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Chapter Text

Harry Potter… The Boy Who Lived… Come to die…

The Boy Who Lived. 

An amusing title in hindsight. The Boy Who Apparently Didn’t Have a Choice might have been more apt. He looked around the train platform in confusion. It was dark, and cold, and Dumbledore was nowhere in sight. Harry could have sworn he’d boarded with him. Mist still lingered around his ankles and across the platform, but Harry was otherwise left alone with his thoughts.

A pang of guilt hit him now, replacing his earlier sense of peace. He knew he had people who loved him, people who had fought with him, died with him. In the moment, however, he had been tired. So very tired. Boarding a train to the beyond had felt like a peaceful reward, a promise of his family waiting there at the end of the line for him. His parents, and Sirius. Remus and Tonks, and Fred. Maybe he’d see Cedric Diggory there, too.

None of them were here, though.

He let out a sharp exhale. Was this limbo? Had he not earned paradise? Had he used too many Unforgiveable Curses this past year?

He wished Hermione was there to help him figure it out. But whether he was stuck in limbo, or in some version of the afterlife, Harry Potter was never going to see Hermione Granger again. She was alive, and he was not surprised to find that despite his sorrow, it was enough for him. Wasn’t that what all of this had been for?

“Hello?” he called out experimentally, wondering if there was any chance of being heard at this point. Walking along the platform, his eyes caught a sign under the flickering lamp of the platform. 

Upper Flagley. 

He knew the name. He remembered it from having looked into it recently. It was a place wizards gathered, like Godric’s Hollow, or Tinsworth. Somewhere in Yorkshire…

The afterlife was in Yorkshire?

Had this been where his train had led to, when he had boarded it at King’s Cross? It didn’t make a lick of sense, but he reasoned that if he could find his way to the village proper from the station here, he could potentially find out more. His bones ached with exertion, as they had when he was walking through the Forbidden Forest to meet his death. A death that was apparently cold, and painful, and confusing...

Still, he wasted no time, and stepped off the platform, his eyes straining through the darkness as he found a trail leading off. It took him several minutes, but eventually the lights of the village came into view. Another ten took him to the edge of it, and the streets were barren of life, but for a few cats, and a man tending to one of the street lamps. Harry approached him, wondering if he was the Ferryman or something. A spectre lighting the way in this misty village of stone houses and muddied roads.

“Hello?” he called. 

“Bloody hell, lad,” cursed the man, near enough jumping out of his skin. He was in his fifties, at the most, and wore a flat cap. A flat cap and a bemused expression, light blue eyes narrowing inquisitively.

“I’m sorry,” apologised Harry, “I’m just trying to find my way to the afterlife."

“Almost sent me there yourself, lad,” he tutted, “You been drinking? Get off home with ye.”

Harry blinked. “No I’ve not been drinking,” he insisted, “I’m dead."

The man frowned, discomfort crossing his expression, before he raised his wand. “ Lumos ,” he said, before his voice softened a touch, “You alright, lad? Tell me where you live and I’ll walk you back myself.”

“I don’t live in Upper Flagley,” he insisted, “I’m-”

“Your name, lad,” he continued gently, enough that it sent a flash of frustration through Harry. 

He huffed. “Harry Potter,” he replied.

“Oh aye,” remarked the man, presumably recognising his name, as most magical folk did, “Come on then, I’ll take ye home.”

Finally… Harry felt a modicum of exhaustion lift from his shoulders slightly at the prospect. As the man crossed over to him, putting one arm around his shoulder securely, Harry found himself leaning into him, eyes closing as-

The man disapparated, pulling Harry with him. 

As they warped into their new destination, Harry let out a sharp gasp of surprise. Disapparition? In the Beyond?

He looked up, and realised they were standing on the driveway of a house. It was somewhere between a manor and a cottage, tall, but built with old cobbled stone rather than neat little bricks. Plants crawled up the stonework and light shone warmly from thin paned windows, some of which appeared to be stained glass. Save for the presence of turrets or spires, Harry rather thought it looked like a small castle.

“It’s about a forty minute walk from the village,” laughed the man softly, “You must have walked a fair bit! Come on, lad…”

Harry was so perplexed he said nothing as the man guided him towards the door, reaching up to knock against it gently. Silence followed. 

“What’s your name?” asked Harry lightly. 

“John,” he replied, “Not very exciting I know-oh here we go.”

The door swung open to reveal a housekeeper. She was in her mid forties perhaps, with brown hair tied in rags, and covered with what looked like a pillow case. She had a dressing gown pulled tight around her, and a perplexed look on her face, likely due to the late hour. “Oh John!” she greeted, her voice hushed and quiet, “Everything alright?”

“Evening Maggie,” he said, “Sorry to wake ye, I’ve got a young Harry Potter here. Seemed a bit lost and confused so I’ve brought him home-”

“Uhm, Harry Potter?”

“I’ve got to shoot off,” he apologised, “But let me know if there’s anything I can do in the morn-"

“John, I-”

The man disapparated again, and Harry found himself staring bewildered at the woman, who was staring bewildered right back.

She raised the candle she was holding, her brow furrowing intently as she did so. “Well you certainly look like a Potter,” she supposed, “Suppose you’d better come in, then."

“Uh…”

“Quickly, boy!”

He hurried inside, and followed her through to… wherever it was she was leading him. A bedroom it turned out. It was not a terribly big room, but a four poster bed sat in the far corner of the room, with soft white sheets. The housekeeper, Maggie, stayed in the doorway. “Sleep here for tonight,” she said, “I’ll inform Mr Potter when you’re awake-”

“Wait,” insisted Harry, excitement flooding him, “Is my dad there? James?”

“James ?” she asked, her brow furrowing once more, “... I’ll go and wake Mr Potter now, shall I? Just wait here, alright?”

She disappeared, the door closing quickly, and Harry was plunged into darkness. Sighing, he cast a quick Lumos himself, flicking the light off the end of his wand so that it floated around the room instead, before he found an oil lamp in the corner. It took some investigating to get it going, and once he had he realised this room didn’t seem to have electricity. Perhaps it didn’t exist in the afterlife. 

He sat on the bed, and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him once more. He had died today. He was never going to see his friends again. And here he was, alone, in the dark. In the cold.

Whether Maggie the Housekeeper woke Mr Potter was something Harry would have to wait until morning to discover, as his head hit the pillow.

Harry woke to find the sun filtering through the silvery curtains, and for several long moments, he watched as dust swirled through the sunrays. He was warm beneath the covers, now-though he did not remember getting under them-but the air outside was cold against his cheeks.

This felt more like the afterlife. What paradise might feel like for him. Waking up to sunlight on a cold day, and knowing deeply, that there was no monster waiting somewhere out there to kill him. No shade haunting his dreams.

Still, he was tired .

Sitting up, he rubbed his hand over his face, before looking around for his glasses, which he found placed neatly on the bedside table. As he swung his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the cool stone, the door swung open without warning, and stood before him was a woman roughly in her thirties.

She had dark blonde hair, perfectly styled in a sort of middy cut, and Harry wondered if she had slept in rollers. Her fine features were perfectly made up, too, and she wore a deep orange short-sleeved turtleneck with a pair of tweed dungarees. In her hand was a tray, filled with what appeared to be breakfast food and tea.

“Oh, let me do it, love!” The familiar voice of Maggie the Housekeeper rung out as she appeared at the woman’s back. Her hair was curled a bit more tightly, and she now wore a grey woolen dress, with a black belt around her waist. “We don’t even know who this man is - he could be dangerous!”

“Danger?” asked the woman, her voice much deeper and more husky than Harry had imagined for her, “The war is over, Maggie, and it was certainly never in Upper Flagley-”

“Euphie-”

“Out,” she ordered playfully, and a wave of her hand saw the door close behind her. Walking confidently over to the dresser, the woman set the tray down on it, before looking over to the perplexed Harry.

“I just love your jeans!” she announced, smiling warmly.

“Uh…” began Harry, “Can I ask who you are?”

“Isn’t that my line?” she laughed.

He rose to his feet quickly, holding out his hand in greeting. “Harry Potter,” he introduced, “The Ferryman brought me here last night-”

She cocked her head, before taking his hand. “Well,” she began, “I’m Euphemia Potter. And as far as I know, John from down the road brought you here, and Monty has never mentioned you.”

Harry blinked.

Euphemia Potter.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter…

This was his grandmother.

Tears filled his eyes, and alarm crossed her expression quickly. “Oh sweetie,” she breathed, taking his shoulders to sit him back down on the bed, “You’re not one of Henry’s hidden children, are you? He’s a great man in many ways, but he never could stay away from the ladies.”

The woman dropped to her knees in front of him, studying his face closely, though she stilled carefully as he reached out to press his fingers to her cheek in wonder. He could see his father in her cheekbones, in the sharpness of her brows, in the hazel of her eyes. Harry had been gifted his mother’s eyes. It would appear James had been gifted Euphemia’s eyes, too.

“Harry?” she inquired softly.

“I’m James’ son,” he breathed.

“James?” she asked, “I’m sorry, ducky, but I don’t know any James.”

Harry furrowed his brow slightly. “He’s your son.”

She pressed her lips together in thought, though whatever was going on, she seemed determined not to show any visible confusion at all. “Alright…” she said quietly, “Well, Monty will be back any minute, I had Maggie send for him. He’s been away, you see.”

“Selling potions…” breathed Harry, recalling the very little information he had regarding his grandparents.

She smiled patiently. “That’s right,” she confirmed, “Now, how about some breakfast, hm?”

He nodded, watching as she turned to start gathering together the teacups on the tray, and as the morning light shone through the window, making her hair shine like good, fresh hay, he felt as though he was in a dream.

If this was the Beyond, it was nice…

They ate in relative silence. Drank their tea, and all the while, Harry never left where he was sat on the bed. Euphemia offered him a bath, but Harry had settled for the sink, and listened to her explaining that getting running water, gas, and electricity out in the country was a pain, but that Fleamont had sorted it out a few months back, and they were working on having wiring and plumbing put in all the rooms. He listened to every word she said, every inflection, and found it mesmerising how every word fell from her tongue with precision and grace.

Eventually they found themselves sat in the parlour. It was filled with things, and Harry was reminded momentarily of Dumbledore’s office. There appeared to be a lot of cream and white in the decor of this house, but the couches in the parlour were a deep gold, and Harry sank onto one just as the fireplace roared green, and a man stepped out.

He was dressed in a fine dark suit, and a strong jawline was accentuated by well kept stubble. Messy dark hair seemed to defy reason, however, and Harry tried not to beam at how much he could relate.

“Hello, love,” greeted Euphemia, moving to kiss him lightly on the cheek, “Well… This is Harry.”

The man looked down at him, before grinning broadly. “Well of course he’s a relative, Euphie,” he pronounced, “Look at his hair! That’s a Potter barnet if I’ve ever seen one!”

Harry rose to his feet, and the moment he did, his hand was gripped firmly. “Fleamont Potter,” introduced the man brightly, “Inventor, Entrepreneur, and handsome devil - but you can call me Monty, if it’s all the same.”

“Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion…” Harry repeated, unsure of what to say, or do, or feel.

“Works on everyone,” laughed Fleamont, “Except for me, apparently. Well then, where’s Maggie? Is it too early for a proper drink?”

“Almost certainly,” scolded Euphemia playfully, “And she went to the village for some flour.”

“Used to have a house elf when I was a boy,” Fleamont explained, “But my old man decided to free her, at her request. Ever heard of a house elf wanting to be free? Well, let me tell you, Old Elly was a spirited little thing.”

Harry felt warmth blooming in his chest at the concept of those who came before Dobby, and a wave of pride that Fleamont’s father had honoured his house elf’s desires, even back then.

Euphemia had disappeared, presumably to get some refreshments in Maggie’s stead, and so Fleamont dropped down on the couch opposite Harry, gesturing for him to sit back down. “It worked out well, though,” he continued, “Euphie likes to keep the house herself for the most part, and she won’t have anyone else cook for us. Best cook in the world. Maggie does the cleaning though, we’re both useless at that. Anyway-”

He talked so fast.

“Tell me, lad,” he said, with a gesture, “What’s going on?”

Harry breathed. “Well…” he began, seeing no sense in trying to lie, “I died, and got on a train to the Beyond, and now I’m here. I suppose this is my afterlife. But I’m not sure where my dad is. Your son?”

Fleamont Potter had come in bouncing with energy, but in that moment, he seemed to calm down entirely, his brow furrowing. “I’m afraid I’m not following,” he said, “I don’t have a son. I mean, we’ve talked about it-”

“You do,” insisted Harry, “James Potter. He was born in 1960-”

“Well it’s 1948,” interrupted Fleamont, “What say you to a little visit to St Mungo’s - I’m sure this is all very confusing to you.”

“1948?” asked Harry, ignoring the idea of St Mungo’s entirely, though he could not blame the man, “But I died. I…”

“This isn’t the afterlife,” said Fleamont, with a wave of his hand, “You’re very much alive. And cold, I’d bet. Always takes this house a while to warm up in the mornings…”

Harry was utterly dumbfounded. 1948? Was it possible he was alive? Was this purgatory?

He needed to stay calm.

Fleamont pressed his lips together, and silence fell. Euphemia chose this moment to reappear, with a tray of biscuits and tea, and she set them down on the coffee table.

“What did I miss?” she asked, with casual interest, dropping down now next to her husband.

Leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, Harry took a deep breath, before looking Fleamont in the eye. “My name is Harry James Potter,” he began, “I was born on 31st July 1980. My father, James Potter, was born in 1960. He married Lily Evans, and he had me. I died yesterday, it’s the 3rd of May, 1998.”

The silence settled in now, the two staring at each other as though deciding what to do in this situation. Harry felt a flash of irritation.

“You don’t believe me,” he stated.

Fleamont shook his head immediately. “Isn’t that simple,” he said, before rising to his feet, “Come here…”

He walked over to one of the bookshelves in the corner, and waving his hand, it swung open, before a basin began to slide out into the open. Harry recognised it immediately.

“Know what this is?” asked Fleamont.

“A pensieve…” he murmured, following him over there now. Unless he was mistaken, too, this wasn’t just any pensive, but Dumbledore’s pensieve, or one just like it. A flash of confused bitterness filled his mouth then, annoyed that Dumbledore had just left him here confused.

“We’ll take a look,” said Fleamont, “Memories aren’t always clear, but I’ll be able to tell if they’ve been tampered with in any way, so we’ll get to the bottom of everything, alright?

This was perfect. Harry nodded, lamenting the fact he’d need to think of these memories to produce them, but he set to doing so anyway, determined to include everything that felt important. From his warped memories of the death of his parents, the Philosopher’s Stone, the Chamber of Secrets. The graveyard in Little Hangleton. The Ministry, and the prophecy. The horcruxes. The hunt for them. His death... To the memory of standing on the platform with Dumbledore. To the memory of him standing on the platform in Upper Flagley.

He stepped back once he’d put them inside, and Euphemia stepped forward to join Fleamont. “Have a cup of tea whilst we take a look, alright, Poppet?” she said kindly.

Harry did so, and as they engaged with the pensieve, and as he raised the teacup to his lips, he felt a wave of guilt wash over him.

Even if this was some confused version of purgatory… He was going to make them watch their own son die. A son they didn’t even have yet.

He couldn’t think of anything worse, truly.

Still, he could think of no other alternative. Explaining it would make him sound crazy. Not that he wasn’t crazy - Harry himself still had no idea what was going on now.

There was a fair bit to get through, he supposed, so he was finishing his second cup of tea when they finally emerged. 

Euphemia fell back on the floor gasping for air, and Harry bolted from his seat, the teacup shattering on the stone floor as he reached for her before her head could crack against it too. She looked at him in utter horror and devastation.

“What-” she stuttered, tears pouring from her gaze, “Oh-”

Fleamont was stood behind them, silent, his eyes transfixed on the pensieve in front of him, but Euphemia was decidedly animated.

“I-”

“I’m sorry I made you look,” breathed Harry, “I-”

He was suddenly dragged forward, his head pressed firmly against her chest, strong fingers threading through his hair, as she fought to steady her breathing. “It’s alright, child,” she said, her voice thin, desperate, “I won’t let anything touch you now. You’re safe.”

Everything she’d seen in those memories, and this was how she reacted. To first and foremost make sure that Harry felt safe. It reminded him, lightly, of how he felt being in Sirius’ arms, or Molly’s, or Dumbledore’s. The closest things he’d had to parents. Losing Sirius had almost ruined him, but this… His own flesh and blood. His 

He had never felt so protected in his entire life. He closed his eyes, and just let her hold him for a moment.

“I love you…” she whispered through the tears, “I love you-”

“Euphie let him go,” said Fleamont calmly, quietly, “Don’t panic, love. He’s here. He’s alive.”

“I don’t understand,” she sobbed.

He felt strong hands grip his shoulders, pulling him from Euphemia’s grasp, though her eyes flashed with a maternal sort of protest as he did. Despite this, Harry realised they had been lying on the floor, so as Fleamont pulled him to his feet, he held his hand out for her.

Fleamont’s hands were a different strength. Grounding. Secure.

“Sit down,” he muttered, a little dazed as he led them back to the couches, though they all seemed to squeeze onto one this time, “Let’s all just sit down… and have a cup of tea…”

Harry, a little delirious, started to laugh. In times of peril, the British always had tea. Seems time didn’t stop that…

“You’ve jumped back,” said Fleamont after a moment, “In time, I mean. You must have come back.”

“I don’t understand how this can be real,” said Harry, his eyes focused on Fleamont now, “At least with time turners we know they don’t go far back, but I have no idea what this is.”

“We don’t have the answer to that,” he agreed, “You got on the train. You came back.”

“Maybe we’re supposed to help him,” said Euphemia, sounding a little more measured now, “Maybe he’s been sent back to us, why else would he come to Upper Flagley? To Willowmere?”

“Willowmere?” asked Harry.

“The name of this estate,” explained Fleamont briefly, before answering Euphemia, “We can safely assume, I think, that he’s been brought here so that he has access to us, his family in this time, but why now, I could not say. If we do not have our son for another decade or so, I am not sure what Harry is supposed to gain from this.”

“James…” she whispered, “You came here asking for him, and he’s…”

“It’s alright,” said Harry, “I…” He trailed off, staring at Fleamont for a moment, though the man seemed to be in complete crisis mode. Whatever he felt for the prospect of his son dying before he could legally drink in some countries, he kept a handle on it now, determined to get from A to B in this dilemma.

“Can you contact Albus Dumbledore?” asked Harry, suddenly longing for his professor’s direction, now more than ever before.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Fleamont, nodding, “He’d take this at face value-”

“No.”

Euphemia’s voice came in cold, and sharp. Both men turned to look at her perplexed for a moment.

“Euphie-”

“That Severus man was right,” she said firmly, “He raised you like a pig for slaughter.”

Harry’s expression softened. “He had to,” he said, “I never blamed him. It was for the greater good… I know he loved me.” And he did. He knew it in his chest, in his soul. In the sparkle of Dumbledore’s eyes, and the softness of his voice. He knew it in Dumbledore’s guilt, a guilt he put on his shoulders and back, and carried for years, so that no one else would have to.

Whatever his feelings, and however complicated they were, they were his, and Harry Potter was certain he was not going to let anyone tell him how he should feel when it came to Albus Dumbledore. No matter his life and lies.

“Love has nothing to do with it,” she insisted, taking one of Harry’s hands again, “How do we know he won’t find a way to manipulate things here, too? Sacrifice you again just to kill that Dark Lord fella before he gets all big and strong?”

Harry blinked.

“You’re a genius…” he breathed.

She arched a brow as Fleamont laughed, suddenly invigorated.

“Tom Riddle is still a young man,” explained Harry, “Granted, he’s still probably more powerful than ninety-nine percent of the wizarding population, but he hasn’t made all his horcruxes yet. He’s still fresh off the boat. And I know the moves he’s going to make, more or less, so I can stop him in his tracks.”

Fleamont nodded. “So Dumbledore-”

Euphemia opened her mouth to protest, but Harry beat her to it this time. “A compromise,” he said, “We don’t bring Dumbledore into it right away, at least not in terms of him knowing what’s going on, whilst I get the lay of the land. But we should make contact, in case there’s information I need, or in case he needs to know on short notice.”

Euphemia nodded, seemingly more satisfied with this arrangement. “Is there anyone else we need to keep tabs on?” she asked, “Anyone important?”

He wracked his brains. “... Doge,” he said, “Is there a Doge? Uh, then there’s Minerva McGonagall, wherever she is right now, oh and Hagrid. God, he must be young as well…”

“God?” inquired Fleamont, surprised.

“Lily Evans was a muggleborn,” explained Harry, “And I was raised by her sister, so…”

Fleamont smiled broadly at the concept.

“Oh,” Harry realised with a start, as the talk of his mother brought up a rather key detail, “Horace Slughorn!”

Euphemia laughed. “Sluggy?” she asked, “Well, he’s Monty’s biggest fan, so I don’t think we’ll have a problem talking to him.”

“If there’s anyone Tom Riddle is still in contact with from Hogwarts,” he went on, “It would be Slughorn. Given the date, Tom Riddle would have graduated by now, which isn’t really ideal, but he should be able to fill us in on anything important. I know Tom Riddle worked for Borgin and Burkes, in Knockturn Alley, but the timeline isn’t exact.”

“Seems like a place to start,” said Fleamont, “I’ll invite Horace for dinner, ask him to bring a few friends, with any luck they might know something about this Tom Riddle as well. In the meantime, you should rest properly, Harry. You were in battle yesterday; I’ll brew something for you, eh?”

He rose to his feet, heading off to his laboratory, and Harry’s ears were ringing for a moment, the sound overpowering something Euphemia was saying about cooking him dinner.

Her arms around him silenced it, bringing his feet back down to the ground. She smelled of cloves and nutmeg. It soothed him. It made him think of halloween at Hogwarts, of spiced lattes, and warm scarves. He did not feel as though he was in the arms of a complete stranger.

“You like lamb?” she asked softly, apparently repeating a question he had been dissociating through a moment ago.

“Mm,” he confirmed, “I like lamb.”

She leaned back, kissing him firm on the head. It was strange, given she couldn’t have been more than fifteen years older than him, but he felt very young in that moment, in the hands of his grandmother. His grandmother.

“You can call me Nanna if you like,” she told him, her eyes wide and sure, “But if it feels weird, Euphie is fine, too. Maybe you can be Monty’s second cousin if anyone asks.”

It did feel weird to call such a young woman Nanna.

Harry decided he was going to do it anyway.

“I just made a treacle tart yesterday, too,” she said, getting to her feet, “I hope you have a sweet tooth!”

She seemed to wander off towards the kitchen now, likely to set about making that lamb, but the fact she had made treacle tart on the very day he had ended up here seemed like the final nail in the coffin of his situation. That he was here, that this was very real, and that he was alive. That is was on purpose.

And that somewhere across time, a great battle had taken place, and he had no idea whether or not his friends had succeeded in their goal of killing Lord Voldemort, or whether they now lay dead in the ashes of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

If it had even taken place. Or had everything turned black when Harry had come back here, frozen in stasis until he returned. If he returned. All of this an issue even before entertaining the fact that Harry had broken all the rules of time travel already in coming here, traipsing around the village with reckless abandon, and then telling his grandparents openly who he was, why he was here, and what had happened.

The guilt that had been sitting in his stomach churned threateningly, but he refused to allow it purchase. Whatever was going on, he clearly had a job to do, and it was the same job he’d been charged with his entire life.

Harry Potter was going to kill Lord Voldemort.

He supposed his train would be delayed until then. 

Chapter Text

I want to fuck him until his bones break, until his lungs break, until he forgets his name, and never mine.

I want his love I cannot return, I want to devour it whole, until he has none left to give, and it is mine.

I want his body. I want his soul. I want his worship. I want his magic. I want. I want. I want. 

For now, the silence. 

Chapter Text

Harry took some time to familiarise himself with Willowmere over the next few weeks, which Euphemia was more than happy to assist him with. The house itself was big enough, but it was the grounds that held true wonder, and Euphemia assured him that the estate stretched on for miles, and that it was a true representation of the variety to be found in Yorkshire.

The immediate outside was mostly a mess of mismatched vegetable patches, that his grandmother assured him tasted better than she’d made the garden look. Still, there was cast iron garden furniture, a little pond, and benches to sit on. This was apparently where Fleamont liked to take his bedtime cup of tea.

It led quickly though to a woodland area, full of life and, at this time of year, the beginnings of a blanket of fallen leaves. As they walked, Harry was struck by Euphemia’s intelligence when it came to the natural world.

“Do you get much in the way of magical creatures out here?” he asked.

“Oh loads,” she confirmed, “There’s a fable about Willowmere, that once the Peverells walked here, and that ley lines run beneath the earth. We get bowtruckles, and fairies. Gnomes try to steal my potatoes quite often, I keep telling Monty we need to get a crup or something. My favourite, the Jobberknolls, look right there.” Her hand raised towards the tree, but Harry couldn’t for the life of him spot it. “Your grandfather is quite fond of the Augureys, but I suppose both are fairly morbid. Monty swore he saw a unicorn here as a child once, but we've not seen one since. Our true treasure you'll see when we get to the moors... but we have to pass the lake first, and we need to go over the ground rules for that lake.”

