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When Harry Potter did not show up in the forbidden forest to die, Lord Voldemort kept his promise—every witch and wizard still fighting within the castle had been mercilessly slaughtered, and anyone who continued to protect the boy-who-lived from his wrath, anyone who had ever called themselves a friend of Harry Potter’s, was tortured for information and then killed by the Dark Lord himself.

But no one knew where Harry Potter was…not even the boy’s friends. After searching the entire castle and its surrounding area for days, the only clues left were the boy’s invisibility cloak and a broken snitch— the fact that both items were found on the edge of the forbidden forest only added to the mystery of Harry Potter's sudden disappearance. 

But without the boy to stand in his way, Lord Voldemort’s takeover had been swift and quick. Too quick. All forms of resistance vanished after the final battle was lost, and like Harry Potter himself, no one seemed willing enough to fight in his place.

Back then, finding and killing the boy had been the Dark Lord’s highest priority, wanting to put an end to what he had started all those years ago…

… but it was not to be.

When the days turned into months, and the months into years…no trace of Harry Potter was ever found. Every potion failed him. No tracking spells worked. Even the connection between them seemed broken, distant. As if the boy had simply vanished into thin air, or else—

But no. Lord Voldemort would not accept it. Just as for years he did not accept many of the things that had become his own twisted reality: that, no matter who he destroyed, he was still not the master of the Elder Wand; that his horcruxes were all but empty, worthless artifacts, with the sole exception of Nagini; and no matter what spell or ritual he tried, the Dark Lord could not bring them back…

 …that his victory over Wizarding Britain had been nothing but a default…

No. Because out of everything the Dark Lord had eventually put to rest… out of everything he had reluctantly accepted after years and years of persistent denial… for whatever reason, Lord Voldemort could not do the same with Harry Potter. Without ever finishing the symbol of the light himself, without ever watching the boy-who-lived die in finality by his own killing curse… without ever putting an end to his own, wretched past and proving to himself, and the world, that Harry Potter was never once capable of defeating him. Not even knowing what had happened to the boy! Whether he was dead or alive, kidnapped, or else abandoned his friends in a final act of self-preservation…! No! Lord Voldemort would not accept it. He could not accept it...because…he knew the boy better than that …or so he had thought.

It was only after five years of searching in vain, and the Dark Lord’s own mounting paranoia that he had made some fatal mistake concerning Harry Potter, that Lord Voldemort began to investigate the past.

He interviewed anyone who had ever known the boy-who-lived, in school or otherwise. And he ripped the memories from their minds, carefully storing them away in his private chambers…

Indeed, what started as a simple task quickly turned into an annoyingly difficult one, made more so by the fact that it was the Dark Lord himself who had killed nearly every close friend and confidant of Harry Potter’s during battle. But Lord Voldemort had yet to quit any task he had set his mind to, and after three more years of carefully gathering and storing away information, he had assembled an impressive collection of memories surrounding Harry Potter.

And so the Dark Lord began the endless task of watching and re-watching every memory he possessed of the boy-who-lived. Reconstructing everything he had ever known about his former enemy’s life.

He did not expect what he eventually found. Nor did he anticipate his thoughts would darken so thoroughly, nor sink into a near damning obsession with the ghost of a boy the world had long forgot, a mere phantom of the past, as the Dark Lord was endlessly dragged into the life and mind of Harry James Potter, and towards his own undoing.  

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Perhaps it was his first mistake… to begin with something so familiar. Perhaps, it was because he had chosen such a harmless, innocent memory to traverse into first, convinced as he was that this particular moment would reveal nothing the Dark Lord did not already know... perhaps it was the irony over how wrong he was, and of how sure he had been, that the very first memory he observed would forever entangle him in an endless sea of questions, contradicting everything he had ever once believed about the boy-who-lived.

Yes, Lord Voldemort had been present at Harry Potter’s sorting, even if he was but a weak spirit on the back of Quirrell’s head. At the time, Voldemort had been facing the very back of the room, only capable of hearing through the muffled cloth of a turban. It was strange, he admitted, to perceive the scene from an entirely different angle, full of light and people. And watching the memory from the eyes of a former student, he noticed things did not notice before.

Indeed, he almost missed the boy entirely when scanning the crowd of first years. Harry Potter was small, much smaller than the Dark Lord recalled him to be. He watched, silent and curious, as the eleven-year-old boy’s name was called and he stumbled nervously towards the stool, the hat falling far below his eyes.  

