Chapter Text
Somehow, this cell was cozier than his room at the Dursley's. The realization made Harry drop into a mad laughing outburst, then into a strong coughing fit. Perhaps it was a bit damp, what with the sticky traces of blood on the floor (lovely decoration, he thought) and cold, since it was in a drab dungeon- but it was bigger than what he was used to in his usual jail. The bed was actually comfortable and he was allowed to read. He wasn't really fed at all- if one was being honest, but that wasn't any different than what he was used to. He didn't even have to do chores!
All in all, a solid 7/10, really.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound made him raise his head from where he was curling up onto the floor, crawling towards his jail door- which was as you'd expect, but at least he could see out. He couldn't at the Dursley's, unless he fancied himself a cat. A familiar clink of keys and heels, he watched the woman passed by, dropping a book onto the floor before leaving. Extending his hand through the bars, he could grab it.
Before he could even look at it, however, the door to the dungeons opened again. He pressed his face against the cool metal and spotted a familiar figure. A grin spread across his cheeks, ah, so he was back, he thought. "Voldemort!" he greeted, "Fancy seeing you here,"
The man didn't even acknowledge him, but did stop at his door. He glanced down at the book in Harry's hand and grabbed it, glancing at the title. "Were you really planning to read that?" Voldemort eventually said, amused.
"Hardly nothing else to do down here," Harry shrugged, making a gimme gesture. The dark lord rolled his eyes but threw it at his face. Harry didn't dodge. He let it push him on his back- though it really was a weak throw, offense meant- laying down. He didn't even try to look like he had any dignity anymore, Voldemort had seen him in worse states than this.
Or perhaps this was the worst: because the fighting spirit was gone.
It was hard to care. Not when so many had died, not when Harry had already tried and failed. Give him the participation medal, he did his part. Didn't care about beating his fated enemy or whatever- the prophecy was false. Voldemort couldn't kill him- just as Harry had failed, thrice. He would say they were even, but the dark lord had cheated so it wasn't fair anymore. Why keep count?
Harry felt a burst of pain- nothing real hardcore, typical stinging hex- and stared up at his captor. "Lost focus?" he guesses. Sometimes he began zoning out, which annoyed Voldemort to no end when they were having their little talks, as he'd dubbed it. Obviously, such a dubious name had incurred the man's wrath, but again- he was far past caring.
"Didn't know the golden boy was so bored he'd began reading the dark magic books," he sneered, which was as much as an agreement as he would get.
Harry directed his gaze to the book again, and read 'The most Efficient Curses to Inflict to Someone's Bloodline with Detailed Instructions'. Ah yes, the wizarding world's habit of long names. "Boredom's as much as a killer as a knife or a wand ever could be," he says flatly. "'s that what you'll try next? Or are you content 'corrupting' the boy-who-lived or whatever it is that gets you laughing the most-"
"Only a moron would keep using the same approach to a problem when it is clear it hasn't been working," Voldemort cuts. He conjures a comfortable armchair with a wave of his hand and does the same for Harry. Harry, who can't help but scoff, "Oh, some courtesy, except me to get on my knees for how thankful I am for that?"
Voldemort doesn't even twitch, most likely waiting for him to sit, and he sighs. Begrudgingly, he wobbles to his feet before collapsing into the arm-chair. "There, I'm sat. Now what's this new approach?"
"Talking," the man simply says.
Ah, yes, like Harry knows anymore about how the fuck he's staying alive than the dark lord who's The Expert on Immortality. "Sure," he says, deciding to humour him, "What'd you wanna know?" It's not like anything he knows couldn't be taken out of his mind forcefully- so he does appreciate having some control over how he says things. That's a privilege neither Snape or Dumbledore have ever given him.
If Voldemort is surprised by his compliance, he doesn't show it. "What does the killing curse feel like?" he asks, leaning forward.
He frowns, "Haven't I killed you with it, like twice?"
Ah, the lemon face! He's so good at pissing this guy off, its comical. What's less is what usually comes after- but for now, no curses come. "Answer the question," he says, like he's forcing himself to stay calm. Harry feels like laughing, but the thin veil of self-preservation he still has (thinner than the power house of the cell, but there) prevents him from doing so.