Harry nodded. “It’s probably true,” he said, his eyes flickering up to look at the trees, “The Peverell thing…” She was quiet for a moment, before he spoke again. “What’s wrong with the lake?”

“At least three Potters have died there in the last fifty years,” she told him seriously.

“ Three? ” he exclaimed, “What’s in it?”

“A Kelpie,” she said with a grimace, “Terribly tricky creatures, but it can’t do much so long as we don’t go too close and people are adequately warned not to listen to it. And before you ask, yes people have tried to bridle it, we had a Newt Scamander fellow come in and check it out, he said he’d never seen such an aggressive, bloodthirsty one in all of his life.”

“Never?” asked Harry. 

“Then he told my father-in-law it was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever had the honour of meeting,” she laughed, “You should have seen Henry’s face.”

“Will I meet Henry soon?” asked Harry.

Euphemia smiled sadly. “He passed on,” she said quietly, “Just a few weeks before you arrived.”

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry…” he said, “The way you talk about him… You must have loved him a lot.”

“Never knew anything like it,” she told him honestly, “It makes Monty so happy, though. That I got to have a father like Henry, even if it was only for a few years. You know, I met Henry first. We were at a ball the Zabini family were hosting, and I had just spotted my betrothed, Pollux Black, kissing Muriel Weasley in the rose garden.”

Harry balked. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowing her down, “Ron’s Great Aunt Muriel stole your man? You were engaged to a Black?”

“Ah,” she laughed, “You must not have been aware. I was born Euphemia Rosier.”

Rosier. A name he’d only ever associated with Voldemort’s regime.

“Oh Pollux was a wretch,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, “Was besotted with me at one point, don't get me wrong I do have some good memories of him, but Muriel Weasley hated me. I suppose in hindsight I was giving as much as she gave, but that’s besides the point, she utterly ruined him for me, and she was supposed to be one of my best friends. He didn’t even marry her in the end, he married my other best friend, Irma, and had the two worst children you’d ever hope to meet. Well, Cygnus is alright, but let me tell you Walburga is an absolute terror…” She shook her head. “Anyway, back to Henry. So there I am, crying my heart out, and to the credit of the purebloods there, though I am loathe to ever give them too much, they found the whole thing very distasteful. Pollux’s father was utterly livid, I was a good few years younger after all and he should have been looking after me better. My father, however, stood there and accused me of not trying hard enough to keep hold of Pollux’s affections.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “He blamed you?” he demanded, “In front of everyone?”

She nodded. “Henry was already on the backfoot with them all at this point,” she went on, “They respected him for his power, but he’d been horribly progressive in the Wizengamot when it came to the issue of muggles and muggleborns. He really put his foot down that day, though. Lifted me up onto my feet and told my father it was no way to speak to a woman, let alone his daughter. He took me out to the little boating lake, and asked me why I had friends like Muriel. I told him it was because they had been picked out for me when I was very young.” She smiled fondly. “He told me that a woman with a heart so big she would shamelessly cry in front of a crowd, brave enough to defend herself, deserved far better than Cygnus and Muriel. I never let them push me around after that. Fleamont came to find us shortly after, and I saw him standing on the jetty looking out at us, and remembered how much he had smiled at school… I had begged the Sorting Hat to put me in Slytherin as a child, but I would have had a much better time if I’d allowed it to put me where I belonged. And so I fell in love with a Gryffindor. A lion who would fight for me.”

Harry felt so warm in that moment, wrapped up in one of Fleamont’s cloaks, and in the story of true love. Love had bore his father, and love had in turn bore Harry himself. 

“Here we are!” she announced, as they broke through the tree line, and Harry felt the breath knocked out of him at the view. Before him was a vast, glittering lake, before miles of moorland, all speckled with heather, leading to rolling hills in the distance.

“This is all yours?” he asked breathlessly.

She nodded. “Gets windy out there,” she warned him, “But when it’s a still summer’s day, I take a blanket out, and a few pillows, and I read.”

His eyes scanned the view, before his face broke out into a grin at a very familiar sight. “Thestrals,” he observed.

“Thought you might be able to see them,” she chuckled, “Oh they’re just the loveliest creatures. They stay here year round, you know, and out in the open like that, they must feel so safe here…”

“I can relate,” said Harry honestly, before her arms wrapped around him suddenly.

“I don’t know my son yet,” she said quietly, “But I am so proud of him, that he made something as beautiful as you.”

He returned her embrace properly for the first time, burying his face into her flaxen hair.

“He has your eyes…”

“I like that,” she said, drawing back, “Yours are just mesmerising though. I’ve never seen eyes so green… They remind me of the low lights in the Slytherin common room.”

He scrunched his nose up.

“Or the colour of the lake where I grew up,” she offered, amused at his expression.

“Nanna…” he said, the word finding his lips for the first time, “Do you think this is permanent?”

She knew what he meant. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, “But we will figure this out together. And if you are not supposed to stay, then that’s alright. I want you to live your life. I want you to see those friends of yours again…”

Harry nodded, feeling a lump in his throat.

Euphemia smiled. “Why don’t you tell me more about them?”

He did.

Horace Slughorn came to Willowmere for a Sunday roast dinner, in the end, though it took some weeks for Fleamont to pin down the man's schedule, busy as he was at Hogwarts. Harry helped Euphemia out with the cooking as Maggie prepared the reception hall for the dinner, and experienced for the first time how absolutely tyrannical his grandmother was in the kitchen. He could see it in her now, the Rosier, the former pureblood princess tendencies. Given the context, Harry rather found it endearing, and it spoke to his comfort that he settled into bickering with her quite easily. It was the little moments like that he'd never take for granted when it came to family. 

He imagined himself cooking Christmas dinner with Ginny, bickering over how long the parsnips needed to go in the oven. A fantasy, now...

There was a boisterous knock at the door, and when Harry heard the vibrant tones of Horace Slughorn, he felt a pang of anxiety rush through his chest. As of yet, he had not met anyone he’d known before in his timeline. Still, he forced a smile onto his face, and made his way out into the hall with Euphemia. She was wearing a very pretty dress in a dark shade of mulberry pink that she had seen fit to stuff Harry into as well. Slughorn seemed to be very fond of her indeed.

He had brought with him some important friends, as Fleamont had likely requested, and Harry knew himself Slughorn believed all dinner arrangements to be had with good connections, especially when he got to show off his own. He brought with him the head of the exam board, Griselda Marchbanks, Tiberius Ogden, his best friend and old colleague of Henry Potter's, Elphias Doge, who Harry knew to be Dumbledore's friend, too, and Professor Galatea Merrythought, an ageing woman who Harry was delighted to learn was the recently retired Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

As they sat down to eat, and catch up, and drink a not inconsiderable amount of port, Harry found himself reluctantly enjoying the conversation. Ostentatious as it was, Slughorn really did make a point of having interesting friends. It was painfully obvious what Dumbledore liked in Elphias, for example, and the man was a dab hand at brushing aside Slughorn’s odd comments about his friend. Tiberius drank like a sailor, surprise to no one, and said more ridiculous things as the night drew on, and Harry barely talked to Griselda at all, instead spending much of his own evening in conversation with Galatea. Hoping talk of Hogwarts and learning might draw the conversation closer to Harry's intended destination.

He tried to imagine, ironically, how the young Tom Riddle would have approached this mission. He decided he'd start with a smile.

“So Harry,” began Galatea, “Monty tells me you were home-schooled, due to a childhood illness.”

“That’s right,” said Harry, taking a sip of his port, “Not the most exciting time - I don’t have any friends - but I suppose I learned a lot of magic they don’t really get around to teaching at Hogwarts. I learned to cast a corporeal patronus when I was thirteen.”

“Oh?” asked Galatea, with a slight gasp, “Merlin’s Beard! Could we see it?”

Slughorn saw fit to zone in on Harry now, eyes sparkling with interest, and Harry coughed awkwardly, as though he was feeling shy and humble about it. He took out his wand. 

A happy memory…

The image of him stood with Euphemia looking out over the lake came to mind immediately. He rather thought, no matter what happened from now on, it was a memory to keep. A moment where he felt peaceful.

“Expecto Patronum,” he incanted, and sure enough, his stag erupted from his wand, doing a lap of the table to the excited delight of those present.

“Marvelous, my boy!” crowed Slughorn, “And you say you did this at thirteen years old?”

Harry nodded. “I was good in most other subjects,” he explained, “but Defense Against the Dark Arts was always my best. Certainly the magic I found most exciting.”

“It’s a shame you weren’t able to come to Hogwarts, Harry,” said Slughorn, tapping his nose, “I know a few people who would have been very eager to be friends with a young man of your talents.” Harry’s heart skipped a beat at that. “Any idea what you want to do moving forward?”

“Well I’m not terribly well connected, for obvious reasons,” said Harry carefully, “So for now I’m going to shadow Fleamont. You know, learn the ropes of proper society, meet some good people, enjoy the full range of his laboratory.”

“Ah!” said Slughorn, taking a generous mouthful of his drink, “I gifted much of that to Monty myself, didn’t I?”

Fleamont nodded. “That you did!”

“But that’s a good, solid plan, my boy,” commended Slughorn, “Given the circumstances, putting yourself in the hands of those who can help you is absolutely the wisest thing to do. I’ll see you right, if you keep me apprised of where your interests end up leading you!”

“I wanted to be a teacher,” Harry pretended to confess, though in fairness, he had enjoyed his time with the DA, “But I’m not sure I would be able to treat them all equally; I’m terrible for choosing favourites.”

“He does a poor job of pretending he doesn’t like Euphie more than me,” Fleamont chimed with a charming smile, to the laughter of the others.

“Oh that’s impossible!” insisted Slughorn, “You do right by all your students, of course, but you cannot help who you like, Harry, and trying to treat them equally could limit their full potential. I had a half-blood lad not so long ago, and if I hadn’t given him every opportunity for his brilliance to shine, society might not have given him much of a chance, either. Which would have been a shame, we can all agree - the boy is a generational talent. And I make it a point of personal pride knowing I saw that seed and nurtured it.”

Bingo.

“A half-blood?” asked Harry, his voice laced with interest, a look of pure admiration filling his gaze that had Slughorn almost preening with triumph, “A generational talent?”

“Oh I shall have to introduce you!” said Slughorn decidedly, “Yes, he draws a fair bit of attention these days, but he only really keeps me updated, we have a very close relationship, you see. He was an orphan, and I would not be too bold to assume he may well see a father figure in me.”

Harry tasted bile in the back of his mouth, before nodding. Voldemort had really done a number on Slughorn. He thought back to Slughorn sat in Hagrid's hut, looking so small. Dumbledore had never trusted Tom Riddle, but Harry wondered briefly what the heartbreak must have been like for someone good-hearted to have realised they had loved a complete lie. The most dangerous lie in history...

“I’d like that,” he said, “What is it he does?”

“Well Tom,” he began, “Tom Riddle is his name, you see. Well, he was working for Borgin and Burkes for a few years, but he is currently abroad, travelling. He’s talented at everything, but he’s on a bit of an archaeological fellowship right now. Enjoying his time as a young man travelling the world. He even did a bit of magical creature conservation, too; there’s no better time to do stuff like that. I think I have convinced him, though, to soon return and take up a position at the Ministry. Just about every department wants him, but he would be wasted in any other than the one I have picked for him.”

“What’s that?” asked Griselda, “You’re not going to put the boy in the Department of Mysteries, are you? What a waste of a face.”

“I daresay he’d solve all our mysteries within the week!” said Slughorn, before laughing at his own apparent wit, “No, no, young Tom will be joining the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He’s a born politician, that’s for sure and certain! “

Harry breathed, suddenly feeling as though the ground disappeared from under his feet. Luckily, he was seated.

The Department of International Magical Cooperation?

He had not done that before. The Tom Riddle in his time had refused all Ministry positions. His love lay, fundamentally, in magic. He wanted to rule by magical prowess, power. In what reality was he going to wilfully deal with bureaucrats? 

Something wasn't right here...

He could not believe how level his voice remained. “Magical creature conservation?” asked Harry, “I’m a bit of an expert on Thestrals myself.”

“Aha!” laughed Slughorn, “I shall have to include that in my next letter!” 

The night wound down, but it was well past one in the morning by the time they bundled Slughorn and Tiberius into the floo, and Fleamont let out a long sigh once they were finally alone.

“Helpful?” he asked idly.

“Very,” said Harry, “Slughorn likes to brag, and if he thinks I’m impressionable and likely to hang on his every word, he’ll make his next project, and keep me updated about the great success that is Tom Riddle…”

Euphemia nodded. “Helpful…” she agreed, “But if it’s all the same, I think I need to go to bed before I fall asleep where I stand…”

As Harry lay down to sleep that night, he found himself quickly pulled into the lull of a dream. He was in Hogwarts, on the island where lay the grave of Albus Dumbledore. He woke up with his back propped up against it, unsurprised at the palette of dreary grey around him.

“Like a pig for slaughter!”

Euphemia’s words seemed to dance with Snape’s own in his head, and Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

“I love you,” he said quietly, “I trust you still… But I need you now, Professor…”

There was a gentle brush of wind against him, and then came his reply.

Smooth, silky, and cold.

“Where am I?”

Harry’s eyes flew open, and he looked up to see that a few feet away from him stood Tom Riddle in the flesh. He looked older than he had in the diary, in Slughorn’s memories of him. He looked similar to the Tom Riddle who had returned to apply for the position at Hogwarts, when Dumbledore had turned him away.

The man was just as devastatingly handsome, maybe more so, with the softness of youth no longer clinging to the sharp features of his face. His hair was swept back, and onyx eyes were now the colour of the very port Harry had drunk that evening, and he wore a finely tailored black suit that perfectly suited his tall and lithe frame. Yes… This looked like Tom Riddle, and it talked like Tom Riddle.

But it was Lord Voldemort.

“Who are you?” asked Voldemort, his voice cold, yes, but also curious .

Harry chuckled softly. “Must be a nice dream…” he mused, “A reality in which you have no idea who I am…”

Voldemort stepped closer, before crouching in front of Harry, his head tilted to one side in question and wonder. “Is this a dream?” Harry wasn’t sure if that was rhetorical or not, but chose not to reply anyway.

“You were so beautiful…” remarked Harry, his eyes tracing the perfect lines of Voldemort’s face. It was still confusing to him now, to know that Tom Riddle could have had the world reverent if he’d wanted. Instead, he’d chosen to have it terrified. The comment didn't seem to phase Voldemort in the slightest though. He remained curious.

“I can’t tell if this is your dream,” murmured Voldemort, “Or mine…”

Harry grinned. “Oh it’s definitely mine, Riddle,” he said, feeling his lips curve up in a smirk, “I was always going to get the last word in the end.”

“You’re a boy at the foot of a tomb,” he pointed out, “Looking like he might pass out at any moment.”

“Always your undoing,” Harry laughed, “Just a silly little boy, with silly average grades. The world really is unfair…”

“Give me your name,” said Voldemort. A demand, and a warning all at once.

“You know my name.”

Voldemort changed tactics, leaning down, his expression soft, his voice coaxing . “Give me your name…” he whispered, long fingers coming to rest beneath Harry’s chin, and by the gods was he convincing. Harry didn't blame anyone - not a soul - for ever falling for the wiles of Lord Voldemort. It felt strange to be on the receiving end of it, and alarmingly, he was reminded of another time, in the Ministry, when Voldemort had whispered to him then, too, all curiosity and intrigue, as to whether he could convince Harry to use the Killing Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange.

Still, Harry knew Voldemort far too well for seduction to ever work on him now. It had worked when he was twelve, it had almost worked when Harry was fifteen, but mere days away from his eighteenth birthday, and after all Harry had seen and done, he had total clarity now. The knowledge of this saw heat blooming inside of him just as much as Voldemort’s mesmer did. This monster had no power over him now…

"Give me your name..." 

Harry leaned up, closer, so that their noses bumped ever so lightly, and emerald eyes shone with mirth, and amusement as he spoke, his tone mirroring Voldemort's own.

“ You know my name. ”

Harry awoke with a start, his body shivering and sweating all at once, and one look towards the curtains told him it was just before dawn. Hands shaking, he fought to steady his breath, practising the techniques Hermione had taught him about how to control anxiety attacks. He felt phantom fingers beneath his chin, searing despite how cold they had been. Death had apparently emboldened Harry in his dreams...

It was just a dream. Voldemort had killed his own horcrux inside of Harry Potter. It had been curled, destitute, under the bench on that train platform.

It was just a dream, but Harry got straight out of bed anyway.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of Harry’s nightmare was a short-lived affair, much as his life was, but he was grateful for this, even if the distraction was a horror in itself.

“A ball?” he asked, his voice riddled with distaste, “Where?”

“Malfoy Manor,” said Fleamont, handing the invitation over to Euphemia, “What’s with that look on your face, Harry? It’s quite a nice manor, and the food is always excellent-”

“I had a bad experience there,” he said coolly, realising this was the first time he’d truly been irritated around his grandparents.

“Oh bloody hell,” cursed Euphemia, “You’ve gone and upset him on his birthday. I didn’t bake four cakes for you to go and ruin his day-”

“All I did was open an envelope!”

“It’s fine,” Harry cut in, running a hand through his messy dark hair, “I’ll go to the stupid ball, and wear stupid dress robes-”

“Oh they’re like to be the most stupid dress robes you will ever wear,” said Fleamont apologetically, “There’s a theme .”

Harry blinked. “A theme? ” he demanded, “What’s the bloody theme?”

Malfoy Manor was always a vision, though Harry was loathe to admit it. In truth, he still didn’t like it - it always looked and felt so cold and lifeless. A big empty husk.

For once, though, it was positively filled with colour, for Abraxas Malfoy’s Butterfly Ball.

The ballroom where he now stood resembled a moonlit forest, fluttering enchanted moths floating above them, and glowing mushrooms lining the edges of the room. A string section played mystical music, but Harry could not see from where, and he was pleasantly surprised that they’d made the room smell earthy too. Like pine, and petrichor. It wasn’t bad. Even if he did feel ridiculous. It might have looked a little tacky in his time, but it was the run up to the fifties, and he imagined they’d be talking about this one for a long time. 

He’d had a good while to prepare for it, at the very least. The Malfoys had wanted to have it before the end of autumn, so it had been a few months since the dreaded invitation had found its way through their door. It was a little too close to the end of October for Harry’s blood, but it was as it was. Harry had been able to a couple of more evenings in the presence of Horace Slughorn since then, too, so it put them in much better standing for the things they wished to achieve tonight. Which was, Harry hoped, meeting some of Tom Riddle’s contemporaries from school.

He turned to look at Euphemia, who admittedly looked beautiful. She had gone with an Emperor Butterfly theme, and wore a navy and golden gown that had iridescent layers reminiscent of wings. She had charmed it, too, so that it shimmered when she moved, and atop her perfectly arranged blonde curls sat a jewelled tiara that tastefully resembled antennae.

She hung off Fleamont’s arm, despite being an inch or two taller than him in her heels. His grandfather had let Euphemia pick for him, and they had decided on a stag beetle. He wore midnight green and black robes that had been enchanted with a sort of beetle-shell luster, and beyond that, the horn-like lapel pins that resembled mandibles were the only other defining quality. As it was, very few men in view had gone as vibrant as the women, at least in view.

Harry less so than anyone, though he felt he stood out even more because of it. A bat, Euphemia had said. Dress him all in black it’ll bring out his eyes . He wore long charcoal robes that had winged sleeves, the fabric trailing like a bat’s membrane, and a rather unnecessary enchantment that had Harry’s own shadow flickering like wings. Attempts to tame his hair had gone very wrong, even with the inventor of Sleekeazy’s himself, but otherwise, he looked alright. Far more elegant than he actually was, at any rate.

There was a flurry of people who wandered over to greet Fleamont and Euphemia then. Several people who had not seen them since the death of Henry, or that would be their excuse anyhow. It became apparent very quickly that they mostly just wanted to view the new secret shiny Potter.

Harry was used to this sort of attention; he’d dealt with it since the moment he entered the wizarding world, being the Boy Who Lived and all. Nevertheless, he had never liked it. It must have shown on his face, as a soft hand slipped into his own, pulling him away from the crowd.

Before he could so much as blink, he was on the dancefloor, and in his arms was a young woman wearing a black and gold gown that made her very reminiscent of a bee. He found himself not quite needing to ask who she was - hazel eyes set into fine aristocratic features, and blonde hair piled atop her head in an elaborate updo, it was clear as day to him.

“Which Rosier are you?” he asked, arching a brow. Harry had taken lessons dancing for the Triwizard Tournament, and though he had never cared enough to pursue it further than that, though she did not seem to mind, contented enough that he could perform a simple waltz.

“Druella,” she introduced, with a sparkling smile, “I’m Euphemia’s little sister.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “She never mentioned you!”

“Yes, well,” she sighed breezily, “She thinks she’s too good for us now; as though I wasn’t more than a child when she took off with your cousin. No offense, of course, I’m just quite openly bitter about it.”

She pulled herself closer to him, smiling mischievously. “Think it will irritate her?” she asked, and he was suddenly thrown with the memory of the family tree in Grimmauld place. Something about the mischief in her gaze, paired with a seemingly devoted focus on her family, no matter how petty. This was Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda’s mother .

Harry wanted to frown, but for some reason, he found that his lips were turning up slightly in amusement. “You’re dancing with me to piss your sister off?” he asked her bluntly.

“Shh,” she whispered, her lips coming to rest against his ear, “Is it working?”

He glanced over at where Fleamont was entertaining a crowd, to the image of his grandmother staring daggers at them. He laughed, putting distance between him and Druella once more. “Mission accomplished,” he assured her, “I’m Harry.”

“I know who you are,” she assured him, as they spun, “Slughorn was quite excited about you, apparently. You know he loves an underdog…”

Harry didn’t correct her. He’d always been one of those.

“You’re a few years younger than me,” she observed, “but you should come to our gatherings sometimes. Everyone is welcome.”

He arched a brow. “Everyone?”

Her teeth flashed as she laughed. “Within reason, of course,” she added, “I know Abraxas was curious about you, my Cygnus, too- oh shit .”

At that moment, a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to a young Sirius Black appeared, and Druella was promptly out of Harry’s arms.

“Just meeting the family,” Harry assured him casually.

To his credit, Cygnus just nodded. “Apologies for my betrothed’s whirlwind whimsy,” he said coldly, before all but dragging her away, their hushed bickering dissipating into the music as they disappeared. Harry for his part was left stood in the middle of the dancefloor. He could feel the eyes on him immediately, and made a swift exit to the side, where a champagne fountain was being manned by what appeared to be fairies, though he couldn’t be sure - they looked strange.

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry’s heart lurched, and for a moment, he wondered if he was back in his own time, before he realised what was going on. Turning his head, he managed to keep a hold on his glass of champagne as a man with such a startling resemblance to Draco Malfoy leant on the table beside him. Like Harry, he too was wearing black, though his robes had silver embroidery across them in a spider’s web pattern. The long cloak he wore was clasped together by a spider shaped brooch, with an emerald set into it, and Harry was momentarily startled by how striking he looked. Given he appeared to be a few years older than Harry, he assumed this was the host.

“Malfoy,” he greeted, raising his glass in greeting, “Quite a party you’re throwing tonight.”

“Indeed,” agreed Abraxas, and despite the resemblance to Draco, Harry could not help but notice how relaxed Abraxas seemed to be, not a hint of tension in his whole body, as though he was born to stand in contrapposto and lazily survey people probably lesser than him. It made him realise just how much Draco must have been holding, his whole life long.

“What were you doing dancing with Druella?” asked Abraxas conversationally, “I’m surprised Cygnus didn’t hex you off the dancefloor.”

“She was after her sister’s attention,” said Harry, taking a sip of his drink, “Not mine. I imagine he was aware of that.”

“Ah, of course,” said Abraxas, with a click of his fingers, before moving the conversation along with little preamble, “So what do you do for fun?”

A surprisingly easy question. “Play Quidditch,” he supposed, though the second it left his mouth his brow furrowed, “You know, I can’t think of anything else… I need more hobbies.”

“Evidently,” laughed Abraxas, “What position?”

“Seeker,” he responded.

“With glasses ?” asked Abraxas.

“Only game I ever didn’t catch it was because I fell off my broom,” said Harry, allowing a smile of his own to find his expression, “And before you ask, no I did not simply fall off - a dementor attacked me.”

“ Codswallop ,” scoffed Abraxas.

“Give me Veritaserum and ask me again,” offered Harry, raising his hands in mock surrender. A smooth chuckle left Abraxas at that, and he shook his head, amused. Harry might have been surprised they were getting along so easily, but he wondered, sometimes, whether he and Draco could have been very easy friends in another life.

“We’re having a little impromptu Hogwarts reunion after the ball,” he said, “If you’d like to join us.”

“I didn’t go to Hogwarts,” pointed Harry.

“Yes, but you’re here now,” he pressed, “And Sluggy seemed convinced you would have been a Slytherin.”