He knew what would happen next, of course. The boy was sorted into Gryffindor, and the lion table would applause in obnoxious cheering at having the boy savior in their own house. He was just about to dismiss the entire scene and move to something more relevant, when he noticed something. It was hardly even visible, given the commotion Harry Potter’s name had caused. But as Voldemort continued to watch the boy’s sorting, by far the longest of all the children, the more he became aware that the child’s mouth was moving ever so slightly, with an increased intensity the longer he sat.

With his curiosity peaked, along with his own, internal promise to cover every detail about the boy’s life, no matter how small or irrelevant, he knelt down in front of the child, watching his mouth very closely for the next re-occurrence of words. When the whispers reached his ears, however, it came with such a shock that Lord Voldemort was left stunned.

Not Slytherin...Not Slytherin...

Bewildering as the idea was, Harry Potter kept repeating the phrase as if his very life depended upon it. However, after several more minutes of the boy's silent pleading, the familiar cry of Gryffindor was shouted throughout the hall, followed by the thunderous applause from the red and gold table. Everything he remembered unfolding thereafter. Harry Potter let out a small breath of relief, before hastily moving away from the stool. He passed straight through Voldemort’s frozen body, as if he were the ghost...and not the other way around...

Soon enough, the hall began to fade away, the scene turning to a pale nothingness. But the unanswered question lingered in the Dark Lord’s mind, even long after the memory was over:

Had Harry Potter, the embodiment of all things Gryffindor and Light, almost been sorted into Slytherin?

But that was just the beginning. Surprisingly, more questions were raised as Lord Voldemort shifted through his vast collection of memories. For Harry Potter, it quickly became apparent, had not even known what the four houses were upon his first trip into Diagon Alley.

Draco Malfoy had been reluctant to hand over his memories of Harry Potter. But when he had seen the Dark Lord’s wrath, and not wanting to go insane from the Cruciatus Curse, he willingly gave over everything he remembered.

Malfoy indeed proved to be a valuable source of memories, as the boy's so-called school 'rival' during his years at Hogwarts. Therefore the Dark Lord began with a memory of what was Draco Malfoy’s first meeting with Harry Potter; a rather unusual conversation within Madam Malkin’s.

But the longer he watched, the more awkward the conversation became. Lord Voldemort could tell, in the way the Malfoy heir did not, that Harry Potter did not actually know what the other boy was saying. He hesitated with his answers, or else said nothing at all while the other arrogant boy continued on. The memory raised just as many questions about Harry Potter’s life before Hogwarts as it did about his lack of awareness on the wizarding world.

The scene was also uncomfortably familiar to Voldemort’s own experience, and how very uniformed he was upon his first trip into the magical world. Like Harry, he had not even known the basics of wizarding society. Unlike Harry, however, Voldemort had his reasons. He knew the boy-who-lived had grown up with muggle relatives, but someone should have told him something of his school. Anything. It was quite appalling, therefore, for the Dark Lord to see just how little Harry Potter, the supposed savior of the wizarding world, had actually known before his arrival at Hogwarts.

Just then, the half-breed Rubeus Hagrid made an appearance through the shop window, carrying ice cream and pointing at Harry in rapid, wild motions. The Dark Lord was almost to the point of sneering, when a soft voice interrupted his thoughts,  

“I think he’s brilliant,” Harry Potter said, and so coldly too that Voldemort was mildly intrigued.

He turned just in time to see the Malfoy boy sneer instead, and the conversation drifting further apart, before the memory dissolved….

 Several days later, Lord Voldemort was once more mulling over everything he had witnessed about Harry Potter: the boy’s sorting, his lack of knowledge on magic, and that strange admiration for Rubeus Hagrid that should have had no grounds. Lately, the Dark Lord was often finding himself trapped in his thoughts, especially over how his views of Harry Potter were slowly changing...and how he did not seem to mind.  

So the Dark Lord found himself sitting in front of his pensieve once again, entering an entirely different memory, this time from the perspective of the half-giant himself. Lord Voldemort was favored by fate in that he had not killed Hagrid in that fateful battle years ago, but instead left him tied to the tree, as the Dark Lord had more important things to attend to at the time.

