getting out of the control of Potter.
Tom Riddle started to change: skin got paler and fingers grew claws. Slowly, hair and nose disappeared in favour of his new Serpentine form.
Yesss. Now, it was getting interesting.
These past weeks of visions had shown him that the boy obviously had some kind of fascination for his new body. But until now, he had tried to suppress it, to keep locked in a dark corner of his mind, pretending he was at the mercy of the Dark Lord.
Not anymore apparently. Finally, the boy had accepted his own deviant obsession. He was eagerly fantasizing about Voldemort commanding him to the floor to take advantage of him.
It was actually impressive how the boy predicted Voldemort's behavior so accurately.
He observed from the shadow, wanting to see to what length the boy would go, what kind of sick fantasy he could imagine.
In this fantasy place, Voldemort could feel echoes of the boy’s pleasure. It came from two directions : his mind and his body. It seemed Potter was taking care of his physical needs as well.
More than once, he stopped himself from revealing his presence. But it didn’t stop him from taking advantage of the boy’s weakened state. He eagerly took control of the narrative, it was too much of a good opportunity to let it pass.
He mixed his own voice with his doppelganger, asking the boy what he would give to be able to cum. And Potter answered beautifully, swearing a vow of fidelity without even realizing.
When the scene came to its natural conclusion, the Dark Lord finally stepped out of the shadow to reveal himself.
The shock on Potter’s face was delicious. The way his face lowered in shame, just as his body betrayed his arousal, releasing Voldemort seed from his twitching hole.
Voldemort wanted to push him back to the floor to lick it clean. But the boy wasn’t ready for that level of reality yet. So he left the boy to make his own disastrous conclusion.
Now, Voldemort couldn't wait to visit the boy’s mind further, to train and shape him to his needs.
But he didn’t have time for this, so many meetings needed to be held, and missions to be given… He couldn’t let himself get distracted from his goal.
Harry had made up his mind. Mostly.
He waited two days in anxiety before deciding to send a message to Dumbledore.
He nearly turned around and ran from anxiety when he arrived at the statues that guarded the Headmaster office.
It was utter madness. What was he even doing here? Voldemort was going to be so mad, but he couldn't just do nothing, right? It would make him feel like a traitor if he at least didn’t try to warn Dumbledore.
He slowly dragged his feet up the stare, like he was walking to his execution. His hand shook when he knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
The ticking of the ancient clock in the Headmaster’s office sounded like a ticking bomb to Harry. He sat stiffly in the high-backed chair across from Dumbledore’s desk, his fingers clenching tightly in his lap.
Dumbledore watched him with those piercing, unreadable eyes, waiting patiently.
“Sherbet lemon?” the Headmaster offered gently.
Harry swallowed, “No, thanks.”
Dumbledore stroked his beard, “What can I help you with, my boy? Your message seemed quite urgent. Is everything alright?”
The words tangled in his throat, he couldn’t say it. How could he explain it all without sounding deranged?
“I–” Harry started, then stopped, glancing briefly at Fawkes, who sang from his perch.
“I’ve been having… strange dreams lately,” Harry finally said carefully, “about Voldemort. They feel so real, like he is there, in my mind.”
Dumbledore's eyes darkened ever so slightly, his expression becoming more serious. “I see. And these visions have been increasing in frequency? Intensity?”
Harry opened his mouth, struggling to find safe ground. “You could say that. They’re… distracting. And unpredictable.”
There was a soft laugh, amused and unmistakably cruel.
Harry froze, trying not to show any sign of panic.
No no no. Not again! Didn’t Voldemort have anything better to do than spy on his every move?
He didn’t have to turn around to know there was no one else in the room with them. Harry had not even felt the man enter his mind.
“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort’s voice purred, only audible to him. “You wound me. Telling half-truths to your beloved Headmaster? And here I thought we shared such… intimate moments.”