Harry wanted to protest, to claim Gryffindor with pride, but he couldn’t do that here. He needed to play things properly, play them safe. And the truth was, he wasn’t going to find it hard to play Slytherin.

He would have done well in Slytherin.

“He said you’d never really met people your own age,” he went on, “Or close enough, anyway. We’re in our twenties now, for the most part, but there’s a few fresh Hogwarts graduates, and better to pick your friends now, whilst they’re here. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”

It was like looking at the other side of a very irritating coin, though Harry could almost see a sort of sincerity in Abraxas. Harry had nothing to offer on surface value, so there was no underhanded reason why Abraxas would offer him kinship beyond making Slughorn happy. But who needed that?

“Plus,” he added, “The girls asked me to invite you about five minutes ago.”

That both made more sense, and less. Harry’s brows raised. “Why?”

“You’re slightly good looking,” he said, with a shrug of one shoulder.

“ Slightly ?” asked Harry, “Alright, tell me what you really think why don’t you…”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, unperturbed, “We can’t all have my face now, can we? Besides, they have quite high standards. If they say you’re pretty, you’re pretty. Now come on, Pretty Boy, do we have a date or not?”

“Alright,” said Harry, “But if you’re all boring, I will leave.”

“In all honestly,” said Abraxas, leaning in to lower his voice, “ Some of them are. But I’ll be there, as will Druella’s brother, and Nott. And not least- Professor Slughorn! ” He exclaimed over Harry’s shoulder, stepping back from their almost-intimate proximity. “And so the prodigal son returns!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Slughorn, coming into view in robes of bronze, though Harry had no idea what he was supposed to be, “Good to see you, my boy! Ah, Harry!”

Slughorn gestured behind him, though Abraxas had beaten him to it, and was currently in the process of clapping someone on the shoulder. The crowd following Slughorn’s contingent was not inconsiderable. Young men in lazy impressions of the theme, old women nattering away. A red-haired woman in a fox mask, staring at Harry curiously.

It was clear none of them were following Slughorn.

Harry stared at the man in Abraxas’ loose embrace, and the man stared back.

Port red eyes accentuated by impossibly thick dark eyelashes were entirely still, and frustratingly unreadable. Harry could only hope his were, too, though Hermione had often assured him that his eyes could not lie to save his life. The man had dark hair swept back from, objectively, the most beautiful face Harry had ever seen. It was his least favourite face, but the truth remained. High cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, delicate and sharp all at once, just as it had been in his dream those months ago... He was wearing a delicate, wing-like cape over pale green robes, with silver accents. Light seemed to reflect off its surface, subtly, but enough to draw the eye and as his gaggle moved around him, the cape whispered, soft and unsettling.

Lord Voldemort looked like an angel. 

“Yes, Harry!” He could hear Slughorn talking, but his eyes were locked on Voldemort’s, and he tore them away, lest the man be tempted to whimsically take a peek inside his head. He forced a smile. “Yes, so this is the Mr Tom Riddle I was telling you about! Tom, this is Harry Potter, a most fascinating young man indeed. Produced a corporeal patronus at thirteen, no less!”

“Thirteen?” exclaimed one of the older women, and Slughorn was more than happy to launch into a story about how it was indeed true, and how he himself had coaxed the information out of him. 

“We missed you,” said Abraxas.

“I was not gone that long,” mused Voldemort, his voice so normal, and human, and otherworldly, and mesmerising, and horrific, and-

“Shall we slip his leash?” whispered Abraxas, tugging on Harry’s wrist as he led them away. Surprisingly, Voldemort followed without much preamble.

This was insane. This was surreal. Harry couldn’t breathe, but he had to, and he was. His body was going through the motions as it should. He blinked, and before he knew it, he was stood under a gazebo in the gardens, watching Abraxas light up a cigarette. Voldemort stood there, just feet away, leaning against one of the columns, looking like a statue.

“This is Harry, by the way,” said Abraxas, “Did Sluggy say? I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s a Potter, so he makes the cut.”

“The cut?” asked Harry, speaking for the first time since he had clasped eyes on his mortal enemy in the flesh.

“You know,” said Abraxas, taking a long drag, “You can be in our social circles. Sorry, did you want one of these?”

Harry thought of Sirius. He thought of how Hermione would have killed him if she found out.

He took one, and lit it up, coughing slightly at the sensation, much to the delight of Abraxas.

“You don’t know me,” said Harry, after he got a handle on it, “You’re just going to decide I’m worthy of being your friend?”

“I told you,” said Abraxas, “The girls asked for you. And what they ask for, we’ve learned we should probably just get. You think they wouldn’t look at you twice with Tom here, but I think they gave up on him some time ago.”

Harry did not look at Voldemort.

“The more I look at you though,” observed Abraxas, “I reckon if we did something with your hair, and lost the glasses somehow… I mean your eyes, oh okay yeah. I see it. I see it.”

“How much have you had to drink this evening, Abraxas?” asked Voldemort, his voice rhythmic and soft.

“I’ve been drinking since midday,” he replied shamelessly.

“You ought to slow down,” he remarked, “if you wish to continue into the early hours once the ball has ended.”

“You’re right…” agreed Abraxas, “I’m going to get some water or something, do you two want anything?”

“I’ll come with you,” offered Harry immediately.

“No.”

Voldemort’s voice rung out clear, and without any particular force to it.

“Stay here, I’ll be back in just a moment…” said Abraxas, patting Harry on the shoulder as he walked away. And that was that. No protest, no question.

It was already happening… 

There were several long moments of silence, and Harry was glad he could fill them with his cigarette.

“Do you wish to return indoors?” asked Voldemort quietly.

Harry did not look at him.

“Maybe in a bit…” he replied, sounding as casual as he could given the circumstances, “I sort of wanted to hide out here.”

“Hide?”

The voice washed over him like silk, and memory. Like a bad dream you had as a child and remembered suddenly. Except all of Harry’s nightmares had been real.

This particular nightmare brought back memories of tunnels, and chambers of secrets.

He turned slowly, emerald eyes falling on the man, though he tried not to meet his gaze too closely. It wouldn’t do to obstinately refuse to look at them whilst they were alone together, so he would just have to do his best.

Seeing him in memories and dreams was one thing, but this was as Harry remembered in the Chamber. Devastatingly handsome, inhumanely so. Magnetic in every way. Too sharp, almost, if he were to look for a flaw. If he were to beg the universe for just one flaw…

All his flaws lay beneath the skin.

And so Harry Potter had found him.

“You’re Fleamont Potter’s cousin,” he stated lightly, “Horace tells me you were terribly ill.”

“Until recently,” replied Harry, praying to gods he didn’t believe in that his shock and rage were well concealed.

If Voldemort noticed anything, he did not react, instead, kicking off the wall gracefully. As he approached, Harry took a tentative step back before remembering that this was long before his time, and that he had no cause to hurt Harry at the present.

His scar prickled .

Bile rose in his throat once more. Why did it prickle? It was not as though he still had a shard of Voldemort inside him… was it? Voldemort had killed that, he had burned it out of him, it was on the platform, at King’s Cross. It must have been phantom pain, the memory of it, now Voldemort was so close.

“Tom Riddle,” he introduced, holding out his hand towards Harry, and helpless to do anything else, Harry took it. “I thought I’d introduce myself personally; you must forgive Horace, he gets a little overexcited.”

His skin burned where it touched the cold marble of Voldemort’s hand, and it took everything in him not to do it. Not to kill him where he stood.

Could he even do it?

“You don’t have to do that,” said Harry, before he could help himself.

“Do what?” asked Voldemort, with a slight tilt of his head.

“Pretend like you care to meet me,” replied Harry coolly, “You don’t care for a single person here.”

An unreadable expression washed over Voldemort’s face, and Harry had to give credit where it was due, because knowing intimately who he was, he knew he was restraining himself quite a bit. It was like watching ripples on a pool of water. The man was irritated, but determined not to convey it.

“And whatever has given you that impression, Mr Potter?” he inquired.

Your soul is in shards, you think of others as ants, or pawns, and you have never cared for being loved by others beyond what it can get you. 

“You’re hiding out here, too,” he said instead, with a smile, as though he had only been jesting with him. Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, and Harry wondered in a moment of panic whether or not he believed him. It was a bad lie, after all.

“Caught me out…” replied Voldemort, apparently content to at the very least pretend to take him at face value. He turned from him now to wander back towards his column, “It’s been a long day is all…”

Lord Voldemort telling him about his day . Him being here so human like this felt alien . Then again, he’d felt that way ever since he had woken up on the train platform in Upper Flagley. The tale of his life was quickly becoming some sort of eldritch horror.

“Did you come straight from work?” asked Harry.

“I did,” exhaled Voldemort, raising a cup of tea to his lips. Drinking tea at a ball… When had he even procured that? Then again, Voldemort not drinking alcohol didn’t surprise him in the slightest. He would never hand over his control to a bottle, least of all in a public place. “I expect you and your cousin are working.”

Harry smiled slightly. “Not sure why Monty feels the need to,” he said, moving to lean against another column, ensuring that his position left Voldemort in clear sight, “If the potion works, it works.”

“All the genius in the world means nothing if you cannot sell it right,” countered Voldemort, “Though I am not sure a ball hosting this lot is the answer. Aside from the Blacks, everyone has remarkably sleek hair already… You would have done better hosting it in Willowmere, though admittedly I am not sure people around those parts could afford such luxuries…”

“Is that a note of disdain I hear for poor people in your voice?” mused Harry, with an unamused laugh, “Aren’t your family from the north?”

He knew instantly he had fucked up. In part, because he was apparently a fucking idiot, but mostly because of the way the already still Voldemort froze . Port-red eyes remained locked, for the moment, on his tea cup, and Harry was glad for it.

“What is it you apparently know about my family?” asked Voldemort.

There were a few ways this was about to go, but one thing Harry knew for sure and certain, was that he had to say something before Voldemort was tempted to delve into his mind - Harry had never been good at keeping anyone out, least of all this man.

“I make a point of knowing most people,” explained Harry, “Like you said, at these events, Monty and I are working. I know you’re a Gaunt-”

“How?”

“You’re a Parselmouth, aren’t you?” he tried, “Slughorn mentioned it.” He wasn’t even sure if Slughorn knew at this point, but it was a shot in the dark. “That’s sort of a prerequisite. The Gaunts were based in the north, no? Lancashire? Yorkshire? I always forget where Little Hangleton is.”

Red eyes found his own, and Harry urged the man to look away, with everything bone in his body. He tried his best to clear his mind, just in case, but nothing was guaranteed right now.

“... Aren’t you a clever little thing, Mr Potter…”  mused Voldemort.

“Completely ordinary level of intelligence, actually,” laughed Harry, and Voldemort just stared at him. Harry was half considering asking him what for, when Abraxas returned, this time with Druella in tow, along with a few others, including Cygnus, who surprisingly nodded to Harry in greeting.

“Harry!” said Druella joyfully, “Everyone, this is Euphie’s new baby cousin, Harry Potter.”

Abraxas sidled up to him again. “That’s Nott, Black, Avery, Yaxley-”

“Do you boys ever just use your bloody names?” demanded a rather beautiful woman with rather beautiful dark hair. He knew who she was, in the pit of his stomach, before it was ever said.

“And that’s Walburga,” sighed Abraxas, “Who I’d like to remind should keep her voice down, lest Slughorn find us again.”

Walburga Black. He was staring into the dark, stunning eyes of Sirius’ mother. His horrific mother, who one day would drive her son into the arms of Fleamont and Euphemia. It felt surreal to be experiencing this moment. It felt even more surreal to be experiencing this moment with Voldemort’s eyes still pinning him to the column behind him. 

“Nice to meet you,” offered Harry, uselessly.

“Harry hasn’t met anyone before,” explained Druella, all but confirming it was a weird thing for him to say, “He was too ill to leave most of his life. Everyone is saying you’re quite an accomplished wizard though, Harry.”

Harry raised his brows. “Slughorn sees me do one little spell and suddenly the world thinks I’m accomplished?”

The ripple of laughter around him settled Harry some, then, and it pushed the conversation to flow a little more freely from there.

“How was Albania, Riddle?” asked Nott, sitting down on one of the stone benches. He had auburn hair that looked blood red in the low light.

Albania…

He had the diadem.

“Cold,” replied Voldemort, his gaze returning to his companions now, “But I’m back now.”

“Back to Borgin and Burkes, then?” asked Walburga, “I did so like seeing you there-”

“He’s applying to Hogwarts, Wally,” interrupted Druella dismissively, “They’re looking for a new DADA teacher, is that right?”

“Right…” said Voldemort, his lips curving up into a lazy, almost warm smirk.

“Dumbledore will never let that fly,” warned Abraxas, in an almost sing-song voice.

“I expect not,” agreed Voldemort, surprisingly, “Though I would like to think he’ll be suitably harassed for refusing me on the grounds of… whatever excuse he comes up with. It shall truly break my heart.”

Voldemort, joking . Laughter rippled again, and he was joking…

Only he wasn’t, really, was he? Harry knew his real reason for going lay in the Room of Requirement, but it must have been frustrating, knowing Dumbledore was carving him out the only place he’d ever called home, denying him a place there ever again. 

“What will you do instead?” prompting Nott, seemingly happy to propel the conversation.

“Horace thinks I’m destined for the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” he said idly, “The concept doesn’t entirely repulse me; that department is a bit of a mess at the moment. But we have business with the Department of Magical Education first, do we not?”

“That we do!” said Druella, before looking at Harry, “We wrote to Tom months ago, asking him to draft us up a plan regarding all this muggleborn registration business.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“It needs sorting out at its root,” explained Abraxas, stopping Druella’s explanation in favour of his own, “So Tom came up with the idea of a new module in History of Magic classes at Hogwarts. What was it called again?”

Tom’s voice recited, rhythmic and deadly. “ Magical Lineages and the Preservation of Power .”

“That’s the one,” said Abraxas with a snap of his fingers, “Get that going in first year, and we can help everyone, even muggleborns, understand the importance of it all.”

“And you have someone at the Ministry helping with this?” asked Harry.

“Abraxas works for the Department of Magical Education now,” said Nott, “His father is chair of governors at the school, too.”

Times never changed…

“And my boss has a thing for Riddle,” added Abraxas, lighting up a cigarette.

“Flirting your way through life again, my lord?” laughed Nott.

My lord.

My lord.

“My lord?” asked Harry, his voice hollow.

Voldemort gave him a slightly bemused look. “It’s alright, Harry,” he said, “It’s just an old nickname… Though feel free to use it, if you would like. As for your question, Nott, smiling and asking nicely is not flirting , I cannot be held to account for a woman hearing what she wants to hear.”

Harry knew better. Knew he did it on purpose. Wielded the weapons he had to their fullest potential. Though as Harry stood there, he was finding it increasingly difficult to remain calm.

“Forgive me,” said Harry suddenly, “I must go and find Fleamont. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Slughorn you’re out here.”

“ Nice to meet you ,” echoed Walburga, in a sarcastic repetition of his greeting earlier. He looked at her, and wondered if she would be so arrogant if she knew that Druella’s daughter would one day kill her son. If she knew the Dark Lord would one day be responsible for the death of her other son. 

He wondered this, but said nothing, offering a hopefully disinterested smile before making his way back inside, praying that Lord Voldemort wasn’t watching him go.

He found Fleamont relatively quickly, but yanked him aside anyway.

“Harry,” he said in a low voice, “Are you-”

“He’s here,” breathed Harry, “I spoke with him.”

“Give him the ol’ one-two?” asked Fleamont, and Harry blinked incredulously, “Okay, okay, sorry… What do you need?”

“Who runs the Department of Magical Education?” asked Harry, “Voldemort is not following the steps I thought he would so I’m improvising a bit right now.”

“Gwendolyn Thorne,” he said.

“Is she here?” asked Harry.

“I can take you to her at once,” he told him, grabbing Harry’s shoulders, “What’s the play? Need me to back you up on anything.”

“No,” said Harry, “I just need you to keep people away whilst I’m talking to her.”

“Alright,” agreed Fleamont, and Harry felt a flash of kinship. His grandfather was clearly a do now, ask questions later kind of man, and Harry appreciated it.

They moved through the ballroom now, until they reached a woman helping herself to some canapes. She was in her mid to late forties, by Harry’s reckoning, and dressed in tartan, with a pair of twitching cat ears sticking out of her short brown hair.

“Miss Thorne!” greeted Fleamont brightly as they drew closer.

She turned, breaking out into a smile. “Ah!” she said, “It’s good to see you Monty! Oh, this must be your young cousin, Harry. What a handsome young man you are; you must be so proud.”

“You have absolutely no idea,” said Fleamont, “Since arriving with us, Harry has quickly become one of my greatest treasures, and truest joys.”

Were Harry less filled with adrenaline from his encounter with Voldemort, he might have cried at that.

“I was actually wondering if I could have a word with you, Miss Thorne,” said Harry, keeping his face earnest, and urgent, “I hate to talk business at such an event, but it really can’t wait.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” she laughed, “Business is all these events are for. Come on, petal.”

She held out her hand, and shooting Fleamont a grateful smile, Harry brought her arm to loop through his own. This all came surprisingly easy to him, but then if he had been carrying around a shard of Voldemort’s soul, he often wondered how much of an influence it’d had on shaping his personality. He remembered what the Grey Lady had said.

You remind me of him.

“I wanted to talk to you about an idea that Tom Riddle was proposing to me,” he began, his voice light and conversational.

“Oh yes,” she said, “Such a wonderful young man; you know he really cares about people. Always remembers the little details about those he likes. He’s been talking to me more recently about a new module for History of Magic. Young Abraxas is equally as enthused it would seem. It’s nice that young people are taking interest in the curriculum, after all, they are far more in touch with the youth of today.”

Harry nodded. “I have no doubts at all to the good intentions of Mr Riddle and Mr Malfoy,” agreed Harry, “Their idea comes from such a pure place, it’s just… I will confess, Miss Thorne-”

“ Gwendolyn .”

“Gwendolyn,” continued Harry with a nod, “I worry this is another case of Mr Riddle putting others first at his own detriment.”

“Oh?” asked the woman, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Whilst this idea is a noble one,” he said, “Teaching children so young… It would encourage the sort of divisiveness between students I know the Ministry has been trying to avoid for some time now. Yes, it teaches muggleborns about the pureblood families, and yes it helps the purebloods to learn more about their ancestries, and the responsibilities they have to the wizarding world, but I fear more than anything that this would be detrimental to half-bloods in the current climate. Which of course, Mr Riddle is. ”

“Oh dear…” she breathed.

“Right now, he enjoys the company of many Sacred Twenty-Eight alumni,” said Harry, with an agreeable grimace to the own alarm on her face, “They see him as one of them, because he has earned his place at their side… If we were to encourage division between children, if we had done that before, then Abraxas Malfoy would never have given Tom Riddle the time of day. I think there is a place for this sort of education at some point, but I must implore you - now is not a good time for it. Not in the wake of Grindelwald’s regime.”

“I cannot thank you enough for bringing this to light,” she said, “You know, I had not thought twice about Mr Riddle’s blood status until you mentioned it, which is how it should be, as you say. It’s not something I imagine Abraxas has even thought about, of course, why would he? Oh that poor dear… Leave this with me, Mr Potter - I am sure I can usher them towards new pursuits.”

He raised Gwendolyn’s hand to his lips, and watched as pink filled her cheeks, as though she were not twice his age. “Thank you, Gwendolyn,” he said softly, “And please, call me Harry.”

“You are a good friend, Harry,” she said, smiling brightly, “You must come for tea some day soon.”

“Anytime,” he assured her, before releasing her. She began to make her way back to the party, and Harry moved to make his way hopefully towards the front gardens, where he fully intended to wait out the rest of the ball unless Druella Rosier managed to find him again, when he found himself facing an older friend than most.

Albus Dumbledore.

He wore a feathered cape of white and grey, with gold flecks glittering the plumage, and Harry could only assume he was a barn owl. He assumed very little, before he found himself in the man’s arms.

Dumbledore was younger, and wrapping his arms around him did not feel frail. His hair was a deep red, and he smelled like lemon, and pipe smoke, and parchment. Surprisingly enough, Dumbledore hugged him back .

“Sometimes we all need a hug,” he said reassuringly, “Very little in life can’t be solved by a cuddle. Are you alright, young man?”

Of course. Dumbledore hadn’t met Harry Potter yet.

Drawing back, Harry laughed in apology. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was uh… Just about to cry, maybe. You helped.” He gestured behind them. “Not great with crowds…”

“No need to apologise, my dear,” he said, “I probably needed it, too.”

My dear. 

There was something haunting in Dumbledore’s eyes. Something Harry hadn’t seen before. Or perhaps he had, when it was ancient, and comfortable in the pale, twinkling gaze of his headmaster. Now, however, it seemed fresh.

That was right… It had only been a few years since the fall of Grindelwald. 

Harry turned to leave, before his feet stopped him. He shouldn’t have done it, he knew. He needed to keep some semblance of time rules straight, provided he wasn’t just dead and this wasn’t all a dream, of course.

But he had meant what he’d said in the dream.

He needed Dumbledore. Or, as had come to understand, he needed the idea of him.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a galleon, and flicked it towards Dumbledore who, with remarkable reflexes, plucked it from the air.

“Penny for my troubles?” asked Dumbledore playfully.

“It’s enchanted,” said Harry, “With a protean charm. If it heats up, it will tell you when and where to meet me. If it heats up, you must come, no questions asked, and tell no one where you’re going.”

Dumbledore looked at him now, his eyes suddenly far more calculated.

“Why?” he asked simply.

“I can’t tell you,” said Harry, “I’m not from here. Do you understand?”

Not from here. He wasn’t saying it directly, but there was no one cleverer, in any timeline, than Albus Dumbledore. He truly believed that. Even when he was angry with him, so very angry, he could never deny that he had been Voldemort’s true rival. Harry had just been Dumbledore’s conduit, a weapon. And, Harry told himself repeatedly, his friend .

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, “I think I do understand... You must be careful, Harry Potter.”

“Careful might not be enough,” he said honestly, “But I will try.”

Harry turned to walk away once more.

“A date, Harry,” called Dumbledore, and Harry’s knees could have buckled, hearing the man call him by his first name with such familiarity again. 

“1998, Professor,” said Harry quietly. He did not wait to see Dumbledore’s reaction, instead heading back into the fray. 

He found Euphemia eventually, sticking to her like a limpet until mentions of marriage started firing about. It was unusual for a Pureblood his age to not already be betrothed after all, and there were plenty of mothers with spare children they’d not yet looped together. He found himself able to endure it for a time, but in the end, it just brought back thoughts of Ginny. Of the house by the sea they’d never have.

“Mr Potter.”

He blinked, turning his head to see that Voldemort had appeared at his side, all charming smiles for the ladies around him.

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow Mr Potter for a moment, ladies,” he said apologetically, “I promise I will get him back to you in one piece.”

“I-”

Voldemort did not appear to be asking, in truth, his hand moving gently to take Harry under the elbow as they stepped aside to the corner of the room. The monster’s face was lit up with the glowing lights of the mushroom, and moths began to flutter around his head. The whisper of Voldemort’s cloak was palpable now, as were the shadows cast of Harry’s own in the low light.

“Everything alright?” asked Harry, trying for a relaxed smile, and hoping it landed.

“I just had a most unusual conversation with Gwendolyn Thorne,” he said simply.

Harry felt heat rise in his chest. “Yes,” he laughed, “Well, she asked and I had to give her my honest opinion, didn’t I? You’re the poster boy for progressiveness right now, it wouldn’t do you any good to let Abraxas do this.”

“What Abraxas and I do is not your concern, Mr Potter,” responded Voldemort. He seemed so calm , as though he wasn’t annoyed in the slightest. Though Harry knew this couldn’t be true. For he was also deathly cold, all the charming pieces of his masks pocketed away.

“I agree,” said Harry, with a light laugh, “We’ve literally just met tonight. And I have no horse in the race with Hogwarts either, seeing as I didn’t go. I take it she’s not going forward with the module though, seeing as you’ve seen fit to… what exactly? Do you want me to apologise?”

Voldemort said nothing at all.

“You can’t win them all, Mr Riddle,” said Harry eventually, “And besides, you were just doing this for your friends, weren’t you? Slughorn told me you’re all about archaeology these days-”

“ Was ,” correct Voldemort.

“Was?”

Voldemort stepped forward, an act that had Harry instinctively leaning back, not just because of the sudden proximity, but because people were watching them. It was Lord Voldemort; of course they couldn’t take their eyes off him.

“I’ve decided to join the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

“In the last half an hour?” Harry immediately regretted the note of sarcasm in his voice.

“It would appear you and I will have ample time for our friendship to bloom, Mr Potter,” he said silkily, his lips curving now into a cold smirk, “Now that I am back in the country permanently.”

“I’ll accept an invitation from you any time,” replied Harry, holding his gaze with defiance for a moment, before remembering that if Voldemort wanted to use Legilimency against him, he would make a very poor opponent. 