"It feels like a cold gust of wind," Harry instead answers. It feels peaceful. He's become acquainted with death, lately, but the death curse was a favorite of his- as much as you could have a favorite method of dying, of course.
"Any pain?" he probes.
Harry hums at that, "Not exactly- it's- ah, like that sensation of falling I guess when you're sleeping? It's not painful, not pleasant, not unpleasant, it just is,"
Voldemort looks thoughtful at that, which Harry finds strange, since they should have the same experience, but he doesn't pay it much mind. It's not like knowing everything the dark lord schemes would do anything- he's most likely never getting out of here, and will die here, maybe, or be stuck here forever. Which, at the very least, couldn't be hell- since hell had always been the Dursleys. This is just... annoying, at worst. He's used to it.
"Would you qualify death as a whole to be pleasant?"
"No," Harry immediately says, "Dying is painful,"
Voldemort only looks irritated by that, "Death. Not dying, death itself. That lapse between you being dead, and coming back to life. Don't tell me it isn't a thing when it's a recorded fact,"
Harry would like to say death is peaceful. He would like to say death is kind, he would like to say death is fair. Because it is, once you've reached it. Harry just runs, runs and runs- but the escape is always out of reach. "I never die," he says, softly, a contradiction. "I am dying,"
"What happens when your heart isn't beating?" the dark lord pushes further.
"When my heart doesn't beat," Harry says, "My body is repairing itself so it beats again. You're trying to get me to say there's an afterlife- or not, maybe get me to say there's nothing, or maybe that it's dark, and cold, and terrifying. But truth is? I cannot die, and that's because of you."
"Because of me?" Voldemort echoes, a frown etching itself into his snakey face. "And what have I done to keep you alive? That's completely opposite to what I've been trying this entire time," he hisses.
Harry had thought the man had known. He thought there would be nothing important left to tell, or the important things he did have to be about- perhaps other Order members? About Dumbledore? "Why were you asking about how the death curse felt when you've already died by it?" he asks, quietly, his mind churning out thoughts at a hundred kilometers an hour- burning with them.
"No," the dark lord said, eyes narrowed, "Answer me, or I can make your life here even worse,"
He privately thought it could never be worse than anything he's lived through before, but didn't dare voice that. Bad things happen to those who tempted fate- Harry was a living proof. "It's related," he snaps back, "Because it's all bloody related- intertwined in fate's red strings. Your soul- oh don't get that look, I knew- is so broken you don't feel it anymore. You don't know, you really don't know something that simple- something that's been ruling my life, the thing that wrote my expiration date cleanly and neatly to coincide with yours."
"I know about the prophecy stupid boy-"
"I'm neither a boy, nor am I stupid," Harry scoffed, "You are, though. If you haven't figured it out yet. What could possibly keep me alive? It's simple: it's you. Your soul, inside of mine. Intertwined. Actual soulmates. Dumbledore thought if you killed me, you would destroy your own soul- but that's impossible. So I came back, again."
Voldemort stares for a few moment. Harry stares back. Observing his face for any reaction, the slightest of twitch- of hints at what the man is feeling, but he looks like a marble statue carved into shock. No anger crosses his face, even if he'd been called an idiot (which if anyone else had dared, they would've been cursed into a living vegetable). Nor does anything else Harry can recognize come.
After what must've been minutes, the man recovers. "Your regeneration is anormal," is all he says, almost like he's clinging onto that truth, as if it'd make the rest untrue.
"So it is," Harry agrees, because he didn't claim to know what the fuck was up with that, and if he did, it'd be a load of bullocks.
The silence stretches for a bit longer before the man stands. He vanishes his own armchair and leaves without another word. Harry stares after him, then leans to grab the book off the floor. He'd already read the other books they'd given him, laid in a pile under his bed, so it could be away from possible bloodshed. (It was annoying to deal with sticky pages.) Maybe he could use those curses to curse Voldemort's bloodline. The thought of that guy having children, and them being cursed atop of that, is hilarious to Harry. So he laughs. Then coughs.
Perhaps a cold, perhaps something else.
It's not like he would die.