Harry’s neck flushed red, his hands clenching tighter.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, concerned flickering in his gaze. “Harry… is there something else you’re not telling me?”
He shook his head quickly, trying not to look into the Headmaster's eye now that he knew about Legilimency.
“No, that’s all. I just– I don't like it. ”
“Liar ,” Voldemort whispered, delighted. “ You’re excited, I can feel it. Should I remind you of what you dreamt again, hmm? The way you moaned–”
Harry felt a sudden wave of strange pleasure wash over his scar. It seemed Voldemort was determined to make him pay in the worst way possible.
The sensation was like nothing he’d ever felt before, making his body spasms uncontrollably. It started from his head and was diffusing into his body, making all the hair stand up.
“Is everything alright, my boy?” Dumbledore asked again with concern.
“Hghn,” Harry gargled with a hand over his mouth. He tried to keep all the inappropriate sounds from coming out of his mouth. The feeling grew sharply in his groin, and then with a last aborted moan disguised as a cough, he came hard in his pants.
It was utterly humiliating.
Voldemort suddenly released the pressure on his scar, leaving Harry panting harshly and disoriented from the forced orgasm.
Harry shut his eyes tightly, not daring to look at the Headmaster to see if the man suspected anything from his strange behavior.
“Mmm, sorry, my scar hurts really bad” he lied, “I’m not feeling so well. Please… Professor. Why is this happening to me? How can I make it stop?” He pleaded.
Dumbledore stayed silent for a couple of minutes, and Harry feared the worst. Was the old man suspecting something and was he going to ask him to stand and show his soiled trousers?
“To be honest with you, Harry, I knew this day would come.”
What.
“Interesting ,” Voldemort commented with interest.
“You did?” Harry asked incredulously. There was no way the Headmaster could have known about his erotic dreams and strange fixation on Voldemort's serpentine form. Dumbledore made it sound like it was something inevitable. Had something been wrong with him from the start?
Dumbledore sighed sadly, “Indeed. When Voldemort attacked you as a baby, something happened. A part of his power latched onto you and a connection was created. That is why you sometimes feel his emotions. That connection could be exploited by Voldemort to see through your eyes as well, and hurt you.”
Well, it was a bit too late for that, Harry thought bitterly. Why was the Headmaster only telling him about it now?
“The old man knows more about it than he let on. What could it be… ” Voldemort said.
“So, what can I do to make it stop?” he snapped at Dumbledore.
“You can't,” whispered Voldemort, but Harry ignored him.
The Headmaster pushed his glasses on his nose in reflection, “Well, when you feel the connection stirring, you should focus on your own thoughts and emotions. You need to hold onto your sense of self, and resist Voldemort’s influence.”
What a bunch of bollocks.
Harry stopped himself from banging his head on the desk. As always, Dumbledore was as useful as a brick.
Voldemort laughed at his despair. “I told you it would be useless, boy.”
“But,” Dumbledore continued pensively, “you might also learn to close your mind against him. Occlumency, Harry. It is the art of shielding your thoughts and feelings from external penetration. It is not an easy skill to master, but you must try. If you cannot control what you think, he will find his way in.”
Harry perked up at the suggestion, it seemed like the perfect easy solution.
“You could teach me, then?” he asked hopefully.
Dumbledore sighed sadly, “I’m afraid not my boy. It is a subtle and difficult skill, one that I cannot properly teach you. But Professor Snape is a skilled Occlumencer, I’m sure he would be delighted to teach you. It is a very intimate subject, as the professor will see into your mind. It is why you need someone you can trust to teach you.”
And with that, Harry’s meager hopes disintegrated. There was no way in hell he was letting Snape into his mind and risking the man seeing his dreams. He would prefer to serve himself directly to Voldemort.
“What a nice thought ,” Voldemort said with amusement.
Harry didn't respond to the Headmaster, knowing the next words out of his mouth would be ‘hell no!’.