Harry didn’t know what he was doing in the moment, but he had a plan. Better than a plan, an outline. A destination. And despite the opinion of many that he hadn’t been able to do anything without Hermione telling him to, Harry worked best when he had room to improvise. He needed access to Voldemort’s life, his thoughts. So he could get hold of the horcruxes and destroy them, sooner rather than later, whilst Voldemort was still this young. Whilst Voldemort could still have his ideas shot down by those older than him.

“Hm…” Voldemort murmured, reaching up to brush one of the fairies away from where it had begun to settle sleepily on Harry’s shoulder. A needlessly cruel act, and yet Harry still couldn’t take his eyes off the tiny little fluctuations in Voldemort’s expression, nor the haunting glow across his bloodied gaze. “I will bid you goodnight, then…”

“And you,” said Harry, quick to scurry away, before he looked back again, “By the way, what are you supposed to be?”

Voldemort smiled. “A moth.”

Harry rested his head against the cool stone of the white tomb, finding himself here again after sleep had claimed him.

“I saw you today, Professor Dumbledore,” he said quietly, “You looked so young. So sad… I wonder how it feels, going on after something like that. Did you think of him, every time you performed magic with the wand?”

“It’s Dumbledore’s grave?”

Irritation flashed through Harry’s chest, and he rose to his feet, turning to see Voldemort stood there once again, in his little Tom Riddle mask. “This is my dream,” snapped Harry, “Can’t I talk to him in peace?”

“We’re at Hogwarts, aren’t we?” mused Voldemort, “The little island in the Black Lake. I used to come here sometimes. I practised the Cruciatus Curse on rabbits.”

“Standard psychopath behaviour,” said Harry, wondering why his brain would bother conjuring up such stories to justify Voldemort’s presence here.

Voldemort looked to him again, and Harry noticed now he was dressed in the same outfit he’d worn at the Butterfly Ball.

“A moth is a stupid outfit,” said Harry, pointlessly.

Voldemort arched a brow. “You did not say that to my face.”

“I can’t say anything to you,” said Harry, “Even here, talking to you makes me anxious. I keep bouncing between complete clarity and fearlessness, and fear. Not of you specifically, I don't fear you, I just mean I miss the feeling of ground beneath my feet...” Had he ever really had that, though?

“If it’s your dream,” said Voldemort calmly, “Surely you can banish me from it.”

“That would be the ideal, wouldn't it?”

The Dark Lord crossed over to Harry then, reaching down, and Harry realised he too was wearing his dress robes. Tom turned the leathery fabric over in his fingers. “Or you could tell me who you are, darkling,” he proposed gently, “And tell me why we’re here, in your dream, at the grave of Albus Dumbledore…”

“Don’t call me darkling,” said Harry, his voice cold and calm as Voldemort's own often was, “I serve the light. Maybe that’s why you’re here, little moth...”

Anger flashed across Voldemort’s gaze, though it seemed to mix with curiosity, and something else. Something darker. Something warmer.

“The dream is here because I love him, and I miss him,” said Harry, in an attempt to divert whatever it was that seemed to be heading his way, “As for who I am, I’ve already told you this - you know who I am.” He reached up, tapping his own scar. “You marked me as your equal, remember? Maybe this is my fantasy; a world in which Tom Riddle was actually really dim...”

Voldemort looked confused, then. It was an expression so rarely worn, he imagined, that it didn’t quite fit his face properly. Like Harry couldn't properly imagine him wearing it. Long fingers reached up, at that moment, and came to trace the lines of Harry’s scar. Harry felt his heart race, memories of that night in the graveyard assaulting him at the sensation of Voldemort’s skin on his own. But it didn’t hurt now…

It burned with another kind of heat. It melted through him, pooling low in his stomach, and somehow he knew that it wasn't all his own. 

All of a sudden, they were against a different grave, the very grave where Harry had watched Lord Voldemort return to life. As it was then, he was held tightly by the weeping angel monument, and he gasped, struggling to wake himself up.

Voldemort’s eyes widened now, as he looked around briefly, before returning his gaze to Harry. Where he stood, up on the pediment, he was looking up at Harry. Despite this, Harry hadn't felt this at his mercy in a long time. It wasn't the situation, it was the lack of clarity. This dream version of Voldemort seemed to cherish the mystery, but it had Harry by the throat.

“Harry Potter…” he breathed, “Tell me why we are here.”

Harry fought his own body in that moment, and steadied his breathing, before glaring down at Voldemort with all the derision he could muster.

“Stay where you belong,” he spat, “In my memories.”

Voldemort’s eyes widened with rage, but just as they did, Harry woke up, his arms pinned down by Fleamont, who was hovering over him, his expression alarmed.

“It’s alright, lad!” he called, over the sound of cries Harry quickly realised were his own, “It was just a dream, it was just a dream…”

Harry allowed himself to be pulled into Fleamont’s chest.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Chapter Text

Horace Slughorn owned a canal boat. Of course, it was much bigger on the inside than the outside, though not uselessly so. And most importantly, it was his intimate gathering hub - he appeared to like the idea of boating around with his best and brightest. Harry imagined him in the nineties, with a yacht, and tried not to laugh.

The boat was called The Liquid Luck , and despite his current predicament, this was an amusement not lost on Harry, as he stepped onto the boat one lazy winter afternoon. He held his hand out to help Euphemia down onto it, before pushing the door open. Inside was a surprisingly simple, but very classy interior, with a round table, a full stocked bar, and a ceiling that glowed with all the colours of twilight.

“Harry, my boy!” Slughorn appeared promptly, shoving a glass of brandy into his hand. “I’m afraid it’s just the Potters and the Notts today,” he said cheerfully, “I wanted a more familial feel, you see? Though Elphias did say he might stop by a little later. Please, come in, both of you! Ah, but where is Fleamont?”

“He should be here shortly,” assured Euphemia, hanging her coat on the rack to reveal a long dress in yellow velvet. “He wouldn’t miss an evening with you for the world, Horace.”

“Of course, of course…” said Slughorn, and Harry felt a little bad after a moment, for he seemed genuinely crestfallen, which Harry could only take to mean he was properly fond of his grandfather.

“I’ll send him a message,” said Harry, “Just to check his estimated time of arrival, alright?”

“Oh that would be wonderful!” agreed Slughorn, “It’ll let me know what time to begin the preparations for the cheese board.”

Euphemia sent Harry a secretive smile of gratitude as he headed towards the back of the boat where two doors opened up onto the rear patio. He nodded briefly to Nott on his way out, who was in the process of choosing music records.

The cool air hit him as he stepped out, and he wasn’t all keen to be out there too long. He could feel the snow on the air. Walking to the edge, he took out his wand, and thought of Ginny. Of her pressing her lips to his own in the Room of Requirement. Her forgiveness and grace in the light of his mistakes, and how she always held him accountable for them anyway.

The stag appeared as expected - Harry was certain he could do it in his sleep at this point - and he sent a quick instruction to Fleamont, and an insistence he get there as soon as possible.

“Why a stag?”

Harry jumped out of his skin, hand flying to the railing as Voldemort’s voice came out of nowhere. He realised at once it was his own fault, though, as he turned to see the young man lounged on one of the wicker couches, a book rested on his lap. 

“What are you doing out here?” he laughed, eager to shake off the flash of nervousness. He really needed to be more on guard, but this era of Voldemort could be surprisingly disarming. 

“Why a stag?” repeated Voldemort.

“It was my father’s animagus form,” explained Harry, seeing no harm in that at least, “I lost him when I was quite young, I suppose that’s probably why…”

“You cast it non-verbally,” he observed, “Quite adept at Charms, then? Horace was speculating about the competence of your home schooled education.”

Harry felt the corners of his lips tilt up in a genuine smile at the prospect of Slughorn fussing over the quality of his education, given that Slughorn himself had provided Harry with the best year of potions he’d ever had.

“I am,” said Harry, his voice confident on that front, because he was, “I did take my O.W.L’s and I did pretty alright in them, save for a few hiccups.”

“Hiccups?”

“Passed out in my History of Magic exam,” he said, “Had a bad dream, woke up screaming." Broke into the Ministry, found out he was destined to kill Voldemort, watched his godfather die. The usual.

“It was always one of my favourites,” remarked Voldemort. Harry was only half surprised at this. From all he knew of Lord Voldemort, despite not being able to love anything, if he could, it would have been magic. His obsession with legacy, and the fact he was a descendant of Slytherin… it made sense.

Harry didn’t say any of that, though. “I don’t like reading,” he said, with a lazy smile. “They should have made a film.”

“Muggle nonsense,” he tutted, though Harry noticed he had closed his book over now, more intently listening to the conversation. “Do you want to take your N.E.W.T’s?”

Harry didn’t know the answer to that. His last year had been so consumed with hunting horcruxes and surviving to see tomorrow, nothing had mattered. He had half assumed the year would be resat for the whole school, but certainly for him, Ron, and Hermione. Or they’d be given the chance to sit the exams later. Hermione would have had him and Ron chained to a kitchen table somewhere, and they’d have passed, if even barely.

What was Harry supposed to do here?

“I don’t know,” said Harry honestly, “I didn’t expect to live long enough to do them.”

Not a lie in sight on that front…

He heard Voldemort get up, albeit barely, given how quietly the man moved. Nausea rolled through his stomach as he came to lean on the railings beside Harry. Nothing could feel more unnatural, stood on a boat with Lord Voldemort just after sunset, when the glow of the sun shone pink beneath the horizon.

“Red sky at night,” said Harry, just for something to say, “Shepherd’s delight.”

“Red sky in morning,” replied Voldemort, “Sailor’s warning…”

“Can you produce a Patronus?” asked Harry, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t expect ever to need to produce a corporeal one,” said Voldemort idly, “I don’t think Azkaban would suit me. Besides, I am sure you need pure and happy memories to overwhelm you in order to do it, and I don’t make a habit of letting memories overwhelm me.”

“But you have them?” he asked, genuinely curious, “Pure and happy memories?”

“Your wand,” said Voldemort, boldly evading the question, “What’s it made of?”

Harry felt a pit in his stomach, then. His wand was his favourite thing in the world, and no doubt Voldemort held its twin in his pocket. He considered lying - he had no idea if Voldemort had any wandlore knowledge of his own, and given his pursuit of the Elder Wand, it was entirely possible. It seemed safe just to assume there was very little Voldemort didn’t know or could do.

“Holly,” he said quietly, “Phoenix feather.”

“We share a core,” remarked Voldemort.

It was, to Harry, an incredibly loaded statement.

“May I ask you another question, Mr Potter?” inquired Voldemort.

“I’m sure you will.”

Voldemort turned then, so his back leant against the railings, and he could see Harry’s face properly. Harry kept his eyes schooled on the horizon, determined not to shake under the intensity of the man’s gaze.

“Why did you interfere with Gwendolyn Thorne?” he asked, “Why did you really?”

“Honestly?” asked Harry, sort of relieved it wasn’t a more dangerous question, “Because I thought it was a stupid idea. If it makes you feel any better, you did a very good job of making it sound innocent, but I know it wasn’t. Projecting your embarrassment over being half-blood onto muggleborns won’t make you more Pureblood. The way I see it, that’s the very definition of being a blood traitor…”

“Why,” remarked Voldemort, “Aren’t you an honest one…”

“You asked,” said Harry casually.

“You aren’t my biggest fan, are you?” It felt like more of a rhetorical question, and Voldemort’s voice was laced with both interest and, if Harry took a guess, irritation.

“Don’t imagine there are many people who dislike you,” allowed Harry, before he gripped the railing a little tighter. It was time to act for his life.

“For all I have said,” he lied, “I think it is impossible to dislike you, Riddle. You try very hard on that front, so well done, I suppose.” 

There was a long silence which mostly included Voldemort staring at him. Harry felt like calling him out on it, but the true concern was that the man wouldn’t even care. He had clearly gotten used to doing whatever he wanted.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” asked Voldemort suddenly.

“Uh,” said Harry, blinking owlishly and finally turning to look at him, “Probably… absolutely nothing.”

“8 o’clock,” said Voldemort simply, “I’ll send you my address.”

Lord Voldemort was… inviting him over?

“For what?” asked Harry

Voldemort turned to leave then, at the sound of Fleamont arriving inside. “I want your opinion on something.”

He didn’t stay any longer to hear any protests Harry might have, but as the man sauntered inside, Harry realised this was a golden opportunity.

Even if it did feel like a lamb being invited to the slaughterhouse.

Harry needed to remember he wasn’t a lamb anymore.

He was a lion. 

Voldemort’s address arrived by letter before Harry had even gone to bed that night, and in the morning he had turned up promptly, dressed in dark brown robes Fleamont had commissioned for him. Voldemort appeared to live in a townhouse in London, not dissimilar from Grimmauld Place, though visibly smaller.

He had answered the door in what Harry could only describe as the closest thing Voldemort would come to casual wear, especially whilst living as Tom Riddle. He wore a white shirt tucked into black pants, unbuttoned at the neck for once revealing the most exquisite collarbones, and his hair wasn’t quite perfect this early in the morning.

If it were anyone else in the world the sight might have taken Harry’s breath away.

“Good morning, Mr Potter,” greeted Voldemort, “Come in.”

Harry almost tentatively stepped inside, letting his cloak fall from his shoulders and float up to the coat stand in the corner. It was very clean inside, and simple in its decoration, and it struck Harry after a moment that Voldemort had been an orphan, and any money he’d gained would have been for grants, or his wages at the Ministry. Perhaps he had only just moved in.

Of course, he could have stolen any money he wished. Harry had broken into Gringotts just fine, he imagined it would be an average Tuesday afternoon for a wizard of Voldemort’s calibre. 

“You wanted my opinion on something,” said Harry, taking off his boots.

“I did,” confirmed Voldemort, “Tea?”

“Please.”

Harry followed him through to the kitchen, and stood perplexed at the image of Voldemort making tea. Even using magic to assist, it was still so deceptively domestic. Harry would have been more comfortable arriving to the sight of him torturing innocents than this. Everything felt like a trap.

He drank the tea, however, confident that it at least hadn’t be tampered with, given he had watched it being made.

Voldemort wasted no time in leading him into a sitting room. Impeccably neat as everything else in the house. Sat on one of the benches to the side was a cauldron, and the man began to rifle through some sheets of parchment to the side of it. “I wanted a potion master’s second opinion,” he advised, “Horace said you and Fleamont were dab hands, but naturally your cousin is not available.”

“Right,” said Harry, sucking his teeth slightly, “What potion is it?”

“It doesn’t exist yet,” said Voldemort, “I’m making a new one-”

“You see I’m not that good.” This was a disaster. Harry was so certain this was some underhanded invitation, and now he was to accept that Voldemort just wanted to what? Make a potion with him?

“I get the feeling you’ll be better at making potions up than diligently reproducing one,” said Voldemort dismissively, “So-”

He began to reel off information. Intelligent, well defined, and Harry thought in that moment that Voldemort would have ironically made a very good teacher. He was surprisingly tolerable to be around like this, all studious and focused, a gleam in his eyes Harry had never seen before, in this life or the last one.

He loved magic.

And it shone in his genius, in his devotion to his task, to the way his eyes flickered around in what Harry could only assume was him hyperfocusing . He would need to be very careful, he knew. Because no matter how Harry cut it, he remembered well Slughorn claiming that to date Tom Riddle was the best student he ever taught in potions, and on that, he could not for the life of him understand the motivation for asking Harry’s opinion.

It would be all too easy to fall sway to Lord Voldemort when he was like this. Harry felt sympathy for those around him at this point in history. It didn't seem so unbelievable now, how Bellatrix Lestrange had faced insanity willingly just to be at his side.

He would be careful, of course, but Harry knew something else, too.

This man had no power over him . 

Harry spent increasing amounts of time over at Lord Voldemort’s house as the weeks passed. On occasion, he would run into him on social calls elsewhere, though he would often take Harry away early, much to the chagrin of Druella and Walburga, the latter of which Harry had come to realise was prickly with just about everyone and who, Druella liked to assure him, held an ever growing candle for Harry. He had no idea if this was true or not, given the woman beheld him in derision whenever they met.

The thought was abominable, no matter her beauty, which in his opinion was unmatched amongst her peers. She had a way of scrunching her face up in such a hateful way that she somehow managed to be unattractive anyway. It frustrated Harry to know that of Sirius and Bellatrix, the latter had been gifted the nicer mother.

Voldemort’s eyes would flicker with irritation when the others would insist on Harry’s company, and even more so when Harry would agree to it. He’d arrange to play Quidditch with Nott (who had assured him he was by far the best flyer he'd ever had the pleasure to zip about with), to have tea with Druella, and when Walburga needed an escort to Knockturn Alley, Harry found himself calculating the cost of escorting her, even if he dreaded the concept of having to endure how she likely spoke to service staff.

Abraxas by far had the greatest success when it came to Harry’s time. The man had taken to turning up at Willowmere, and Euphemia was always happy to host him, more so after Harry had explained the sad circumstances of Draco.

Harry had learned that he and Nott had been in Voldemort’s close circle at school. Dolohov and Avery were amongst them, and Abraxas would say how other people were involved, but how they were the core four. Dolohov and Avery were remarkably quiet around Harry, though, and much preferred to oscillate around Voldemort like moons in his orbit. Nott and Abraxas were far friendlier, and quick to joy, which suited Harry just fine. They had many illuminating stories, though he noticed they always stopped shy of saying anything incriminating. Harry wondered if they were even aware of it or not.

They were all in a restaurant when it happened, though. When his luck struck true.

Abraxas had recently started bringing up his trips to Willowmere when they were in company. Inside jokes had begun to arise. Borderline flirtatious banter about whether or not Abraxas fancied Harry or Euphemia more.

“All I’m saying,” said Abraxas airily, “is that if you give me five minutes with that kelpie-”

“There’s only so many times I can tell you no,” countered Harry, “It’s untameable. If Newt Scamander couldn’t sort it out, I have no idea how you think you will.” What was it with Malfoys and throwing themselves at dangerous magical creatures recklessly?

“With my natural charm,” said Abraxas, earning a laugh from Nott, "Works on you, doesn't it?"

“Save that for the Healers when we have to roll you into St Mungo’s,” said Harry, raising his glass of wine in toast.

“Come, Potter.”

Harry blinked, along with everyone else, at the sight of Voldemort suddenly setting down his napkin and rising to his feet.

“What?” asked Abraxas, “It’s barely nine o’clock, what could you two possibly be doing at this hour?”

“We’ve been working on a potion,” began Harry, feeling the need to cover for Voldemort's weirdness, “It-”

“Oh I simply cannot have it,” insisted Druella, who was deep in her cups at this point, “I’ve not seen you in days, Harry. Why should Tom get you all to himself? I want Harry-”

“Well you can all come with us then,” said Harry decidedly, getting to his feet.

One look at Voldemort told him this had been the exact opposite of what he should have done. Even as he stared at the man’s impressive glare, though, Harry had a plan turning in his brain.

“After drinks!” said Druella happily, rising to her feet and kissing Harry square on the cheek, “I love you!”

Cygnus sighed beside them, before taking her hand, and nodding towards the others. “See you all there…” 

Harry walked towards the fireplace, assuming that given the number of them they would be using the floo network, but as he did so, Voldemort gripped his elbow.

“We’ll need to apparate outside the wards,” he reminded him, before he disapparated, dragging Harry with him. 

Voldemort’s friends made themselves right at home in his drawing room. They were an admittedly intelligent bunch, too, and immediately launched into conversation around the potion with far more knowledge than Harry had. For the first time since the conversation around the History of Magic module, however, Harry felt his whole body fill with discomfort.

“This place is too small for you, Tom,” said Abraxas off-handedly, “I told you, you should come and live with me.”

Harry Potter was not in the slightest going to feel bad for Lord Voldemort, but he didn’t like the sentiment. A bunch of rich kids thinking a poor kid was too good for humility anymore. As though this wasn’t a perfectly good home, and one Voldemort had made his own.

Convenient then, that Harry didn’t intend on staying with them in the drawing room. Excusing himself to use the toilet, he left the room, closing the door behind him and making his way upstairs. The door to the toilet was left ajar, but it didn’t matter, because Harry didn’t need to use it.

Tentatively, he began inspecting the other doors, taking out his wand in case he was likely to trigger any traps. Most of the door handles were relatively ordinary, but one at the far end of the hallway shone with promise, as Harry realised the locking mechanism looked like a serpent.

All the magic in the world couldn’t open a door if you needed Parseltongue to do so.

Furrowing his brow, Harry wondered if he had retained the ability, after Voldemort had killed the horcrux inside him. Only one way to find out, he supposed.

Quietly, he whispered, eyes focused on the intricate design of the snake. He waited, and then, with a gentle click, the door swung open.

Triumph filled him as he stepped inside, and he found himself utterly galled. 

Everything about Voldemort was meticulous, from his appearance, to the rest of the house - but this was something else entirely. He suppressed a grin at the familiarity of the sight, for it reminded him of Dumbledore’s office. The room was littered with random apparatus Harry had no knowledge of. Books were stacked haphazardly after he’d clearly run out of room on the shelves lining the walls, and the sheets of his bed weren’t made, either. It was filled with trinkets, and things, looking more like a magpie’s nest than a bedroom.

He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted though.

Closing his eyes, Harry conjured the vision of Helga Hufflepuff’s cup.

He knew that before Bellatrix and Rodolphus, the likelihood that Voldemort had placed the cup in the vault was slim, and Harry thought it worth checking if he still had it on his person.

He checked under the bed first. Given the room was inaccessible to anyone who wasn’t a Parselmouth, Harry assumed that Voldemort saw no reason to hide anything well once it was safely inside of it. With a breath of amusement, he was delighted to find he was right. The golden cup glittered in his palm.

Shoving it into his recently acquired new mokeskin bag, Harry made a swift exit from the room, closing it quietly behind him.

Nothing came of his theft in the coming weeks. Harry didn’t know if Voldemort checked it often or not, but he needed to figure out a way to destroy it. In this time period, the sword of Gryffindor hadn’t absorbed the venom of the Basilisk, so even if Harry were to find it, he wasn’t sure it would suffice. He figured killing the Basilisk was going to be easier than trying to successfully produce Fiendfyre without dying, but he would have to somehow find his way into Hogwarts in order to do that.

Could he convince Dumbledore to take him? Harry could open the Chamber, and Dumbledore could kill the beast. It would be a fairly large supply of guaranteed horcrux killers if they could do so. 

He needed to find his way to the Gaunt house, too, to retrieve the ring he knew must lay in the ashes there now. And as Harry's proactiveness grew, he knew he would need Fleamont's invisibility cloak.

Harry asked him a few days later, and Fleamont informed him he’d gotten a fair bit of use with it during school, but that it had since sat in his cupboard catching moth balls, and as such he was more than happy to pass it on to Harry to aid in his mission. Harry almost cried when he held it in his hands again; it was like reuniting with a friend truly familiar to him, who remembered him properly, and the life he had lived.

Did Harry think he had gotten away with it? No, of course not. But there had been several people there the night it had disappeared, and he was certain he had at least given no evidence or proof that it was him. Unless he wanted to prematurely out himself as a dark wizard, he would have to be careful himself, and Harry could give credit where it was due - Voldemort was careful. Far more careful than Harry was, at any rate.

Careful came in the form of Harry arriving home one evening to find Voldemort, for the first time, in his living room .

He was sat on the couch, in a dark pinstriped suit, a saucer rested on his lap, and a teacup in one hand. Euphemia, for her part, was serving him biscuits.

Voldemort took a chocolate one.

“Harry!” said Euphemia, “Your friend not long arrived. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? I’ve invited him to stay for tea, are you joining us?”

“Of course,” said Harry, forcing a smile onto his face.

“Alright, well come and wash your hands,” she ordered, “Have you been making mud pies? Why on earth are you so filthy?”

There wasn’t a spec of dirt on Harry’s hands, but he followed Euphemia anyway. He turned the tap on in the kitchen, to keep up the illusion he was indeed washing his hands. She wrung her own hands, trying her best not to convey her anxiety to him.

“He arrived about twenty minutes ago,” she said in a hushed voice, “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t invite him if that’s what you’re asking,” muttered Harry, “I don’t invite Abraxas half the time either, so it might be nothing, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“What do I do?” she asked, “I can keep my temper with him, but I-”

“Keep it up,” he said, nodding to himself, “And when you can, go upstairs, put on a nice dress, and tell him you and grandad are going to dinner with a client.”

“Harry-”

“Do as I say,” he told her firmly, “Just trust me, please?”

Harry didn’t like it either, but the threat of Voldemort being within curse distance of his family was not a corner he cared to be backed into. 

She nodded, and he gestured for her to return to Voldemort. “Go make small talk with him,” he instructed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, before she left.

He sighed, opening one of the cupboards. “Feeding him,” he said.

Euphemia disappeared again, and he could hear her pleasant tones from the kitchen. She was unsurprisingly excellent at masking, but he’d expect no less given her upbringing. Harry meanwhile set to cooking. He’d surprised Ron and Hermione many times with his cooking, though he was only good at it because the Dursleys had made him cook from the moment he was old enough to reliably hold a frying pan.

He wasn’t particularly flashy, mind. Harry didn’t cook to show off - he cooked to take care of people. He made Ron’s bacon just right, and Hermione’s eggs just how she liked them. Harry was so lost in thought that he hadn’t realised he was halfway through making breakfast until the scent of black pudding filled his senses.

He always wished he could have made this for Ginny, but they’d never had time…

Now he was making it for his worst enemy instead.

A pair of heels clicked against stone as Euphemia swept into the kitchen in one of her evening gowns. “Now we won’t be out too late, dear,” she said, “But don’t wait up, you know how Antinous likes to rattle on…”

“Mhm,” said Harry noncommittally. As she left, there was silence, but for the sizzling of the sausages, and then he heard Voldemort’s own shoes.

He looked up, to find him leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

“Are you cooking for me?” asked Voldemort.

“Breakfast,” confirmed Harry.

“It’s six o’clock in the evening.”

“So?” Harry looked back to the hob again, focusing now. It was a delicate process to get all the timings right, and though he could use magic, it distracted him from all of that, so he never did. “Tell me what you want and how you like it.”

There was another long, stretching silence, before Harry looked back to him again, raising his brows in question. “Hello?”

Voldemort blinked, before walking over, to look over Harry’s shoulder. The proximity was absolutely an overstep, and Harry was assaulted by the heat from the gas hob, and the heat at his back.

“Everything,” he said eventually, “and however you like it will do.”

“You really have no preference?” he asked with a sigh.

A beat. “Scramble the eggs.”

The command sounded so very natural on Voldemort’s lips, and Harry resisted the urge to shiver. “Yes, my lord ,” he said sarcastically, “Go and sit down, please.”

Voldemort did as he was ordered, which felt very un natural, and Harry didn’t feel safe in the slightest, but he felt confident, at the very least. It didn’t take long for Harry to finish their food, and he set it on the table, summoning the tea set from the living room so that they could drink some whilst they ate.

“Who taught you to cook?” asked Voldemort.

“My aunt,” said Harry, “I stayed with her and my uncle for a while; it was my job. I hated it then, I like it now. I’d point out though that this isn’t cooking, this is me frying a bunch of stuff and putting it on a plate.”

“Hm…” murmured Voldemort, and Harry had no idea what he meant by that.

“Would you show me the gardens when we finish?” he asked.

“It’ll be dark,” said Harry.

“That is what magic is for, Mr Potter,” said Voldemort with a smile. 

Lord Voldemort got his way. Harry’s feet hit the path as he walked down to the little garden set, avoiding haphazard vegetable patches and free roaming chickens that had no right being up at this time.

“You have a woodland,” observed Voldemort.

“It’s full of beasties,” said Harry, “Willowmere is the ancestral home of… Well, anyway, it’s a bit of a hot spot. Best not to go in at night.”

Even if they did, nothing in there would be more of a danger to Harry than Voldemort himself.

Voldemort moved to sit on the bench, and Harry sat down beside him, lighting up a cigarette. He could feel Voldemort’s idle judgement.

“You are still smoking them?” he asked, “You ought not to pick up Abraxas’ bad habits.”

“I’ll do as I please,” replied Harry, “I’m alive; I intend to live like I am.”

Voldemort draped his hand over the back of the bench, and Harry was glad he was leaning forward to smoke, or it would have felt very odd indeed.

“You have not asked me why I came,” said Voldemort softly.

“I don’t care,” said Harry, “You’re my friend, aren’t you? You can drop in whenever you like.” What a stupid thing for him to have said.

“Euphemia is a better Occlumens than your cousin,” said Voldemort candidly, “But not good enough, I’m afraid…”

Harry’s blood ran ice cold, and the cigarette continued to burn by itself, as he froze in place. He cleared his throat slightly, before taking another drag, willing the action to stem any quivering he might have done. He would not fear Voldemort, but he feared for his family.

What had Voldemort gleaned from her? It couldn’t have been anything cataclysmically important, or they would no longer be talking at all, and Harry would be dead. But he had taken something, to be sat with him like this. In this gentle, dangerous confrontation, masquerading as two friends taking the night air.

“You illegally invaded the mind of my family?” asked Harry, keeping his voice level.

“Are you going to give it back?” asked Voldemort quietly, “I find myself wondering why you took it.”

He knew.

“Maybe I’m just a thief, Riddle,” he said, “But either way you can’t prove that I did, can you?”

“Your cousin Fleamont was in the Wizengamot today of all places.” Where was Voldemort taking this conversation? Harry was starting to get whiplash, and his level head was starting to glitch.

“Monty was?” he asked casually.

“He blocked my efforts today in regards to a border dispute,” explained Voldemort, “Said I should have been fairer. But I confess, I am too busy trying to understand what it is you want from me when you have been so diligently undermining me elsewhere. I find myself too busy wondering why you broke into my room and stole a rather innocuous goblet…”

“Is this the life you truly intend to lead?” asked Harry. He refused to let Voldemort lead this conversation wherever he wanted.

“Of course,” said Voldemort immediately.

“Well I don’t believe you,” countered Harry, “I don’t think the world you want exists yet. I think you intend to make that world yourself.”

“Is that not true of everyone in life?” asked Voldemort.

“You are not everyone.”

“No,” agreed Voldemort, “I am not. Harry Potter... where is my cup?”

Harry finished his cigarette, dropping it to the ground unceremoniously.

“If you hurt me you’ll never find it-”

“I can rip it from your mind,” he warned, “I’m giving you a chance here, Mr Potter, to be civil. I want to know where it is.”

“You cannot prove I took it!” Harry rose from the bench, turning to face him. He expected anger, but instead, he was filled with glee . He laughed, surprised by how dark it sounded. “You are making guesses in the dark here, Tom - it’s unlike you.”

“My room is only accessible by Parseltongue, Harry, ” replied Voldemort, looking up at him with unreadable eyes.

“Exactly.”

“You flounder…” breathed Voldemort, “You really have no control over your magic, do you?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harry, arching a brow.

“You’ve been speaking in Parseltongue to me often,” he told him, “I made some comment in it, back when we spoke about be being a Gaunt, and I was surprised to find that you understood. You seem to need a direct trigger for it. An image, or me. It feels like stolen magic; I’m curious as to where you got it. But we can talk about that another time - for now, I want my cup.”

Fuck.

It had never occurred to Harry. But then, why would it? He had never spent extended time with Voldemort before, never held long conversations. Never shared that language with one another. 

How was he supposed to explain this?

His alarm must have snuck into his expression, because at that moment, Voldemort reached out, looping one finger through one of the front belt loops of his trousers.

“You broke into my room, Harry Potter,” he said softly, “And you drag me into your dreams… Such an accusatory look for someone who is making all the moves…”

Harry’s lips parted in shock. “You… my dreams…”

“Did you think you had conjured me up?” asked Voldemort, “I was still in Albania the first time. You can imagine my shock when Horace wrote to me of a boy with a lightning scar who had appeared seemingly from nowhere, a boy he was determined to take under his wing… I thought of you. I came back.” He tugged on the loops, pulling Harry closer, and looked up at him. Like that night in the graveyard, Harry did not feel more powerful for standing over him. “It is fun to dance around the subject. I do so enjoy the sensation of playing this game with you... You who fears nothing, yet quivers over the most inane things…" He tilted his head. "I daresay the time has come for you to explain yourself, don’t you?”

Harry didn’t know how this was possible. How was it their minds were still connected, even here?

You can’t help it.

I can move it onto the train, we can’t leave it here, Professor-

Harry-

His memories fluttered. He hadn’t… He couldn’t have…

Harry Potter had brought his horcrux with him. He had boarded a train, but despite Dumbledore's insistence they could not help the husk of Voldemort's soul, Harry had brought it on board. But they hadn’t gone to the Beyond... He’d brought it here. And here it lay, inside of him still. Connecting him to the source…

Which meant that in his timeline, Voldemort was not mortal. And now, with the final horcrux here in safe keeping, he had no idea if he ever would be.

He’d had a last moment of mercy, and slave to his hero complex, Harry had killed all of his friends. Doomed them.

“Harry…” murmured Voldemort, his eyes filled with wonder for a moment, “Why are you crying?”

He was, wasn’t he? He’d been strong since coming here, but he had never felt so utterly lost. And to cry in front of him …

“If I tell you anything,” said Harry, his voice thick as he came up with something on the spot, “You will die. It won’t be my choice to make; I won’t be able to save you. You will be gone. I know that’s probably frustrating, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t give you the cup.”

“Harry Potter…”

“Everyone wants something from you, so I must too, is that it?” he demanded, trying to pull away from him now, though this served only to make Voldemort grab his hip instead.

“Why else would you hover around me,” said Voldemort, “Drag me through confusing dreams to locations that have more significance to me than they could ever possibly have to you, and lie repeatedly to my face?”

“You lie, too,” whispered Harry.

“Often,” agreed Voldemort.

“Maybe I just hang around because I like your face,” said Harry sardonically, “Ever think of that?”

“That is a given,” said Voldemort, without missing a beat, “You do a poor job of hiding it. You are doing an even poorer job of distracting me…”

Heat filled Harry’s chest, but he refused to allow himself to look startled in front of Voldemort, refused to feel like he did when he was twelve years old. The tears were drying on his cheeks now, and his gaze filled with a calm vitriol that he hoped conveyed a confidence he felt he had earned, after so long.

He’d stood up to him then, as a child, and he’d stand up to him now.

“Look I know you’re used to being able to throw thinly veiled warnings about and immediately get what you want,” said Harry, “But you can’t do that with me , do you understand? You may see me as a weakling, just as you see everyone else, but I am stronger than you could possibly comprehend-”

“You are not weak, darkling.”

Nothing infuriated Harry more than this. Harry was giving as good as he got, and rather than looking surprised, or angry, or offended, Voldemort did this. Port red eyes were almost heady as he looked up at him. He seemed to feel a sense of wonder, not at Harry, but more at himself .

“I told you not to call me that…” said Harry, ignoring the sensation of Voldemort’s hand on his hip gripping ever so tighter.

“And I told you to answer my questions,” said Voldemort, his voice thick, low, and where it was so often like silk, there was a slight whisper to it, a rasp. Harry felt it in every bone in his body. “How did you get that scar, Harry ?”

His name in Parseltongue. It had no equal. It was something no one else would ever be able to understand, for as long as the world turned. Just the two of them...

Voldemort was playing a dangerous game trying these tactics on him. He must have known Harry was aware that he would, and yet he did it anyway.

Two could play at that game.

Leaning down, Harry pressed his lips to the perfectly sculpted lips of Lord Voldemort. The monster went perfectly still, and Harry felt some small shred of triumph that he had managed to at least surprise him. It felt powerful, and it was a feeling Harry seemed to chase in that moment, even as he weaponised the kiss against him. 

It was slow, and Harry’s mind went completely numb for a moment at the sensation of Voldemort’s cupid’s bow between his lips. He had been so beautiful…

He felt the kiss threaten to shift, as Voldemort leaned up into it further, one hand coming to trace Harry’s jawline with deceptively gentle fingers. His knees turned to ash at the sensation of Voldemort’s tongue brushing gently against his bottom lip, as though coaxing him closer, a scared animal that was likely to bolt at any moment.

When it became obvious to Harry that he was mere seconds away from throwing caution to the wind, he drew back quickly. “Show yourself out,” said Harry, waving a hand as he started to walk away, “I’m done talking to you today.”

“You will regret that…” vowed Voldemort, and Harry longed to turn, and see his expression.

He held his nerve instead, hoping he had forestalled the man’s inevitable wrath for one more day. Even if it would be worse when it did come.

He felt pride.

He took his Dreamless Sleep potion.

He fell asleep still feeling the phantom burn of Voldemort’s lips against his own.

When Harry awoke, his grandparents were exceedingly anxious. Glad to see he was alive and well, of course, but anxious nonetheless. As he watched Fleamont’s hand shake ever so slightly whilst reading the morning Prophet, he made a decision that he would keep them on a need to know from hereon in. He had probably got a bit overexcited to have blood relatives he could share everything with, but the night before had reminding him how dangerous the road he walked was. And he would need to walk it alone. 

Or with someone who could handle it.

Harry took his cup of tea out into the garden, sitting down on the very bench where he had kissed Voldemort the night before, and took out his galleon.

He sent the necessary instructions to Dumbledore from there. It was early enough that he didn’t imagine even the children were awake yet. Hogwarts would be quiet, and still. Harry walked to the bounds of Willowmere, and disapparated.

When Harry arrived in Little Hangleton, he felt a strange sense of nostalgia. He never thought he’d miss the horror of traipsing across the country with Ron and Hermione, but here he was, making his way up to the ruins of the Gaunt house, remembering old times. When he got there, he made his way over to where he knew the ring would lie, lost in the rubble.

He wanted nothing more than to call his parents there and then, but that wasn’t why he was there today.

A sharp crack of apparition sounded and Harry turned to see Albus Dumbledore stood there in a fine tweed suit. He missed the silly ostentatious robes. Harry wondered now if Dumbledore had started wearing them just to make children smile.

“Harry,” he greeted, “Bright and early, isn’t it?”

“Early, at least,” agreed Harry, before beckoning him inside, “Do you know where we are?”

“Now I believe this would be the last vestiges of the House of Gaunt,” remarked Dumbledore, coming inside and wiping his feet, as though they weren’t stood in a shell.

Harry nodded, twirling the ring in his hand, though he didn’t put it on, remembering what had happened to Dumbledore’s hand. “This ring was one of their heirlooms,” said Harry quietly, “It’s also something else. If I let you see, will you promise not to put it on?”

“Why would I put it on?” asked Dumbledore, plucking it from the air as Harry tossed it to him, much as he had with the galleon. He watched as Dumbledore inspected it, the man’s eyes glazing over with a devotion Harry had never seen before.

“You knew it was here…” whispered Dumbledore.

“I did,” said Harry, “I knew it because of you. You found it in my time… Do not put it on.”

Dumbledore’s eyes found him now, ever-wise, and patient.

“I do not think you should tell me that,” he warned, “There are rules for a reason.”

“I cannot follow them,” said Harry, “No magic I performed brought me back, and I need your help, Professor. That right there is a Horcrux… And so am I.”

He sat down, in the old, filthy armchair he knew Morfin Gaunt died in, without much care for its state. Dumbledore said nothing for some time.

“Tom, I assume…” he said eventually, his voice calm, resigned.

Harry stared at him. “Permission to tell you everything, Professor?”

Dumbledore returned his gaze now, and he looked so unfathomably sad. “I think you had better…”

“I never liked feeling the way I did about Tom,” said Dumbledore gravely, “I care about all my students. I can’t help but wonder if I failed him, in judging him too harshly… He could sense it, I know he could.”

“He could,” agreed Harry, knowing Dumbledore would not like to be coddled on this, “but you were right to doubt him. He could have proved you wrong, and he didn't, because he's weak. What Merope did… it left a hole. It took me a few years but… I felt sorry for him in those last years.”

“I raised you to die…”

Harry had heard Snape say it before, and at the time, Dumbledore had justified his decision. He sounded sad now. Sad, but not sorry.

“You raised me to brave it,” said Harry, “You trusted me to do it. For the greater good.”

Dumbledore’s eyes looked glassy for a moment.

“You waited for me on that platform,” said Harry, “You didn’t let me face death alone. I could ask for no more than that… I wanted to give you a present.”

“A present?”

Harry rose to his feet, now, crossing over to where Dumbledore stood. Reaching into his mokeskin bag, he pulled out the invisibility cloak, and set it into Dumbledore’s arms.

“Right now you’re holding all three…” said Harry softly.

His headmaster said nothing once more. Nothing at all. Just stared at it in his arms.

“Albus Dumbledore, Master of Death,” chuckled Harry, before Dumbledore passed it right back to him.

“Keep hold of it,” he said seriously, “You have no idea what you have done for me this evening, Harry. I have clarity of mind.”

Harry smiled. “That’s kind of you, Professor,” he said softly, “I just wanted to… I don’t know if I’m going to survive this, whether I need to die again-”

“We are floundering in the dark on that front, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “We do not know how it will work this second time. I can do my best to look into it.”

“I know,” said Harry, “But you should keep the ring until we figure out how to destroy it. The cup, too. When you fetch the diadem from the Room of Requirement, you'll have them all in safe keeping at Hogwarts. I had some thoughts on that front, too. The Chamber of Secrets; I can get inside. If you come with me, we can kill the basilisk.”

“If you have all three Hallows, there could be a chance…” Dumbledore trailed off, but Harry looked at him inquisitively. “Let me look into it first. In the meantime, we can deal with the Basilisk. It’s about to be the Christmas holidays, when most of the students go home - I’ll contact you then.”

“When the time comes,” said Harry calmly, “You need to let me disarm you. I need the wand. I can’t beat him on my own-”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore, soft and imploring, “Let me do this for you. I can fight him.”

“We won’t be killing Lord Voldemort, Professor,” said Harry sadly, “We’ll be killing Tom Riddle, the Ministry’s golden boy. The world is going to need you more than ever after we’re done, and I… the world needs you.”

“And what about you, Harry?” he asked, with a tilt of his head.

“This is what I was born for,” he said simply, “It hurt for a while, but… Protecting people is the thing that makes me happy most. Making people happy is the only way I…” He shook his head. “It’s my purpose. It doesn’t feel like a sacrifice… My reputation doesn’t matter here, like it did in the nineties. I’m not a symbol. You are, and you always will be. I’m the man I am today because you taught me to be one. You taught me that right and good aren’t always the same thing. We have the chance to make a world where you don’t have to ask a child to die.”

Hope filled Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes.

“There’s something else I wanted you to know…” said Harry, “When Voldemort stole your wand, he broke into Nurmengard to ask Grindelwald where it was… I wanted you to know that Grindelwald didn’t tell him. He figured it out, but it didn't come from Grindelwald's tongue. I don’t know what that meant, really, but I saw it in Voldemort’s head, and I remembered the look in your friend's eyes. He didn’t tell him… and it was for you.”

Dumbledore turned away from him, and Harry didn’t press the matter.

“I will give you this ring back,” said Dumbledore quietly, “Once we’ve destroyed the horcrux inside… I do not think it would do me good to keep it. And I think if you are to have your best chance, being the Master of Death would be the way to go…”

“Of course,” said Harry softly, “Get home safe, Professor… And tell Ariana I said hello.”

Harry disapparated away before he could hear the sound of the man weeping.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter, for the first time since coming here, felt truly safe. Perhaps safe wasn’t the right word… Grounded might be a better one. 

His talk with Dumbledore, and the prospect of real, tangible plans had him feeling grounded. He knew what he had to do, and all he needed to buy now was time itself. Retrieving the locket was something he was still mulling over; the potion in the basin would still need to be drunk in order to access it, given Regulus Black was yet to retrieve it, but Harry was certain that if he drunk it this time, Dumbledore would be able to save him, and get him medical attention.

Even if he died… Well, Harry needed to do that anyway, didn’t he?

The concept of dying no longer bothered him. He’d done it once. It took the sting out of it. This life he was leading now was a charade anyway, even if Willowmere had begun to feel like home. In another life, could he have been raised here alongside his parents? Were the bones of this place left empty in Harry’s time, or was the place occupied by new people? Harry found he didn't mind either way - the time he got to spend here, no matter how short, was enough.

Nothing could bother him this week, not even an owl delivering news that Walburga Black was intending to join him in Willowmere that very afternoon.

She arrived promptly, wearing a calf-length black dress with a silver belt cinching her waist. A short black velvet cape sat around her shoulders, and when she removed it, Harry noticed how the lace of the dress went all the way up to her neckline.

“Well?” she asked haughtily, “Aren’t you going to bring me tea? Invite me to sit down? Where’s your house elf?”

Harry sighed, and decided to lie. “Died,” he explained, “It’s fine, I’ve made you some. Please, come in.”

Her storm grey eyes cast about as she followed him inside, likely judging the place. He was surprised to find that she liked it.

“This is a fine home,” she said, as though it wasn’t a compliment at all, “It must have been in your family a long time.”

“Centuries,” he confirmed, handing her a cup of tea. He remembered how she took it - a splash of milk and no sugar. Sitting down opposite her now, he raised his brows in question. “So… what brings you to Willowmere?”

Her chin raised slightly, and for a moment, Harry could have sworn she looked nervous. He waited for her to find whatever nerve she was looking for.

In the end, Walburga Black appeared to overdo it. Setting down her tea on the coffee table, she stood up, and crossed over to his couch, dropping down next to him instead, her hands placed neatly in her lap.

“Tom’s birthday is coming up soon,” she began, “We determined it was some time in December, though he refuses to tell us the specific day. We’re celebrating it on the 13th, this year.”

31st December 1926.

The date rang in his head clear as day. Of course the absolute weirdo had told no one…

“What are we doing?” asked Harry, “Some sort of dinner?”

“Exactly that,” confirmed Walburga, “Dinner, drinks - Tom doesn't like big affairs, because he cannot hear people talking. The Blacks are hosting it this year, at our main house, Grimmauld Place.”

“I’m invited, I hope?” asked Harry, taking a sip of his own tea.

She nodded. “You will meet my cousin Orion,” she said, “He and I will be wed one day soon, we expect.”

Orion Black. Sirius’ father…

“You’re marrying your cousin?” asked Harry, stupidly.

“Of course I am,” she snapped, “We don’t want filth in our blood, do we?”

He resisted the urge to comment on that. “I look forward to meeting him,” said Harry instead, setting his cup down on the table as well now.

“As you should,” she agreed, “As it is, he is bringing his girlfriend.”

“What?” laughed Harry, “I’m sorry, but he’s bringing another girl to an event you’re attending?”

“Hosting no less!” said Walburga, “I’m glad you see the horror in it. I won’t be disrespected like this, let me tell you. If he expects me to sit there watching him with his little Abbott harlot, he has another thing coming. But I have a plan!”

“Go on,” sighed Harry.

“You will be my date,” she said decidedly.

Harry tried so very hard not to react, and was very glad he wasn’t still holding his teacup anymore. The idea that Harry would go on a date with Walburga Black, Sirius’ mother, was the most surreal thing to happen yet somehow. Even more unrealistic than him sat making potions on a sleepy afternoon with Lord Voldemort.

Sirius would have found it funny if it was anyone else. 

“You want me to go with you?” he asked, “To… make Orion jealous?”

“I don’t care about that,” she insisted, looking at him with a frown, “I care about him respecting me. You are Tom’s new favourite, so if Orion thinks that you like me, he’ll realise I am as good as he is ever going to get.”

Harry wasn’t sure why she was concerned about that. For all her meanness, she was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and as far as he knew that’s all Purebloods really cared about. Blood and beauty. 

“Alright,” said Harry, “We’ll go together-”

“I have taken the liberty of getting you robes that will match my dress-”

“Oh good.”

“-and I have determined you should kiss me at least three times,” she added.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked incredulously.

She glared at him. “Do not pretend that it would be abhorrent,” she spat, “Get drunk if you need to, but remember I need to look desirable. Between Tom’s favouritism and Abraxas’ terribly concealed lust for you, if Orion believes you want me most of all, I shall win the night. Of course, we must be careful not to overshadow the birthday itself, but-”

“Walburga,” he interrupted her, “It’s fine. I get the gist.”

“Then you accept?” she asked.

“I accept,” he confirmed, “If anything you have the hard part, no? Having to kiss me .”

“Do not insult me, Potter,” she shot back, “You appear plain at first glance, but as Druella has taken to saying, you have the Harry Effect. ”

That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

His December was set to be more adventurous than planned. 

Harry ended up going gift shopping with Walburga in Knockturn Alley. She claimed to want to be seen with him prior to the party, but Harry had begun to suspect she rather liked his company. In aid of not alienating Voldemort’s circle, Harry tended to let her say whatever she wished to him, and she seemed to like that. He imagined Sirius and Regulus doing the same when they were little, just to avoid her ire. Given how much attention she gave to those who interacted with her somewhat submissively, Harry would not have blamed them if they did. All children craved the positive attention of their parents. 

This of course, however, meant that Harry had to get Voldemort some sort of gift. Walburga clung to his arm as they walked from shop to shop, and she was surprisingly indecisive about something like this, only settling when Harry got relatively bored and suggested she buy him a silk scarf from Twilfitt and Tattings when they wandered back Diagon Alley way. She seemed to like this idea, and in the end she had Harry decide upon the colour, too. The obvious answer was to get him one in some shade of dark, Slytherin green, and Harry knew from Fleur’s once lengthy explanation of colour palettes that Voldemort in his current form was most assuredly a ‘cool winter’, but Harry convinced her instead to go with an almost silvery white scarf. She agreed it would go with more, and he would be more inclined to wear it. Adding to this that Tom's 'favourite' had helped her to pick it out, she seemed quite confident in her final choice, and made the teller gift wrap it no less than three times before she was satisfied with the quality of the ribbons.

She would not let Harry leave without buying something, too. He considered going to Borgin and Burkes, but given Voldemort had worked there quite recently, he doubted there was anything in there that Voldemort would want or need. Harry was not going to have a better time uncovering magical artefacts than he was, after all. Half of the artefacts he was somewhat of an expert ones were Voldemort's, that he'd taken months to find anyway. Besides, he wasn't entirely thrilled on the idea of getting Voldemort anything that made him more powerful.