“In the meantime, I think it is finally time for me to start training you. I had hoped to let you enjoy your childhood more, but alas, it is essential that you are prepared for what is to come.”
He perked up, “Are you going to teach me new spells, then?” Harry asked excitedly.
Finally, he was going to be trained! It was crazy that with Voldemort always trying to kill him it hadn’t happened yet.
A noise like a snort echoed in his mind.
“I will teach you something better. Something that will allow you to truly understand who you are fighting against.” Dumbledore said cryptically.
The man rose from his chair and walked to a corner of the office. He stood beside the cabinet, his long fingers opening it with a soft click.
Harry stepped closer, curious about what the Headmaster wanted to show him. Perhaps some powerful book or artefact?
From inside the cabinet, he drew a shallow stone basin filled with a silver substance.
Harry leaned forward slightly, curious. “What is it?”
“This is a Pensieve, a receptacle for thoughts and memories. When one's mind is too full, or when one wishes to examine a memory with more clarity… this is where one might place them.”
“Your training… it’s a memory?” he asked doubtfully.
Dumbledore nodded gravely, “They are fragments of the past, Harry. Collected from those who knew Tom Riddle before he became Lord Voldemort.”
“So, you’re going to show me his past?”
“Indeed. I believe that understanding Voldemort as he was is essential to defeating him as he is,” Dumbledore said, his tone calm but firm. “We are not seeking sympathy nor forgiveness, but clarity.”
Voldemort let out a low growl of contempt. “ Pathetic. So this is his grand strategy? Memories of my childhood? The old fool grows more deluded by the day.”
Harry, though he didn’t dare say it aloud, couldn’t help but silently agree. It was quite underwhelming and disappointing.
Dumbledore drew a shimmering strand of memory from his temple and let it fall into the Pensieve.
“Lean in, Harry,” he said gently. “Let the memory take you.”
Harry followed the Headmaster, and the world around him shifted as the memory took shape.
What followed was a series of glimpses into Voldemort’s past: first, his childhood at the orphanage, then his years at Hogwarts, where he skillfully hid his true nature.
Harry watched as Tom tricked others, even managing to frame Hagrid for the Chamber of Secrets incident.
“What’s the point of this little stroll down memory lane?” Voldemort’s voice slithered through Harry’s mind, “You’ve clearly seen some of these memories before. You imagined the Chamber of Secrets and my younger self far too accurately.”
"I didn’t imagine it ," he corrected. "I’ve been there. I saw the Chamber myself."
A cold ripple of laughter brushed against his consciousness. “I doubt that very much, boy,” Voldemort hissed. “Only a Parseltongue can open the Chamber.”
Harry lost interest in the memories and turned his attention inward with a frown. His eyes remained fixed on the swirling memory, but his attention had fully shifted.
"~ Well, I am one~ ," he insisted in Parseltongue, "Didn’t any of your followers tell you what happened in my second year? The Chamber of Secrets was opened, again. The Basilisk started attacking Muggle-borns."
He barely noticed the people moving in the memories, or Dumbldeore comments about what was happening.
"It was one of my friends who opened it, she was possessed by a diary. Your diary." He pushed the memory back at Voldemort. "I went into the Chamber and killed the Basilisk to save her."
Voldemort' interest grew, filling his mind with static.
"That’s when I saw you ," Harry added, slower now. " Or at least a younger version of you, standing above that book. You were behind all of it."
The presence in his mind sharpened. He felt it recoil, then surge forward– hungry.
Voldemort murmured, words razor-thin and dangerous, "Where is it, Harry? The diary. What did you do with it?"
Uh-oh.
The shift in Voldemort’s presence was immediate. Harry could feel it, like the moment before lightning strikes. That reaction told him everything: the diary had meant far more than he realized.
And whatever Voldemort was expecting to hear, Harry was pretty sure he wouldn’t like the truth.
He braced himself.