He bought Voldemort a pair of supple black dragonhide gloves from Twilfitt’s when Walburga was buying the scarf. They were so soft, he was surprised they had come from a dragon at all, and quite unlike the dragonhide gloves he’d worn for Quidditch, but then again he supposed these were supposed to be fashionable. Boldly, Walburga had purchased a pair in a deep forest green, before shoving the overly fancy box towards Harry, declaring he ought to have them in order to hide that horrid scar.

I must not tell lies. 

He couldn’t disagree. She assured him, too, that they would match perfectly with the robes she was having made for them. 

Harry hadn’t planned on getting Voldemort even one present, but before leaving, he found himself buying two. Walburga insisted on a trip to Flourish and Blotts before they left, and though he almost had to spirit her away before she could be jumped on a pair of muggleborns who were rightfully about to spark her out for her derogatory comments, they managed to leave without a scratch. Walburga with some sort of romance novel, and Harry with a diary. A beautiful, black diary with a personalised inscription.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE. 

He could not help the urge to smile, and as Walburga took his hand as they walked down the main street, he for once was not annoyed. So light was his mood from the simple act of shopping in Diagon Alley, he would end up having dinner with her before heading home to Willowmere.

They walked into a tavern Harry had never gone to previously, and looking at it now, he wasn't sure it existed in his time - for he would have remembered at least Knockturn Alley having one of this quality.

It was oddly beautiful, the inside full of polished tables with dark wood, ambient lighting, and the smell of good whiskey. There were a few people who seemed to recognise Walburga, and she greeted them quite formally before sitting down with Harry in a booth that was both private, and yet somehow in full view of the entire tavern floor.

He let her order for him, after she insisted she knew exactly what to get, though he ordered his own drinks.

"May I ask you a question, Harry?" she asked, as she sipped her chalice of wine neatly. Their food was running late, and to avoid the risk of her making some sort of complaint with the staff, he immediately launched into conversation with her.

"Of course, Walburga," he said, giving her a smile.

"If you weren't helping me out with my plan," she began, "If I wasn't already betrothed to Orion - would you like me?"

He almost spit out his firewhiskey, before clearing his throat, a little taken aback. He knew she liked him, but was Druella right? Did she have a bit of a... thing for him?

He reasoned it was just as likely she was wondering whether or not she was likeable at all, which given her fiancé was seeing another woman, was a fair insecurity for a young woman to have.

Harry wanted to tell her no. He wanted to tell her the truth - that she was a deplorable woman who treated people awfully, and treated muggleborns as subhuman, and muggles even less so. He wanted to tell her she'd one day fail her sons, both of them, but that they somehow both became good people anyway, and died in the light, trying to take Lord Voldemort down.

But the more she trusted him now, the more he would be able to protect her. And no matter his distaste for her... She was still Sirius' mother. She was still going to bring him into the world. A wonderful, charming, loyal man... somehow raised by her. Something, anything, in her, must have been good, to have done it. Sometimes he could see it, too. In her intensity with which she regarded people. In her integrity. 

He had to protect her, because he needed Sirius to be born. He needed him to get the chance to live a different life; one he deserved. And if he could have any positive effect on Walburga, then perhaps she would not treat him so cruelly later on. 

"I would..." he said, as though he had thought about it deeply, "I think... You and I don't see eye to eye on everything. You've spoken about our Grandad Henry before, and you know I share some of his thoughts and beliefs. I could argue with you plenty, Walburga. But... there's something about you. It's in your eyes. You're going to bring so much good into my life. Even though you will marry Orion, I hope you and I will be friends for a very long time. I hope I can become someone you will listen to. I hope I can always depend on your honest opinion, even if it's not one I agree with." 

He felt a little ill. It felt manipulative in intent, even if he had tried to frame it in truth. Because she would bring good. It was her eyes, Sirius' eyes. He did hold those hopes... 

But it did not feel good... 

And yet... 

And yet as Walburga's expression dropped from its usual sneer into an open, absolutely beautiful look of surprise, pleasure, and sweetness, Harry felt powerful.

"You may kiss me now, Harry Potter," she breathed, the flush travelling from her cheeks right down to her chest. 

"As you wish," he replied, and leaning in, he pressed his lips softly to her own, and tried to ignore the kinship he felt in that moment with Tom Riddle.

As night fell that evening, Harry set his potion of Dreamless Sleep on his bedside table, before walking over to the bath he’d prepared by the fireplace. It was steaming, and he had forgone bubbles in favour of oils today.

He had picked a random oil from Euphemia's collection, and it was a little strange. He had expected lavender or camomile, and instead the bath smelled like old churches and rose. Frankincense, and myrrh, and vetiver, and rose . Something about it was so familiar.

Harry felt himself relaxed, lulled by the eerily comfortable scent, and as the water cooled around him, his mind drifted somewhere it ought not to have. Sleep pulled at him softly, and like a tide, something darker surged beneath it, pulling him in. 

Old churches and dead roses. The smell hit him again, like an ancient forest, or roots just pulled from the earth. And the roses. The roses .

Opening his eyes, he found himself once again at the foot of Dumbledore’s tomb. This time, the dreary grey he had come to associate with this isle was replaced by shadowed night. Around the base of the grave, there were flowers scattered, and floating candles in the air above and around seemed to hold vigil.

Harry was wet, he realised, his skin soft from the oils of the bath, and he was naked too. A chill ran over his skin, and he exhaled in annoyance. His dreams were keeping him naked now?

“Did I interrupt something?”

Of course…

Harry spun slowly, emerald eyes locking on deep red as he gave the man a nonchalant glare. Voldemort was dressed in a simple white shirt, tucked into the pinstriped trousers he had worn when Harry had kissed him. Almost like the man knew that Harry liked them. Either that, or his subconscious did.

He looked effortlessly dressed down, and yet infinitely more robed than Harry who, once again, was naked .

“I was in the bath,” said Harry idly, “So yes, you were.”

“You are much more confident here, in a world you can command…” said Voldemort, his eyes subtly sweeping him from head to toe.

“Something you can relate to?” asked Harry dryly, turning back to face the grave now instead, one hand coming to rest against the white stone. It felt warm beneath his fingers. 

“I’d prefer if the dream was mine,” he said, “But it would appear it is your head that must be the host. Perhaps it is your Occlumency skills… I would teach you, but I don’t think it’s in my best interests to do that.”

“No point,” promised Harry, “I’m horrible at it.” 

“Still,” he allowed, “I too would claim some level of confidence here, yes. I believe you set the stage for these dreams, but I can speak of my own volition; it would appear my actions are my own to dictate… For example, in the waking world, I cannot touch you for all the people around you. Here, we are alone, and no one would ever believe you anyway.”

“What-”

Harry’s scar erupted in pain so fierce it almost overshadowed the feeling of Voldemort's foot against his ankle. It was a dream, but the pain he felt as the man snapped it in half felt very real. He crumpled to the floor, rolling onto his back and scrambling until his shoulders hit the tomb. Blood erupted from the wound, and Harry chanced a look at it to see that the bone had clean torn its way free.

“You fucking cunt! ” spat Harry through gritted teeth, his vision going white for a moment with the shock and pain of it. 

“Such foul language…” mused Voldemort, as he rolled up his sleeves, “I shall not insult your intelligence by explaining what’s about to happen.”

“You’re going to torture me until I tell you what you want to hear,” said Harry, gritting his teeth, and wondering if the safest thing to do would be to let him. He knew he could persevere under torture. He knew he would wake up, and soon, when someone found him in the bath. 

“I’m going to torture you until you tell me the truth,” corrected Voldemort, before he dropped down, straddling Harry, “In front of your precious Dumbledore’s grave. Do you think he’s listening?” Harry didn’t move, nor did he speak. He just mustered a look of amusement as his vision wobbled. 

Voldemort’s gaze darkened. “When we first met in this dream, you told me I had been so beautiful. What does that mean?”

“It means you look like angels carved your face from diamonds,” said Harry, his words a little slurred, “What else could I mean?”

Harry expected Voldemort to take out his wand at any moment, but he didn’t. Instead, he drew a knife . Before Harry could utter a word of protest, Voldemort took it to his skin, the sharp tip pressing threateningly into Harry’s shoulder. The pain should have frightened him, but it didn’t. Harry’s mind sharpened under its bite. 

“Don’t insult my intelligence when I have given yours the benefit of the doubt, darkling…” suggested Voldemort calmly, as though he wasn’t cutting into Harry’s skin. 

“I-”

The knife was pushed straight through, and Harry let out a cry of pain despite himself, his breath tightening at the sensation of it. It’s just a dream. This isn’t real. 

“I am not going to banter back and forth with you, Harry,” said Voldemort, “I will not sit here and listen to you yap instead of answering my questions. Not when I much prefer doing this…”

He pulled the knife out, and Harry let out another sharp cry as blood poured from the wound. The blade was on his skin again before he could blink. “Shall I carve my name into your skin, Harry?” he asked, and despite his calm demeanour, Harry could hear it now in his monster’s voice. The excitement. The pleasure .

Harry pushed against him, struggling now to get free, and Voldemort gripped his wrists, slamming them against the white stone behind them. “Oh no, no, no…” tutted Voldemort, “If you don’t want to tell me anything, you will behave during the consequences…” 

Voldemort was stronger than Harry. In magic, yes, but apparently physically, too. More than anything, Harry knew he should let him . As Dumbledore had once insisted Harry force him to drink the potion, Harry needed to force himself now to endure this… tantrum?

Harry’s eyes were wet with tears, and even through the haze, the now dishevelled Voldemort looked utterly magnificent. Dark hair had fallen forward across the man’s forehead, brushing his lashes in a way that somehow, despite the pain, had Harry utterly unable to look anywhere else. “Is there no version of reality in which you can just leave me alone…?” he asked, with a hint of resignation. 

“What is your name?” Voldemort’s demand was soft once more, though Harry could see his chest moving quicker than usual.

“Harry Potter is my name,” said Harry, blissed he could win with the truth for once.

“ Who are you?” corrected Voldemort, “What is all this ? Explain it to me, and I will stop this, I will let you wake up. I will leave you alone… ”

He wouldn’t. Lord Voldemort would never, ever leave Harry Potter alone. Apparently in this world, and the next.

Harry laughed through his agony, feeling delirious now. Something was happening, in the waking world, and his chest suddenly felt tight. “I’m dying…” he whispered, “I’m drowning… ”

Voldemort hummed in deliberation, before leaning down, their eyes level. “I’ll let you think on it then,” he offered, his hand drawing the knife down Harry’s torso until it came to rest just on his hip bone. His hands now free, Harry found them dropping onto Voldemort's shoulders instead, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. The pain should have been too much, but it reminded Harry he was still alive. He was at Voldemort’s mercy and, once again, he was alive .

Harry's lips parted at the sight before him. Voldemort’s pupils were blown wide .

“Shall I be nice, next time we meet?” offered Voldemort, his voice low, husky, “Would that be preferable? I don’t have to beat it out of you, after all… I can apply other methods. Remember that…”

Voldemort’s knife drew lower , and Harry’s eyes widened, and for the first time, he knew they were shining with fear.

“If this truly is your dream, Harry…” he whispered, lips inches from his own, “I only hurt you because you want me to…”

Harry woke with a start, as Voldemort’s release on the dream sent him spiralling back into wakefulness. He was indeed fucking drowning.

Shooting up from beneath the surface of his bath water, he sucked in a desperate breath, right as a knock on the door snapped him out of his… his what, he wasn’t sure.

“Harry, darling,” called Euphemia from the other side, “Are you alright? You’ve been in there a while.”

“Fine!” he called back hoarsely, “I’ll be out in a minute!”

He got out of the bath, loathing the smell of the oils still lingering on his skin, because he realised now it smelled like him. Lord Voldemort smelled like death and roses. And he felt him all over his skin, phantom cuts of the knife, phantom touches. Phantom breath on his skin. 

Making his way to his dresser, he pulled on a dressing gown and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers. He had promised himself he wouldn’t sit in denial during all of this, to stay clear headed, and it was annoying. Harry was upset.

He was upset to acknowledge that he was frightened. Flustered. 

Upset, yes. But he forced himself to acknowledge it anyway. He needed total clarity at all times on the manipulations of Lord Voldemort. Even when he had been fighting him towards the end, the Dark Lord had been able to manipulate Harry’s emotions. Drive him to action, to anger - to lure him from the shadows. If he hadn’t had Hermione and Ron, Sirius and Remus, Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, he would have tumbled into his hands a hundred times over. He almost did, at the Ministry. 

But there was no Order of the Phoenix yet, and he could not depend on anyone to sweep in last minute and save him. 

He opened the door of his bedroom, and followed the smell of chocolate… In the kitchen, Euphemia was stood over the stovetop, in her own mulberry pink dressing gown, stirring a pan with a wooden spoon.

“You’re making hot chocolate?” he asked.

“I figured you could use some,” she said, looking up at him with a warm smile, “It’ll make you feel better.”

He thought of Remus dead at his feet. He drew closer to his grandmother.

“What gave me away?” he asked quietly.

“You spent the day with Walburga Black,” she laughed, “ Merlin , I cannot think of anything worse. And you’ve terribly expressive eyes, dear.”

“Don’t I know it…” he sighed.

“They’re lovely,” she countered, “Even when you don’t have the words, you’ll never find it hard to be understood.”

She finished what she was doing, and poured the chocolate into two mugs she had informed him she’d thrown herself. They were a bit messy, but he liked them anyway. As they moved to the living room, to sit by the fire, he listening to her tell him about his day. She had quickly come to understand how important that was for him, to hear the idle chit chat of family.

“I was thinking of going on a winter hike in the morning,” she said, “Do you remember John, who dropped you off?”

“I do,” laughed Harry.

“He’s got a little litter of crups,” she said, “I keep saying I’d like one to keep the gnomes away from the potatoes, I was thinking we’d pick one up on our way back - would you like to come with me?”

Harry was supposed to be at Voldemort’s tomorrow, but he decided right at that moment he wasn’t going. If Voldemort wanted to play fuck in his dreams, to physically attack him, Harry was going to start allowing himself to have these little moments. He had no idea whether his place here would be rescinded at any point - he wanted to make sure he had these memories whilst he could. If he was truly bound for death, at the least, Euphemia would have stories to tell his father one day. And at the most, Harry would keep his perspective when it came to dealing with Voldemort - he would remember what he was fighting for. 

“Walburga has asked me to be her date to Voldemort’s birthday,” said Harry, his lips curving in amusement.

“Your godfather’s mother?” she exclaimed, “Merlin’s beard, Harry, how are you going to navigate that?”

“I mean,” he breathed, amused, “In the spirit of ingratiating myself with these people? I've already kissed her...”

She grimaced. “Oh gods…”

“I only ask one thing,” he said seriously, “When the day comes that James brings Sirius to your door, I beg of you, please tell him I completely messed her around to the point I almost felt bad about it.”

“You are a nuisance!” she tutted, “Please tell me you don’t get that from my son. What a way to treat women...”

He summoned a perfectly remorseful expression. “I am so sorry…” he lamented, “But his early relationship with my mother is not going to make you feel very proud at all... I suppose I should also tell you about the Marauder’s Map at some point...”

“Marauder’s what now?” Fleamont’s voice sounded as he shot out of the fireplace, sending ash flying everywhere. His arrival was boisterous, and the room filled with laughter, and Euphemia’s playful scolding, and Harry realised that no matter if he was in this time, or his own. No matter how unlucky people said he was.

Harry Potter was the luckiest man in the world.

No matter where he went… As soon as he had arrived in the Wizarding World, he was always loved .

The next morning as they set off, Harry now sporting his new gloves, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Druella had turned up to join them. He was a bit on edge at first, but in truth, she seemed much nicer now she was not around the others. She settled into catty banter with Euphemia, who could not help but rise to it, and Harry found he was joining in, too, only ceasing once a tiny little puppy had been bundled into his arms in a woollen scarf. 

He very unoriginally called her Snitch.

He missed Hedwig.

Chapter Text

Druella ended up spending the entire weekend at Willowmere. Harry could not help but wonder if his foray into Voldemort’s social circle had helped it along a little - perhaps Druella thought that if Harry hung out with them whilst living at Willowmere, that Euphemia didn’t think as low of her as she might have feared. 

Either way, it was nice. Fleamont wasn’t Druella’s biggest fan in truth, and it was somewhat noticeable. He noticed Druella could get a little possessive of her older sister’s attention, which Euphemia rotated between being patient of, and dismissive of, but all things considered they managed to avoid any blow ups, and Harry was there to divide her focus anyway.

On the Sunday night before Druella left, he found himself sat on the floor with her in the living room finishing a bottle of wine they’d opened the night before.

“I still cannot believe you kissed Walburga,” sighed Druella, “I’ve never seen her like that...”

“In my defence she asked me to,” countered Harry, before remembering he was supposed to be pretending he was seriously interested in her, “I don’t know - I think it’s a bit stupid of me to get attached to any of you that way considering you’ve all been engaged since you were toddling, but I don’t know, there’s something about her.”

“It’s her tits,” said Druella, with a huff, “They’re absolutely smashing .”

“ Merlin , Druella,” he complained, “You’ve been spending too much time with the boys.”

“Nonsense,” she countered, “Take it from me, Harry, no one talks more about other women's bodies than women themselves. Be it envy, or lust…”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said idly, taking a sip of wine as Snitch wandered over to them, sleepily curling up over one of Druella’s feet in a way that didn’t look the slightest bit comfortable.

“A puppy,” she said decidedly, “You and Walburga is like a dragon dating a puppy.”

“It’s just for now,” he promised her, “You know she’s going to marry Orion anyway; let her get a taste of the good life before she goes to her grave.”

“Harry Potter you are a menace ,” she laughed, “She really has won the day.”

“And how are you and Cygnus?” he asked.

“You know I spent so many years thinking he wasn’t interested in anything,” she said, leaning back against the couch and running her fingers over the sleeping crup’s head, “Least of all me. But you know, he’s really matured lately. I think he’s trying. He told me he liked my laugh the other day? That he could hear it across even the most crowded room. And we were talking baby names. I think we’ll have a boy first, but Cygnus is convinced it will be a girl. You know, I really see him with a girl.”

When she had started, Harry had been happy for her, but the mention of firstborn daughters had his mouth running dry.

“What names did you pick?” he asked quietly, staring into the fire to avoid giving himself away.

“What do you think about Bellatrix?” she asked, “We’ll probably start trying next year, after the wedding…”

Bellatrix…

What if Harry was still here? What if she was bundled into his arms, and he was expected to coo, and kiss her head? What if, as she grew, she came to stay at Willowmere, with her Auntie Euphie? The woman who would become Voldemort’s biggest sycophant, his worst fanatic. Who would kill Sirius, condemn the Longbottoms to worse. Who would kill Tonks. Her sister’s daughter… 

She would be James' cousin, too.

And Harry had told Euphemia all of this. She would have to spend her life pretending that her own niece wasn’t destined to be a monster. That she hadn’t been so, in another life.

He wanted to warn Druella, and at the same time, he wanted her to never know at all.

“I think it’s a beautiful name,” he said instead.

“It means she who wages war, ” laughed Druella.

Indeed it did.

The thirteenth of December rolled around soon enough, and Harry arrived at least two hours before, as Walburga instructed. He wore the robes she had picked out for him, a deep, dark bronze that brought out his eyes, and the gloves she had purchased, too, in case they were in the garden at any point. For her part, she wore a strapless floor length gown in a very complimentary emerald green, with accents of bronze throughout, just as he had accents of green. Her long, wild hair was piled atop her head, showing off her slender neck and shoulders. 

Druella was also there, with Cygnus, and though his outfit was simple and black, her own was a stunning off the shoulder number in pale silver that fell just to her calves. Orion was there, too, a man who kept the thick black hair cropped short, and he was in the company of whom Harry assumed was Annabel Abbott, a woman in a long sleeved navy blue dress with shoulder length strawberry blonde hair. She clung to Orion a bit over-excessively, but Harry had to give her a pass - just as it was galling for Walburga, it must have been awful to come to a party alongside your boyfriend’s arranged betrothed. Really, it was Orion who should have been being fairer about this.

Still, the three of them sat in relative silence as the women flitted about organising this and that. Harry had offered a hand, but a severe glare from both of them at the same time had quickly stopped him. The ballroom had been fitted with several round tables Harry assumed Kreacher would bring food out to when the time was right, and candles floated above them near the ceiling. It was a relatively understated affair, and Cygnus had idly explained that Voldemort endured these events, and didn’t like much fanfare.

“Now,” said Walburga, “When everyone arrives, do we all remember our places?”

Harry had been here before…

“Harry and I will be opening the door for our guests,” she rattled off before anyone could say a word, “Cygnus and Druella, you will be here in the ballroom, waiting to welcome everyone and making sure they remember how to get around the house. And Orion and Miss Abbott, you can be in the kitchen preparing the drinks-”

“That’s an elf’s job,” countered Annabel, “Why should I-”

“Because I said so.” Walburga’s voice cut like ice through the room, and Harry to give her credit where it was due - no one said a word.

She smiled again a moment later. “Right then,” she said, holding out her hand, “Come on, Harry.”

He rose to his feet, crossing over to her and taking her hand casually. She shot him a look of approval, and he gave her a little wink before they made their way into the hallway as the first knocks began to sound.

Plenty of people arrived, of course - some Harry knew, and others he’d never met before, but whom Walburga explained between receptions were Voldemort’s new work colleagues. When Voldemort himself finally arrived, he arrived in tow with Abraxas and Slughorn, making quite the eclectic trio. 

This was the first time Harry had seen Voldemort since he had tortured him naked in his dream. He stepped through the door wearing a long black coat over an even darker black suit. His shirt, too, was black, and from the slight movement of it as he removed his coat, Harry wagered it was silk. Dark red eyes bore into his own, and Harry ignored the sudden flood of heat at the sight of him, just as he ignored the sudden flood of rage that accompanied it.

“Walburga, I hate you,” announced Abraxas dramatically, as he threw his own coat at the animated coat stand, which valiantly managed to catch it. “What if I wanted Potter, hm? I’m not engaged, but you just had to have him, didn’t you?”

Walburga wore a look of smugness Harry had never before seen on a person. “I am not going to apologise,” she said proudly, “I always get what I want.”

Harry was stood behind her, and resting one hand on the waist of her corset, he dropped his lips briefly to her bare shoulders, just at the nape of her neck. It was brief, but he saw the flush of pink just as he pulled away again. “Forgive her,” he said lazily, “I was the one who pursued her. I already told you, Malfoy, I prefer brunettes-”

“You’re a little shit, Potter-” The two of them carried on their boyish banter as Walburga received Voldemort properly behind them, and Slughorn’s loud claims that he thought they cut a fine pair followed them as Harry led the way into the ballroom to where the others were.

Bizarrely, everyone stood and clapped as Voldemort entered. He was reminded of equally awkward instances from when he had been dubbed the Chosen One.

The Blacks had been scattered about the tables as the hosts of the event, but Walburga had managed to secure their spot on Voldemort’s table, due to her firm belief that Harry was Voldemort’s current favourite. Favourite punching bag, perhaps…

As people fussed about taking their seats, Voldemort dropped elegantly into the seat beside him. He sat in it almost languidly, one leg thrown over the other, his arm rested over the back of it idly.

“You are seated with me?” he asked conversationally.

“No,” replied Harry coolly, “I’m sitting with Walburga.” At that moment, she took the seat on his other side, and he leaned in closely to her, a few eyes clocking them across the room.

“Are you doing a welcoming speech?” he asked quietly.

“Orion was going to-”

Harry rose to his feet again, raising a spoon to his crystal glass of wine, and drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Welcome friends,” he said, with a crooked smile, “Thank you all for coming here today, to celebrate the wonderful life of our good friend Tom Riddle.”

He could feel the man go very still beside him.

“I’ve not known Tom half as long as some of you,” he said, “Though some might say twice as long as I should have.” A ripple of laughter spread across the room. “I jest, of course, it’s an honour to know Tom. I daresay it’s been centuries since a wizard of his calibre has graced our great British isles. And beyond that he is a thoughtful, dutiful, and committed servant towards the advancement of magic. And as we all know… Magic is Might.” He raised his glass in toast, amused at himself at this point.

“Before we begin this evening’s festivities,” he said, “And before you all begin lavishing Tom with his well deserved birthday presents, I wanted to give you all a present.” Curiosity shot through the gaze of everyone there, and he turned to rest the back of his fingers against Walburga’s cheek. 

“My beautiful Walburga tells me that you all host this event year in and year out for Tom,” he continued, “Given he is an orphan, I am bowled over by the generosity of spirit in this room, and I can only dream of giving half as much as you all do. As it is, I have just one thing to give you this evening…”

He raised his glass. “Tom’s birthday is on the 31st of December,” he said with a grin, “So I suppose I’ll see you all next New Years, hm?”

There was a moment of silence so palpable you could have heard a pin drop. Abraxas’ eyes were blown wide; Druella was gaping.

“To Tom Riddle,” he finished, and the sudden raucous enthusiasm that erupted afterwards as they all joined his toast was the most fun Harry thought he’d had since coming here.

He dropped back into his chair, Walburga gripping his arm as he did so. “Darling,” she said, her voice thin, “You never told me that!”

“It would have ruined the surprise,” said Harry, before chancing a look at Voldemort. To all the world, the man must have looked calm, amused even.

But Harry knew the look in his eyes. The simmering, unrivalled rage that lay beneath cool pools of red.

He was so fucking dead.

It didn’t matter. He could not Voldemort walk all over him; allowing that was how Voldemort felt he could viciously attack Harry in his dreams. That had been true enough when Harry was a child, for he hadn’t the power then to stop him. He didn’t have the raw power to stop him now, either, and might never have it - but he was no child anymore. On this stage, he would always find a way to take revenge.

There was nothing Harry did not know about Tom Riddle. Voldemort might not have known why yet, but he would do well to remember it.

There was that flash again, the growingly familiar flash of power he got when he saw rage in Voldemort’s eyes, and knew he was the one to put it there. He pushed it down, turning to Walburga again in the hopes it would somehow quell that fire.

Horace Slughorn quickly took over conversation at their table, and most were content to let him, given he genuinely had great stories, and great many of them to boot. Voldemort was quiet at first, but eventually he began to reply, and chime in, his easy charming smile returning to him. Harry could take his attention away eventually, to scan the room idly. Walburga’s plan was working, because try as he did to hide it, Orion was getting increasingly irritated, and Harry’s hijacking of his speech probably did little to help that.

He whispered in her ear sometimes. Made her laugh. Gave her tactile little touches - a hand on her skirt, or settling on the back of her neck, twirling a loose strand of her hair. She’d given him an assignment, and Harry found he was more than able to excel at it.

The one issue, though, was that Harry drunk a fair bit. The adrenaline from the birthday reveal had left him reaching for more than he had planned, and he dragged Walburga down into merriment with him. This was not a party as much as it was a sit down meal, so it wasn’t until he rose to his feet, deciding to go for a cigarette to get some air, that he really felt it.

Walburga took his hand. “I’ll go with you,” she insisted.

“A smoke break?” asked Abraxas from across the table, “Alright, let’s go.”

The three stepped outside together, into the garden, and Harry noticed that unlike the overgrown mess it had become in his time, untended to, it was quite quaint, and well kept. Abraxas lit Harry’s cigarette up for him, before the three of them came to lean against one of the garden walls.

Walburga stretched her hands above her head, and Harry realised she looked a little warm. It must have been getting hot in there.

“You’re doing this to make Orion jealous,” said Abraxas eventually.

“To make him respect me,” she countered, “I don’t care for petty jealousy, but if it serves a purpose…”

“Potter I cannot believe you’ve gone along with this,” he laughed, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Oh like it’s such a toil,” countered Harry, “She’s beautiful-”

“A fucking nightmare though-”

“I will hex you, Malfoy,” warned Walburga, “ You will respect me, too.” With a little hop, she positioned herself in front of Harry, slender arms coming to wrap loosely around his waist. He took a drag of his cigarette, looking down at her inquisitively. “Besides, I get to have Harry, too. I’m going to enjoy him whilst I do.”

Her hooded eyes were gleaming with intent, and Harry felt Abraxas go unseasonably quiet beside him, as she leaned up, pressing her lips to Harry’s again. He kissed her slowly, now, but it was much headier than when he had kissed her in Knockturn Alley. Her body pressed up against his own, and Druella was right, she did have good tits-

“Walburga.”

Orion Black’s voice rung out in the garden, and Harry felt a bloom of begrudging respect as Walburga finished their kiss before drawing back, looking back at her betrothed with apparent disinterest.

“Can I help you?” she asked coolly.

“If you are quite done putting on a show for Mr Malfoy,” he said, his voice thin, “I would like a word with you at once.”

She shrugged, untangling herself from Harry as she sauntered over to him, in no rush at all. As Orion turned to lead her back inside, she looked back to Harry, one fine brow quirking with triumph.

Harry winked at her, as the door closed behind them.

“She’s an absolute vixen,” exhaled Abraxas, after a moment.

“I’ll say,” laughed Harry.

“You’re hard,” he added casually.

Harry looked down, blinking as he realised he was. He wanted to blame the drink, but no matter the blame, he had still gotten hard over Sirius’ mother kissing him. Whatever was waiting for him Beyond, it was surely the nearest equivalent to hell.

“Fuck,” cursed Harry, “Do not tell her that-”

“She could probably feel it,” laughed Abraxas softly, before he threw his cigarette aside, “Come here… I’ll take care of it for you.”

“What?” asked Harry, turning to look at the man. Now he had, he realised that Abraxas’ eyes were warm with what Harry could only assume was arousal. Putting on a show for Mr Malfoy indeed…

Abraxas came to stand in front of him, in that leisurely devil-may-care way he did everything, and he leaned forward, one hand resting on the wall beside him. His free hand came to dance across Harry’s belt in question, and despite himself, Harry found himself nodding.

Was he really about to let Draco’s grandfather get him off in Sirius’ garden?

Abraxas unbuckled the belt, and was in the process of reaching for Harry’s fly when the door swung open again, and Harry froze.

“Abraxas,” greeted Voldemort calmly, “I require your presence.”

Abraxas groaned in defeat, though Harry knew he would go. These people pretending they were Voldemort’s friends, but they did everything that the man said, no questions asked.

“Impeccable timing, Riddle,” sighed Abraxas, before his hand came to rest beneath Harry’s chin, “Come home with me later?”

“I, uh-”

“ Abraxas. ” 

The voice cut like glass through the air, and both Abraxas and Harry froze at the ice in the man’s voice. Gone was the charming, easy-going Tom Riddle. Abraxas released Harry at once, and was through the door before Harry could even blink.

For one long moment Harry just stared at him. Red against green, locked in some sort of stalemate of a game Harry wasn’t sure he knew the rules of. Voldemort turned in the end, retreating inside, the door swinging closed behind him, which should have felt like a win.

It didn’t. Harry wasn’t sure why, but he could not escape the feeling he had just lost the match.

In the aftermath of the birthday dinner, Walburga had visited Harry several times to tell him about Orion’s newfound devotion towards her. He and Cygnus had been taking Walburga and Druella on many outings, and so too was a holiday planned, where they would all go together to Paris. Annabel Abbott had finally been set aside, and they were planning their future properly.

She didn’t need to come and tell him all this, but she had apparently taken his offer of friendship very seriously, and in fact she had come to take great rivalry in Druella over this fact. Walburga repeated hounded him too, to convince Voldemort to agree to join the men on a trip to the Carpathians that Abraxas was planning, but Harry assured her the man had never done a single thing he didn’t want to do, and wasn’t about to start now. 

Dumbledore had contacted him once, to inform him they were going to deal with the Basilisk on the 2nd January, and to be prepared that day for Dumbledore to arrive and bring him back to Hogwarts. Harry felt already prepared. If he had dealt with it at twelve years old, he could deal with it now, especially with Dumbledore at his side. Likely, all he would need to actually do is just ask the door to open. 

Everything seemed eerily normal, right up until a letter shot through the fireplace one evening and landed softly in Harry’s lap. Opening it, he felt a pit of lead in his stomach. 

Harry,

My house. 8 o’clock tonight.

I will see you then.

T.M. Riddle.

Voldemort had summoned Harry on the very birthday that Harry had outed to every important person in the country. He was tempted to refuse, but so close to the basilisk slaying, Harry wondered if it wouldn’t be better to go. Distract him, redirect him, occupy his curiosity and time for a little bit longer.

There was a chance he would be hurt, even killed, but Dumbledore would take care of things. He had plenty of time to do so now that he knew just what was to come.

He tried not to overthink it, tried to retain the confidence he’d gained and maintained, but the memory of Voldemort’s gaze at Grimmauld Place was burned into his mind, like a knife dangling over his neck whilst he slept.

Harry pulled on a white shirt, with a forest green woollen vest over the top that Euphemia had knitted him, before heading out to his probable doom. He arrived at Voldemort’s ten minutes early, and stood in the cold for several minutes as snow fell around him. The roads were empty due to the weather, and the city was as peaceful as it would ever be again, he imagined.

“You could have knocked.”

He didn’t even hear the door go, but he turned around eventually to see Voldemort stood there in the entrance, wearing a pair of black slacks, and a dark red shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Harry knew he had been working on a potion, because his usually perfect hair was damp with perspiration, and stuck to his face in certain places.

Regretfully, Lord Voldemort had never looked more beautiful.

“It’s rude to turn up early,” said Harry, as he climbed the steps towards, peeling his coat and scarf off as he stepped inside. He took his shoes off, given the snow, and noticed as he did so that Voldemort was wearing velvet slippers. Harry had grown used to the way Voldemort in his time wore no shoes at all, ever, and it was somewhat disarming to see him wearing slippers, of all things. 

He followed Voldemort through to the kitchen in silence, his brows raised in shock when the smell hit him. Voldemort was cooking.

“Are you going to torture me here, too?” Harry asked, wanting to get this out of the way early.

“You came anyway,” said Voldemort dismissively, as his work station in the corner began to tidy itself with a wave of wandless magic. “Do you want wine?”

“In my experience,” said Harry, “if it’s not me you’re torturing, it’s someone else. And no, water is fine, thank you.”

“In your experience, hm?” he asked, moving towards his drinks cabinet and pulling out a rather dusty looking bottle, “Perhaps you would be willing to open up about more of those-”

“I don’t want wine,” snapped Harry, before checking himself on his tone, “I have drunk too much this Christmas already.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” said Voldemort, grabbing two glasses anyway, and moving to set them on the dining table that Harry realised was set for dinner. “You were having quite the riot at my birthday dinner, weren’t you?”

“So?” asked Harry, moving to sit down where one of the plates was laid out, realising with a grimace that Voldemort had seated them opposite one another, “I was lightly merry, I wasn’t wasted… I can’t believe you’re cooking.”

Voldemort poured two glasses of red wine, setting one down in front of Harry with a pointed look. “Why is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I just assumed you didn’t eat,” said Harry honestly.

“What a bizarre thing to say…” remarked Voldemort, returning to the kitchen island. Harry watched him with a sick sort of fascination as the man moved about the kitchen with a practised grace. He supposed it made sense Voldemort would know how to cook when he had to do it for himself - he was good at everything, he imagined he made it a point of pride to be good at this, too.

“Why have you invited me here?” asked Harry bluntly.

“As you were so eager to divulge,” said Voldemort, “It is my birthday today.”

“I know…” muttered Harry, staring at the glass of wine and deciding one couldn’t hurt. Might actually be preferable to whatever was going on here.

He tore his eyes from Voldemort, staring instead at his hands, and he idly traced the scars on the back of his right hand.

“How did you get that scar?” asked Voldemort, suddenly at his shoulder and setting a plate down in front of him. He’d made duck, with perfectly roasted vegetables, and from the smell Harry assumed it was in some sort of plum sauce.

“Thank you,” he said instinctively, watching as Voldemort made his way around to his own seat. “And I… there was a teacher I had when I was fifteen. She made me write lines with a pen that carved the words into my hands.”

“And did you?” asked Voldemort.

“Did I what?” asked Harry, confused, “Write?”

“Lie.”

Harry watched him for a moment, before picking up his knife and fork and cutting into the duck which fell apart the moment he touched it, perfectly cooked.

“I did not,” he said quietly, “I do not lie.”

“Just withhold information,” said Voldemort, with a knowing curve of his lips.

They ate in silence for a moment, and Harry was furious, absolutely livid, to discover it was the nicest thing he had ever eaten in his life. It wasn’t as flashy as he imagined it might be, the components were relatively simple, but it was utterly perfect. He sent a silent apology to Molly and Euphemia for being unseated by a complete monster.

It wasn’t over, either. And as Voldemort vanished the plates, two more appeared. Chocolate. A torte, he thought they were called, with some sort of cherry sauce poured over it. Voldemort had eaten the duck almost nonchalantly before, but as he brought his desert fork to his mouth, a flash of pleasure crossed his gaze, and Harry was suddenly reminded of him taking Euphemia’s chocolate biscuits.

“You like chocolate,” observed Harry.

“Terrible sweet tooth,” confirmed Voldemort, “Just another thing you know about me.”

“I’m surprised every time there’s something new to learn,” said Harry honestly, trying to focus on the man’s words now, which was nigh impossible as he watched the man’s tongue dart out to chase the sweetness on his own sculpted lips. He prayed to all the gods who didn’t exist Voldemort was going to stop at just one of these.

But he was taking his time. Voldemort’s fingers rapped on the table then, and as he was still eating his dessert, two boxes appeared. Harry realised they were his birthday presents - he’d made a swift exit after being caught red handed with Abraxas’ hands nearly down his pants, so he’d missed the gift giving part of the evening.

“I thought I’d open these now,” said Voldemort, “On my actual birthday, with you here.”

Harry did not know what was going on, but he was on the back foot with this entire evening, and he knew Voldemort had intended him to be so.

The ribbons unravelled themselves, and reaching into the first box with the hand that wasn’t holding his fork, Voldemort pulled out the pair of dragonhide gloves he’d gotten from Twilfitts. He turned them over in his hand with a measured expression.

“They are the same as your green ones,” he observed, “You must have gone shopping with Walburga Black.”

“I did,” he said carefully, “You should thank her - I wouldn’t have gotten you anything at all if she hadn’t strong-armed me into it.”

“Your presence is gift enough, Harry,” he said dismissively, before setting them down, and reaching into the second box.

Harry knew Voldemort didn’t have the power to stop time, but he would have sworn he did, looking back on this memory. The man’s fingers stilled as he looked at the leather book in his hands.

“I heard your other one wasn’t in use anymore,” said Harry, his voice quiet, “Thought you might want another…”

The book hit the table, and port-red eyes found his own.

“I am only going to ask you one last time, Harry Potter…” said Voldemort gently, “If you leave this table without revealing to me the full extent of what is going on here… I ask only that you remember all the chances I have given you up until now.”

Harry rose to his feet, his entire body feeling raw, like a live wire, and took a deep breath to calm himself.

You are his equal.

“Thank you for dinner, Tom,” said Harry, the name feeling utterly false on his tongue. It wasn’t who he was. It was the name his mother had given him, and the name of a man Voldemort did not wish to be.

It was a mask.

“Goodnight…”

Lord Voldemort did not stop him as he left.

Harry arrived home at around half ten, and without saying more than two words to his grandparents, he made his way up to his room, stripping off the clothes, washing the taste of chocolate and wine from his mouth, and grabbing his potion. He hopped up on the bed, and uncorked it.

He knows he uncorked it.

“Not quick enough I’m afraid.”

Harry blinked, and there, sat on the foot of his bed, was his worst nightmare. His stomach dropped.

“You…”

“Sleeping draught,” he confirmed, “Not a dreamless one, though, I am afraid…”

They were in his room now, and Voldemort spared a moment to look about it. To the clothes strewn, and books laid messily.

“I can wake up-”

“No you cannot,” said Voldemort, without apology, “We have long passed the time where you alone controlled these dreams. I put you here. I timed the potion perfectly… and I warned you, Harry…”

Voldemort struck, like a snake, too fast for Harry to dodge, and he found himself slammed back against the headboard, the bed shaking beneath them as long fingers found themselves locked around Harry’s throat.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” asked Voldemort, terrifyingly calm, “This feeling of limbo I have endured since your arrival? Unable to make a decision about you with so many unknowns floating in the abyss? Unable to believe you have even a shred of enjoyment in the company of my friends, because I can feel your derision. For them. For me.”

Harry struggled against him, trying to reach for his wand, for all the good it might do him in a dream. 

“I don’t like being in the dark, Harry,” he continued, his grip tightening, “If I am a moth and you my light, then enlighten me.”

“ Fuck you,” Harry rasped, clawing at his hands, his shoulders, anything he could reach.

Voldemort tilted his head in consideration. “Disappointing…” he murmured, “But expected…”

And just like, once again, Harry was kissing him. Or rather this time, Voldemort was the one initiating, his lips crashing against Harry’s with fervent desire. His entire body exploded with heat, his scar burned, and he let out a desperate moan that Voldemort seemed to swallow greedily.

The man’s fingers relented slightly, but kept their place against his neck, and at the sensation of Voldemort’s tongue against his own, the filth of it, Harry was devastated to find he was rock hard. 

“Did you enjoy having them pass you around?” asked Voldemort silkily, his lips latching onto Harry’s ear now, his jawline, hot breath and danger. Old churches, and roses. “Did you enjoy their attention, Harry? They’re all getting married, and having perfect children - you’re just their last roll in the hay…”

“What are you doing if not the exact same thing,” he spat venomously, though it was laced with heat, and something too close to whining for Harry’s liking, “You gonna marry me, Riddle?”

“If you’d like.” Voldemort crowded him even further, releasing his throat now, his hand instead trailing down to brush against the waistband of his pyjamas.

“Stop trying to seduce me to get what you want,” breathed Harry, “It’s not going to work, you’re wasting your time…”

“Ah, but this doesn’t feel wasteful,” said Voldemort, his hand slipping beneath the fabric now, cold hands trailing confidently down Harry’s length. At Harry’s eyes flying shut, for the first time, Voldemort’s voice took on a sharpness. “ Look at me.”

Harry did, and the heat in Voldemort’s gaze took his breath away. 

“Maybe you’ll get used to my touch…” mused Voldemort, his fingers locking around Harry’s cock now, the rhythm of his movements agonisingly slow as Harry unravelled before him. “Besides, didn’t you kiss me? You walk into my social circle like a fox in a hen house and question why I strike…”

Harry tried to suppress the urge to moan, and Voldemort tutted mockingly. “Don’t anger me further, Harry,” he warned, “ Let me hear you…”

Whether Voldemort commanded it or not, Harry’s control began to slip, his previously scratching nails gripping Voldemort’s shoulders now, his hips moving of their own volition, chasing friction as Voldemort’s hands became soaked with precome.

“Is that nice?” asked Voldemort softly, chasing Harry’s lips again, his tongue coaxing his mouth open to delve inside, deeply. “Tell me everything, Harry…” His grip became tighter. “Tell me, and I’ll keep you. I could make you feel like this all the time, if you wanted… All you have to do is ask…” 

He must have sensed Harry getting close, because he suddenly locked tight around the base of his cock, his movements stilling. Harry moaned, the sound desperate, and it was as though his hands had a mind of their own, moving up to grip Voldemort’s face imploringly. “Don’t…” he whispered, “ Please.”

Voldemort exhaled slowly, his breath shaking at the sound of Harry’s humiliating begging, and he kissed him again, unrelenting. “What do you want, Harry?” he asked, kissing him again, “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you…”

Harry wrapped his arms around Voldemort’s neck, and the man leaned in closer, his lips brushing Harry’s soaked ones.

“ Where is my cup?”

It was like a cold bucket of water was dashed over his head, and Harry blinked through the delirium. He was still hard, though, and Voldemort still had him locked in a vice grip. He suppressed the urge to panic, suppressed the urge to give in. 

“You know I took it…” whispered Harry.

“Return it.”

“ Never.”

Voldemort released his cock now, his movements fast, quick, mind-numbing, and within seconds, Harry came into his hand with a guttural moan. He watched in abject horror as Voldemort raised his hand to his own lips, licking his finger from one end to the other, the glisten of Harry’s pleasure like gloss upon his lips.

“Don’t speak with such finality, Harry,” he said, kissing him again, the taste of salt exploding on Harry’s tongue as he did so. When he drew back, he smiled, as though he’d won this time. Again.  

“I have been kind,” said Voldemort, “Patient. You feel as though you are winning, playing me like a fiddle… but I already know you will return it to me. I’ve got something precious of yours, too…”

Harry’s eyes widened. “What have you done…?”

“Happy New Year, darkling,” he said with a smirk.

Rage shot through his body in the clarity he had regained. “Happy Birthday, Lord Voldemort.”

He had the glory of curiosity washing over Voldemort’s face again… and then he woke up.

Harry was still in bed, evidence of his climax sticking to the inside of his pyjamas, but that wasn’t what alarmed him. What alarmed him was the smoke. Flying out of bed, Harry threw open the bedroom door, following the source of it, and soon enough he realised what was happening.

Willowmere was on fire.

He rushed through the house, magic flying out of his wand in an attempt to suppress the flames, and he found Fleamont passed out on the kitchen floor, which was bearing the evidence of an intense struggle. Dropping to his knees, he shook him awake.

“Fleamont!” he shouted.

The man woke up screaming, his eyes wide and terrified.

“Fleamont,” Harry said firmly, “We need to put out the fire, we-”

“Euphemia!” he howled, “They took her! They had masks, the wards fell! They-they took her!”

Minutes later saw Harry tearing through the forest in the pitch black, screaming her name until his throat felt like daggers. But the forest was empty.

He looked back to the burning visage of Willowmere.

Death Eaters had taken his grandmother. 

Euphemia Potter was gone.

Chapter Text

Voldemort had never seen eyes like Harry Potter’s. Of course, he had seen plenty of beautiful eyes - Voldemort had never been particularly caring to notice them, but he wasn’t blind. Druella’s came to mind, as did Orion’s. 

Still, Harry’s were a world apart. 

Almond shaped, and such a vibrant shade of green that Voldemort longed to see a killing curse reflected in them, to see if the colours melded together as one.

They were accentuated by the most fluttery lashes. Ever expressive; yes, Harry could never hide his feelings. His anger, his discomfort, his pride, his pleasure.

He could still feel the taste of him on his tongue. Willowmere had been set alight, his cousins screaming for help, and Harry had been busy, coming undone beneath Voldemort’s touch. He had been patient when Harry had laid his fingers on Walburga, when he returned the witty flirtations of Abraxas, but he was far past that now. He could never again allow such a thing.

Voldemort loved nothing more in life than uncovering how something worked. In discovery. This time, the discovery was lust. Of course, Voldemort felt possessiveness easily, and often, but lust? That was something entirely apart. It felt dangerous, like a growing liability boiling beneath his skin, but Voldemort was nothing if not a master of self control, and he knew this was just another magic to master. A weapon to wield. All the best lies held a note of truth, after all.

Pain didn’t motivate Harry the way it should. When Voldemort had tortured him, the young man had been unfathomably resilient. He wanted to do it again, just to see how far he could take it. What might the boy look like under a Cruciatus curse, he wondered. Pain at Voldemort’s hand didn’t seem to confuse him, though it should. It was more telling than Voldemort anticipated. 

He had given nothing away to imply he was a violent person, but Harry had known it. Harry Potter knew him.

Harry Potter knew his name.

His true name, the name he had picked for himself. How, he had no idea - there were curses on his followers preventing them from speaking it until such a time as was safe for them to do so, and he would have known if they had. Yet the boy knew… 

From the moment he had met him in the dream, on the island with Dumbledore’s grave, Harry Potter had known he was a Dark Lord.

This was how he knew his approach was appropriate. Harry seemed convinced Voldemort couldn’t seduce him, that he could easily resist the falsehood, but it was clear that he could disarm him. Harry didn’t seem to think Voldemort’s hands should be gentle, didn’t seem comfortable with his patience. As though it cut through the resolve that Harry had built brick by black and white brick. A knowledge that Harry was yet to face, yet to accept - that Voldemort might have been manipulating him, yes, but that he wanted to touch him. 

Voldemort entered the bedroom where Euphemia Potter was being kept. She was in a state of stasis currently, being kept asleep, so as not to do her any undue damage. She would not be much of a trading commodity if she was dead, or injured beyond repair.

The woman was laid out atop the black sheets, now cleaned of fire smoke, and dressed in a white silk nightgown. She looked beautiful. Not beautiful enough. Voldemort didn’t care to look at anyone lying on a bed of silk, if it was not him. 

“May I ask what is going on, my lord?” 

Abraxas’ voice rang out from the chair in which he was sitting, watching over her, and Voldemort turned to see the man looking at him inquisitively, but certainly not expectantly. 

“I am going to take a walk inside her mind,” replied Voldemort coolly, “All I need from you and the others is to continue as you have with the young Mr Potter.”

“Is he a threat?” pressed Abraxas lightly.

“Do you suppose anyone could ever possibly be a threat to me?” Voldemort asked him, with a tilt of his head.

Abraxas looked suitably embarrassed, as flustered as the man ever got, and shook his head. “I just mean,” he continued, “He turned up out of nowhere, some home-schooled kid we’ve never heard of, and a Potter to boot - they’ve become infamous muggle lovers in the past couple of decades. Yet we’re to believe he wants to hang around with us?”

Abraxas didn’t miss much, to his credit. His ever watchful spider, catching secrets in his web. 

“My distrust of his intentions is precisely why Euphemia Rosier now lies in this bed,” he said vaguely, “That is all you need to know at present. Do keep Druella away from me these next few hours; I do not want to hear her whining.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said, without missing a beat. 

“Leave,” he ordered, and Abraxas wasted no time in doing so. 

Voldemort moved to occupy Abraxas’ chair now, dropping down onto it slowly, and folding his hands together. 