"Well ..." Harry thought cautiously, "he tried to kill me, so I stabbed the diary with a basilisk fang." He hesitated, then added, "Your younger self kind of... went poof."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, it was like Harry’s head was plunged into ice.
"You. Did. What ? "
Voldemort’s voice was low and venomous, each word like a blade pressing into his thoughts.
His scar flared, and he felt a sharp pain searing across his forehead. He winced, barely managing to keep his face still, conscious of the quiet in Dumbledore’s office. He couldn’t let it show. Not now.
"I–I’m sorry!" the thought burst out before he could stop it. "But I didn’t have a choice! it was him or me!"
Why was he even apologizing? Why was he trying to justify himself to Voldemort of all people? He didn’t owe him anything for Merlin’s sake.
He didn’t, he knew he didn’t. And yet, there it was, guilt creeping in where it didn’t belong. The same he had felt when he had “killed” Tom Riddle.
Harry clenched his jaw, trying to shake the feeling. He scrambled for anything that might deflect the rising fury of the Dark Lord.
“But—if you want someone to blame, ask Lucius Malfoy!” Harry blurted out, the thought firing out of him. “He’s the one who slipped the diary into my friend’s cauldron at Diagon Alley!”
There was a pause.
“Was he, now?” Voldemort said, his voice full of fake softness, promising nothing pleasant for Lucius.
Harry didn’t feel too bad about that. Not even a little.
A guttural growl rumbled through his mind, “ Well? Where is it now ?” Voldemort asked impatiently, “Where is my diary?”
Then a new voice broke through, softer and grounding. Real.
“Harry?” Dumbledore’s voice came from across the office, gentle with concern. “My boy, are you feeling okay? You seemed far away for a moment.”
Harry blinked, trying to catch his breath. Voldemort’s angry presence loosened slightly.
“Is everything alright?” Dumbledore asked again, watching him closely over his half-moon spectacles. “I know these memories can be upsetting, but they are necessary for you to truly understand.”
Harry forced a nod, swallowing down harshly and feeling the echo of Voldemort’s impatience still coiling around like a snake.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m... I’m fine.”
He knew Voldemort was still there, listening.
“Ask him about the diary .” Voldemort demanded, letting no room for a no.
“Hm… Professor, viewing these memories made me think of something.”
The Headmaster leaned forward, happy to hear him ask some questions, “Yes?”
“What happened to the Dark Lord’s diary? The one I stabbed during my third year?”
“Voldemort, you mean? Only his followers call him the Dark Lord,” Dumbledore corrected, before stroking his beard slowly.
Harry nearly hit his face at the slip up. He needed to be more careful with his words.
The Headmaster made his way to the desk and opened a compartment with a flick of his wand. Then, he pulled out a wooden box, beckoning Harry closer.
“It’s right here, my boy. I must say, I have started a collection of strange little objects,” he said mysteriously, but seemingly happy with himself, “You must tell no one about it, my boy. It’s our little secret.”
When the box opened, Harry saw the diary with its familiar hole in the middle. But what caught his eyes was the beautiful golden ring with a square black stone next to it.
“What’s that?” Harry asked curiously.
“That is mine !” Voldemort yelled with fury, “That cunning old bastard really thought he could get one over me without me knowing. But oh no, he won’t,” the man cackled maniacally, “He will pay for that, the old fool.”
The comment only picked Harry’s curiosity further, but it seemed his questions wouldn’t be answered by either man tonight.
“It’s something very dear to our friend Tom.” Dumbledore said with finality, closing the box.
“It's getting late. You should go get dinner with your friends before getting some sleep. We will need to plan other lessons, as there are still a lot of things you need to learn.”
Harry tried not to grumble too much on his way to the door. The meeting had been pretty useless, and he wasn't closer to getting rid of his unwanted visitor.
“Everything will work out in the end, my boy,” Dumbledore patted his shoulder patronizingly.
Harry seriously doubted it.
“Now, as I expected, you’ve disobeyed me by coming here. You’ll have to be punished, boy.”