Avery and Yaxley would arrive shortly, after eliminating any potential evidence that might have created a trail. Magic left traces, after all. In the meantime, he would get to work here, in aid of uncovering his long sought answers. He could have done this in the first place, but if Voldemort was being entirely truthful with himself, he had been enjoying the game. Nothing was a challenge for him, nor had it been, since he had left the remits of Albus Dumbledore’s watchful eyes. Even then, Dumbledore had not foreseen where the sweet-faced Tom Riddle would end up. Not like Harry…

Voldemort wondered what the trace of magic inside Harry Potter meant. What it was that was connecting their dreams. He was not the sort of man to make guesses; if he was he would be completely useless, so many were the ideas that flew through his head. Taking out the bone-white yew wand, he pressed it lightly to Euphemia’s temple, entering her mind wordlessly.

It bowed before the pressure, and gave way to his entry into her memories. An onslaught of dreamlike memories floated around him, malleable for her lack of consciousness, spilling over where they ought not to have done. She hadn’t had the time to strengthen her mind properly before they had taken her - and now it was an open door. 

A little Druella in a pink dress holding her hand as they walked along the riverside. An image of her sat curled up on an armchair in the Hogwarts library as rain thundered beyond the window panes. Henry Potter holding her hands to his chest as she wept. The way Fleamont Potter seemed to glow in her vision where he stood on the jetty looking out at her.

Images of Harry. The boy sat by the fireplace with her, his hair still wet from his bath. Walking with him on the hills that bordered their estate, his cheeks bitten red with cold. Singing to him in the quietest voice as she sat beside his bed, stroking his hair. She could not have been more than ten or so years older than Harry, and yet the memories shone on him in a way that did not make sense. He was an adult - she did not see him as such… 

“Harry-” Her voice was fraught with tension. Voldemort recognised her outfit, the smell of the oil in the frying pan. This was the day he had turned up unannounced.

“Do as I say,” he told her firmly, “Just trust me, please?”

His voice was so commanding Voldemort found his brow arching in query. She saw a child when she looked at him, but somehow she obeyed him? Euphemia looked at her cousin beseeching. Do as I say, he had said, as though he was the man of this household. And Euphemia? Voldemort had to give her credit for her masking skills, because now, in the kitchen, she was terrified.

An image of her sobbing jerked into view. Fleamont Potter held her to his chest.

“I can’t do this,” she wept, “I can’t lose him, Monty. He’s just a baby. He’s just a child. This isn’t fair!”

“We won’t lose him,” said Fleamont, his voice firm, “We’ll save him. We’ll protect him.”

But the emotion was clear in Euphemia’s memory. Voldemort could taste it on his tongue. That the woman believed, deeply, she could not protect Harry from anything. She could only love him, and oh how it hurt to do so. Just a baby. Just a baby…

He searched more pointedly now, looking for Harry’s face. For those eyes. For the first time she had seen them.

A memory of the door to a bedroom being opened. Harry was sitting on the bed inside. He was dressed strangely, covered in dirt, and blood. His eyes were wide and haunted. 

“Oh, let me do it, love!”  The housekeeper’s voice rung out discordantly. “We don’t even know who this man is - he could be dangerous!”

We don’t even know who this man is. 

“I just love your jeans!”  She was smiling warmly. Gently. As though she was approaching a wounded animal, and trying to look confident in doing so.

“Uh…” began Harry, “Can I ask who you are?”

“Isn’t that my line?” she laughed.

She did not know who he was. He did not know who she was. Had Fleamont never mentioned this cousin, and to his cousin, never his wife?

Voldemort watched Harry get to his feet, almost nervously, his hand held outstretched to Euphemia. “Harry Potter,” he introduced, “The F-”
The image distorted, shifted. Voldemort was used to such tricks; memories being altered. He was an expert hand at straightening them out, though. As far as he knew and believed, there was no one in this world more accomplished at Legilimency than him. 

Yet the memory did not alter now. It stopped. A quick check, and he determined that it had not been Oblivated, and yet it cut out entirely, as though a phone wire had been cut. He felt a flash of irritation for even thinking about telephone wires, but quickly set it aside.

The magical signature was clear. He felt a hate flood through him he had only ever reserved for one man, and one man alone.

Albus Dumbledore had been in her head.

He ripped himself out of her head, his body slumping back against the chair as he fought to control his breathing now. Resisted the urge to march out from the room and flay the first person he clasped eyes on. 

Dumbledore again. Why was it that no matter where he looked, when it came to Harry Potter, Dumbledore was always involved. In their life, as in dreams. He remembered the dream where he had arrived to the sight of Harry whispering reverent words of love to that cold, white tomb, and his mouth filled with bitterness.

Voldemort acknowledged, lightly, that he wanted to kill Harry Potter. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to fuck him and then kill him. He wanted to tear into his mind, and his body, and if Dumbledore wanted to close all other doors to Lord Voldemort when it came to this mystery, then that is what he would do.

It did not matter how much Voldemort wanted to keep Harry - if he and Dumbledore were in bed with one another, metaphorically at least, then he could only assume the worst. That Dumbledore, too, was aware of the Horcruxes. That, perhaps, Harry had told him. As they conspired to unravel everything that Voldemort was building and creating. Voldemort had set out to create the perfect world. He was whatever people needed him to be - father, son, priest, god. Yet it remained true enough that in the eyes of Albus Dumbledore, the safest hands were his own, not Voldemort's. 

Time would prove which of them was right. Dumbledore, so obsessed with people, when magic was might.

The diary was safe, and he knew he needed to move the locket. But the others? 

The game had been fun… Voldemort reached out, letting his fingers card through the soft hair of Euphemia Potter. His theories were many, but one stood out above all else...

The game was over now.

Chapter Text

The ashy ruins of Willowmere could have been worse - the bones of the place were at the very least intact. Even now, as Aurors scoured every inch of the land, there were people here doing their best to put it back together. Maggie the housekeeper was fluttering around making too many cups of tea for them all, at a desperate loss of anything else to do. For centuries it had stood stalwart. Harry thought of castles that had to be rebuilt, and considered how sad it must have been, for history to have gone up in flames the way it had.

Plenty of possessions were lost for good. Plenty of ancient, irreplaceable magical artefacts. Photographs. The scarf Euphemia had crocheted for him at the start of winter. Blessedly, not his cloak. The lower sections, Harry had found out later, were done in with Fiendfyre, and it was not until a certain Auror appeared that they were able to put it out.

Harry watched as a much younger, and much less disfigured Alastor Moody marched about the place with a commanding, fierce presence. It made him feel so safe, but then strangely, Moody always had.

He sat on the garden bench with Fleamont, both covered in ash, dried sweat, and misery.

“I would see it burned to nothing if it meant she was here, safe…” breathed Fleamont softly.

Harry’s head whipped around to him, his eyes hard. “We will get here back,” he vowed.

“Aye, lad,” said Fleamont with a nod, “Even if I have to kill to do it…”

Dumbledore would be arriving soon, Harry having sent word to him via his Patronus almost immediately. The floo network had been damaged, but Harry knew he would not be long. The sun was rising now…

Willowmere had never looked more beautiful, than in this moment, when it had to be.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry quietly, “If I had never come here, if I had just turned around, and found my own way… went straight to Dumbledore…”

Fleamont’s hand gripped the back of his neck suddenly, turning Harry to face him. There was not a flicker of doubt to be seen in his gaze. “Never say that again,” he ordered angrily, “Do you hear me? I would have you no place else. Euphemia would have you no place else. This is your home as much as it is mine, or hers. This is your birthright. You are our grandson.”

“I’m still a stranger…”

“Never,” he said, undeterred, “My only regret is that I was so woefully unprepared that I did not do more to save her. But don’t you ever dare say something like that again. Your presence in our lives will never be a burden, you are a gift. And I am your grandfather…” Fleamont’s eyes filled with tears. “And what am I if I cannot protect you? I promised Euphie I would, and I will.”

“I don’t want you both dying for me like James and Lily did…” whispered Harry, “I cannot do it twice.”

“You will ,” said Fleamont, “If you have to? You will. That’s an order, and you’ll listen to me, understand? But I’m not going down without a fight, and I pity whoever it is who has to deal with Euphemia. She’s a hard woman, and she was navigating that viper’s pit long before she ever found her way into my arms.”

Harry nodded, both despondent, and yet he had never felt more loved.

“What did they say?” he asked, “When they arrived, what did you tell them?”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he admitted, “I panicked - I sent them to investigate Tom Riddle.”

“You-”

“Mr Potter.”

Both of them looked away from one another towards the approaching Auror, a woman with cropped tight curls.

“Any news, Mrs Selwyn?” Fleamont was seemingly familiar with her.

“We’ve investigated Tom Riddle,” she said, her voice calm, “He was with Druella Rosier, and Malcolm Avery last night. I understand Miss Rosier is your wife’s younger sister?”

“That’s right…” confirmed Fleamont.

“A dead end then, I’m afraid,” she said, “We’ve found no evidence as of yet, but we’ve put a call out for people in masks, and Alastor Moody himself will be working day and night to find Euphemia. Our own Cursebreakers have arrived to reinforce your wards. For now, that is the best we can do, but we ask that one of you stay home, Mr Potter. We do not know the motive as of yet, and we could use a point of contact on hand for any updates.”

“Very well…” he said, watching now as she walked away, before a silence fell over the pair of him.

“Voldemort said he was with Druella,” said Harry quietly.

“He wasn’t here,” said Fleamont, “They must have been those Death Eaters-”

“No,” agreed Harry, “I know that. But Voldemort wasn’t with Druella either - he was asleep, or in my dreams. He drugged me so I would fall asleep... so he could keep me there whilst they took her.”

“Merlin’s beard…”

“Which means that Druella is covering for them,” said Harry with resignation, “Unsurprising, but it will make things difficult.” He thought of her sparkling smile, and was glad at his own insistence to never fully trust them. In the end, Druella Rosier was to be Bellatrix's mother. Perhaps he never was going to be able to change her.

There was a sharp crack off in the distance, and Harry jumped to his feet, as the image of Dumbledore came into view. He watched him exchange a few words with Moody, before heading Harry’s way.

His expression was grave, bordering on irritated. A rare emotion on Dumbledore, but one Harry was always grateful he was trusted with.

“Fancy another sweep of the forest, Harry?”

Nodding, Harry dropped a hand to Fleamont’s shoulder, before the two set off towards the woods. When they were well out of earshot, Harry told the story in its entirety, omitting the explicit details he didn’t believe to be entirely relevant. Voldemort's intentions were what mattered - that he wanted to stop Harry intervening in Euphemia's kidnapping. His old headmaster didn't need to know Voldemort had touched him in the process. Dumbledore listened to the story quietly, and without interruption, which helped, as the adrenaline crash had left Harry more than a little scattered. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of protecting Euphemia and Fleamont’s minds already, Harry. I hope you will forgive me the invasiveness of this; but I can see my concerns were well founded. He’s been pushed too far…” said Dumbledore gravely, before tossing Harry something small and golden, “We will give the cup back to him.”

What should have irritated him regarding the mind alterations caused Harry nothing but relief in that moment. “But Professor,” said Harry, his voice thin with stress, “It could take us years to recover it again.”

“He might well have hidden it in the Lestrange vault by then,” said Dumbledore, with a little tap against his nose, “No, Harry, we must save Euphemia Potter. Without her, you would not have been born. There are too many unknown variables to this travel through death and time of yours to risk what the consequences were anything to happen to her before James is born. We still have other horcruxes in our possession, which means that at present, we are still some steps ahead of him.” 

Harry felt a pang of relief that her recovery was not a total detriment to their plans. He was not sure he could have left her to her fate even if it were, to be honest. Harry was never good at knowing when to call a loss.

“Now is not the time to be impulsive, Harry,” continued Dumbledore, “One step back in order to take three steps forward is not a bad position to be in, even if it feels that way right now.”

It certainly did feel that way. “At this point,” said Harry, “I can’t figure out what Voldemort would do. So far he’s been measured by his own curiosity, but if his patience has run thin…” He sighed. “I need the wand.”

“Thought you might say as much,” said Dumbledore with a sigh, “Truth be told, I didn’t see myself parting from it so soon…” He turned where he stood now, opening his arms with that friendly, mischievous smile of his. “Whenever you’re ready, Harry.”

Harry nodded, taking a deep breath, before he disarmed him, the wand spiralling before finding purchase in his grip.

Oh how it sang for him. In a way far beyond how it had felt beforehand. Crossing over to Harry now, Dumbledore slipped the Gaunt Ring into his hand, too. “I would feel better,” admitted Dumbledore, “To know you held all three when you go to him… and you must go to him. And stay strong. Tom’s actions were not the actions of a Dark Lord feeling in control - but a man terrified of losing it.”

His insights never failed to bring clarity to Harry’s mind.

Raising the wand, Harry’s stag patronus erupted from it with vigor, and he spoke his message clearly, and with a voice far stronger than he felt.

“We will meet in a location of your choosing,” said Harry bluntly, “You will deliver Euphemia Potter safely to Willowmere. In exchange, I will give you the goblet of Helga Hufflepuff.”

It shot off into the distance, elegant and light, and Harry felt raw knowing he could not rescind the message now. His path was clear, and he would walk it. Wherever it was that Voldemort led him. 

By the time he and Dumbledore had returned to Willowmere, Harry’s pocket began to burn with heat. Shoving his hand inside, he drew out a letter.

The graveyard. You know which one.

Immediately, and alone.

Harry exhaled, looking down at his pyjamas, before looking back to Dumbledore. “You couldn’t transfigure these into something more intimidating, could you?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “On the off chance he will employ anything to dispel present magical effects,” he said, “I have a more amusing idea.”

Harry apparated to Little Hangleton himself. The image of the graveyard was burned deep into his memory, and it was no trouble whatsoever to do so.

The trail of Dumbledore’s robes on the frosting ground was grating, but Harry didn’t mind. If you would have told Harry when he was twelve that he would be walking around in Dumbledore’s eccentric robes, he would have found it amusing. As it was, these were at least very classy. A dark blue, with twinkling gold stars that made it look something akin to Lapis Lazuli. He had forgone the silly hat, unsure it would even stay put atop his wild hair.

In one pocket he held the cup, in the other the ring. The Elder Wand was gripped firmly in his hand, and his cloak under one arm in case of emergency. Voldemort had tried to kill him here once already, and he was not about to take any chances now. He made his way to the Riddle grave, the only sound present that of frost crunching underfoot, and memories flooded back to him of the last time he had been here in person. 

The grave looked freshly erected now, but then it had only been a few years since Voldemort had walked into the Riddle Manor and killed his family. He looked up, spotting the great manor on the hill, and wondered why it was that Voldemort hadn't taken residence there instead of London. It was a big, beautiful building. 

He immediately felt stupid for it, though. Voldemort, who abhorred his half blood, would want nothing to do with the Riddle house. Less still for knowledge that in another life where his mother kept giving Tom Riddle Sr. her love potions, Voldemort might have indeed grown up here in Little Hangleton. Would his accent have held a broad, northern cut to it? He tried to imagine it, and found, oddly, that the prospect rather suited him. There was something otherworldly about the accents of the North. 

“Given the circumstances, I find it highly unusual that you would choose to turn up here wearing Albus Dumbledore’s clothes.”

Harry spun slowly, coming to see Voldemort walking through the graveyard as though he were taking a morning stroll. The sun was halfway up now, bathing the place of death in soft light. Voldemort wore a fine woollen suit in a deep shade of charcoal grey, and he looked remarkably well rested. He had probably slept like a baby, smug at the rug he had pulled from beneath Harry's feet.

“Yes well,” said Harry coolly, “Your dogs set my wardrobe on fire. Walburga won’t be happy; she spent quite a fair bit on those robes I wore for your birthday. Then again, for all I know, she could have been there casting Fiendfyre with the rest of them.”

“Oh,” he said idly, “That wasn’t her. Too bad a temper for it, I believe…”

“Do you know that Fiendfyre can destroy Horcruxes?” asked Harry, feigning a conversational tone, “ Luckily nothing important was there, or we’d all be in trouble, wouldn’t we?”

Voldemort was quiet. Restrained. His eyes took on that unreadable glaze that in itself always suggested to Harry that he was trying his very hardest not to lash out. Yet.

“I want Euphemia Potter in Willowmere within the next five minutes,” said Harry simply, “And I want confirmation sent to me by Fleamont Potter himself. Do this, and I will return the cup to you.”

“Of course,” said Voldemort, with a gentle smile, “See how easy it is, Harry? We could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble…”

“I don’t see you sending your little bitches any instructions,” he snipped.

“Oh, they are listening,” said Voldemort.

“I thought we were doing this alone,” said Harry, brow furrowing a little. He was not fond of the idea of them listening in, able to intervene at any moment. He felt outnumbered again, just like the night when Cedric Diggory had been killed.

“Is that what you’d like?” asked Voldemort, wandering closer now, coming to rest on one of the gravestones as though he were standing at a bus stop. “To be alone with me?”

“Send them away,” he demanded, his own voice frosty now.

“Very well,” he relented, remarkably quickly, and Harry watched as he waved a hand. A moment later, several columns of smoke burst into the sky, “She will be with your cousin momentarily. In the meantime, I would like my cup. I would like conversation, too, but since you are ardently refusing to engage in it, I must add a slight addendum to our exchange, I’m afraid.”

Harry clicked his tongue. “Let me hear it.”

“Tell me everything,” he said, “And when she returns to Willowmere, all the pieces of her will still be attached in all the right places.”

Hate flooded Harry’s veins. Raw, hot, and unyielding.

“I can’t tell you anything about me,” said Harry through his teeth, “You will die if I do.”

“I’ll die?” laughed Voldemort, his voice almost mocking, the soft laugh like silver bells dropped on shards of glass. Beautiful, and wrong. “Ah, we won’t talk about you then. How about us? Why we share dreams… Why, even when we do not, you haunt mine anyway. Why don’t we talk about me, and what exactly it is you want with me?”

“I already know everything I need to know about you.” Harry met his eyes with vitriol.

“You do?”

“You’re Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he said, “And the grave behind me was erected in the last few years, when you killed your muggle father and his family. And I will not speak another word until I receive confirmation that my cousin is in Willowmere, with your people gone from the grounds shortly thereafter.”

“You will have to give them a moment, Harry,” chastised Voldemort, “The estate is crawling with Aurors… very overdramatic, if you ask me. You must have known all it would take is this. Let me see my cup.”

Clicking his tongue, Harry drew the cup from his pocket, watching the way Voldemort regarded it as though it were an old friend. 

A flash of white light saw an eagle Patronus perched on the great scythe that stretched above the Riddle grave. Alastor Moody’s voice rung out.

Euphemia Potter has returned to Willowmere. We found her fast asleep in the vegetable patches. Get back here quickly, boy.

Voldemort smiled serenely. “Am I not a man of my word?” he asked, “I promised you consequences if you kept my cup from me, and I promised you mercy if you did not.”

Harry levelled him with another look as the Patronus dissipated. He considered trying to run at this point, but reason won out, and he tossed the cup towards Voldemort, who plucked it from the air without breaking eye contact.

“Why will I die if you tell me your truth?” he asked, the warning still edging his tone.

“Because I will kill you,” said Harry simply, “Not because you deserve to die, but because you need to. I will kill you because no prison could hold you. I will kill you because you killed me, Lord Voldemort.”

“I wondered how you knew my name,” said Voldemort, with a tilt of his head.

“Picked it out in school, didn’t you?” asked Harry, “Did you sit in the library swapping letters around until it looked right? You can hide behind the mask of Tom Riddle, but I know who you really are.”

“Yes…” whispered Voldemort, “It would appear that you do…”

There was a weight to Voldemort's voice, and despite being stood in a graveyard, Harry felt as though they were, most uncomfortably, back in his bed again.

Voldemort smiled. “But I did not kill you, Harry,” he said, “You are stood breathing before me, and I am sure I would have remembered it. Contrary to the way you look at me, I have not killed that many people. Which leads me to assume the only remaining logical explanation…”

“Assumption is remarkably close to guessing,” warned Harry.

“Let me worry about guessing, Harry,” said Voldemort, “You just tell me what you know, and I will tell you what is true. It must have been one hell of a time turner…”

“Close but no cigar.” Harry felt a pang of uncertainty. He knew Voldemort clever enough to have narrowed it down at some point. At the very least, he could not possibly know the details, and Harry knew it was the details he truly craved.

“Do you think you could kill me, Harry Potter?” asked Voldemort curiously, “Or is your lack of confidence the reason you let Dumbledore play house with your life…”

He needed to be strong. The second he gave Voldemort an inch, he would take a mile, and their dynamic was already a sinking ship. The more Voldemort talked, the greater the odds he'd get Harry on the backfoot, where he liked him.

“I have your ring,” said Harry, “Your diadem…”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed, and the way they widened, the way he looked so expressive, had his body shivering in all the wrong ways. He could end worlds with that gaze. He all but did already...

“The locket is a little more difficult,” admitted Harry casually, “But I have everything that I need. Do you understand?” He stepped forward now, and the flash of predatory instinct within him sent sparks up his spine. “I’ve got you in my hands, Voldemort. I will kill you, eventually. You did kill me. In fact, you only managed it the second time, and yet still, here I am. I am the Master of Death. You have bought yourself time in retrieving this cup, but I warn you…” He reached the man, his wand raised to brush against Voldemort’s perfect cheekbone. “Do not push me. Buy yourself a little longer, hm?”

“Where…” breathed Voldemort, “Did you get that wand…?”

“It’s the Elder Wand,” he replied, his voice softer now, “You are far more powerful a wizard than I… this is only fair…” 

“A fairytale…”

“You know better than to believe any magic in this world is impossible,” said Harry, with a curve of his lips.

“You are…” Voldemort’s eyes flickered across his face, and in the morning light, Harry could swear he could see himself framed within them. “So very beautiful, Harry Potter…”

Harry could not pretend it did not disarm him. He expected rage, poorly concealed or not, and instead found wonder, intrigue, and… something else. Something Harry could not escape, try as he might. Something he could not control, or halt, but simply endure. Endure, and pray to gods he didn't believe in that he would have the strength to repel it.

“You will regret taking Euphemia,” said Harry, his voice more hoarse than he would like, “From now on, our farce of a friendship is over.”

“Very well,” said Voldemort, without missing a beat, “I never intended to be your friend…” Despite the wand at his face, Voldemort reached up, his hand curving around the underside of Harry’s jaw. “And when I kill you, Harry Potter, it will be because you beg me to… of course, there are more enjoyable things you could beg for-”

Harry stepped back out of the man’s grasp now, a little irritated he had to be the one to retreat, but refusing to allow what could only be described as intimacy, whilst his life was being threatened. 

Voldemort was smirking, triumphant. Harry hated him so... 

“See you around, Voldemort," he said bluntly.

"And you, darkling..." he replied softly. There was a moment the two just stared at one another, before Voldemort spoke again. "If you ever wear his robes again, I will make whatever I have presumably done to you in the future look like child's play-"

Harry disapparated before his body could grow any more confused. It wasn't listening to his mind right now, and could not be trusted. This was Voldemort, his mortal enemy, the personification of evil, and the most dangerous man in the world. A man who had kidnapped his own flesh and blood.

When his feet landed back on the ground in Willowmere, he bolted, not breaking stride until the back door was flung open. The kitchen was crawling with Aurors, still, all asking questions, and before his eyes, there she was.

Sat in a wooden chair by the fireplace, a cup of tea in her hands, rosy cheeked and beautiful.

Not a scratch. Not physically, anyway.

He rushed over to her, and even as he dropped to his knees, grasping at her, Fleamont did not take his hand from her shoulder. “Euphie,” breathed Harry, “Are you-”

She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she apologised, “I… don’t remember a thing.”

“She’s had her memory wiped,” said Fleamont, “The Aurors are looking into-”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry with a shake of his head, eyes welling up, “You’re here, that’s what matters...”

As he watched Fleamont cling to her, as though she might disappear at any moment, his grip on her stronger than he probably realised, Harry swore a silent vow that this would not happen again. 

He’d explain the details to them later, once the Aurors were gone. The fact Voldemort had determined he was from the future was not ideal in the slightest, but then there wasn't much chance he would be able to figure out anything more than that. No, for now he would sort out his grandparents. He’d make them dinner, and let them rest.

And then he and Dumbledore had a job to do.

Harry felt nostalgic, as he looked up at the door leading to the Chamber of Secrets. Dumbledore stood at his side, holding his old wand, and a rather composed expression on his face.

Despite holding the Elder Wand, they had a rough game plan for the situation, which was why Harry had the sword of Gryffindor held loosely in his hand. It didn’t matter if he had the wand of power, Dumbledore still had years of experience on him, and was by far the better option for any spell slinging they’d need to do.

“Are you ready?” asked Dumbledore, giving him a little wink.

Harry nodded, and let the musical lilt of Parseltongue slip from his lips.

This was going to be a long night. 

Hours later saw them sat, panting, in Dumbledore’s office, a not inconsiderable pile of fangs suspending in the air, and a bloodied sword resting on the desk. There was no going back now. Harry explained to Dumbledore the violent reaction the horcruxes would have to being destroyed, so they took the necessary precautions.

And as the sun rose on the horizon, Harry tried to ignore both the glee and the sorrow he felt as they returned their pieces of Voldemort’s soul to dust.

It made him feel guilty.

It made him feel powerful.