The oaf had escaped his confines during Lord Voldemort's murderous rage, but he had not bothered to hunt him down in the later years, convinced that the giant would not cause him any problems in his new reign. It wasn't until he suddenly needed any and all memories of Harry Potter that Lord Voldemort sought him out. Rubeus Hagrid hardly even put up a fight, being caught by surprise and still lacking a proper wand. When Voldemort got all that he came for, driving the half-giant's feeble mind to the brink of destruction, tucking the memories of Harry Potter inside of his cloak, he had killed the man in a silent, striking green. 

And so Lord Voldemort stood upon one of the strangest scenes he had witnessed in a long time: Hagrid, rowing a tiny wooden boat to a discreet little hut on a rock during a violent storm. As perplexing as it was, this moment was the first time Rubeus Hagrid met Harry Potter. He almost didn’t believe it. Almost. 

But Lord Voldemort followed the memory along, deciding to consider otherwise, when they finally reached the shore with its half-sunken cabin and rotting wood. Hagrid proceeded to knock so hard upon the door that it was unsurprising when it crashed down, startling whoever was inside. The Dark Lord followed him through the door, but what he saw was certainly not what he was expecting.

It took him a moment to find Harry Potter among his relatives, lying on the floor as he was, with a thread bare blanket half covering him up. His aunt, uncle, and cousin were typically muggle in the way they all scrambled to the back of the hut, while the fat man held a gun.

Harry Potter looked scared but also intrigued at the huge man. He watched as the boy scrambled to hide behind a small corner, awkwardly away from his relatives, while Hagrid replaced the door.

What followed was surprising. After a lot of shouting, confusion, and threats from the muggles, Hagrid clumsily shoved a crude birthday cake into Harry’s hands. But the boy simply stared at it, as if he had never received anything quite like it before. And then Hagrid proceeded to hand Harry Potter his first Hogwarts letter.

Questions swirled through the Dark Lord's mind when the boy was still confused. It became apparent why. He did not know what Hogwarts was. More shocking still was that the boy did not even know he was a wizard. He sneered when the revelation came that the muggles had kept so many secrets from him, thinking they could, as his disgusting uncle had put it, 'beat the magic out of him'. How loathsome. He did not even care if his concern was for his long time enemy; no magical child should grow without magic. And no child should have their magic suppressed by fear of punishment at the hands of lowly muggles. 

He noted the ways in which Harry and him were different in the way they took the news. When Albus Dumbledore revealed to him that he was a wizard, young Tom Riddle had readily believed it was true. He had known he was special. He had known all along about his power over others, and was quite eager to learn and do more. But Harry Potter’s reaction was so… innocent, and Lord Voldemort unconsciously held his breath when the boy stumbled out in a disappointed voice,

“I'm sorry Hagrid, but I-I can’t be a wizard...”  But Hagrid just scoffed, reassuring the small boy that all the strange things he'd ever done was actually magic.

It was surreal to the Dark Lord, in ways he did not yet understand, to witness Harry Potter in such a vulnerable, youthful state. That until this very moment, he had known nothing of his past, his fame, nor anything of his magical ancestry. Everything Lord Voldemort had ever assumed was ironically being reflected back to him, as though he had never known the boy at all.    

Harry Potter had not known he was a wizard. Harry Potter had not known of magic. Harry Potter had never heard Voldemort’s name before the age of eleven...and perhaps too, this was the real reason the boy had never seemed afraid of saying his name… because he had simply... never known otherwise….

The memory dissolved thereafter, and the Dark Lord was once more left standing in front of his pensieve, lost in thought.

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was yet another mistake, but fate led him curious to Harry Potter’s lack of wizarding knowledge…which led to the desire of finding the boy’s relatives, if only to gain a more thorough understanding of the boy’s home life.  

He suspected neglect; in truth, he suspected a lot of things. But what little he had seen from the fragile old mind of Arabella Figg had angered him more than he ever expected it to. And that was, apparently, just the start.

He found them, rather easily once he knew who he was looking for. And he took his time with them. He tortured them for answers about their nephew. He shred their tongues. And he stole their memories, to the point where he inevitably broke their minds. And when the muggles were no longer useful to him, no longer sane enough to respond to his questions, he had killed them, as deserved.

And that was how the Dark Lord viewed the very first moments of Harry Potter’s life.

He was not happy with what he saw. In fact, he was been so angry he could not always keep his rage from lashing out into the physical world.

The boy had lived in a cupboard under the stairs for nearly ten years. He saw the boy’s earliest moments, witnessing first hand the way his aunt and uncle refused to touch him out of disgust, to hiding the boy’s very existence from the entirety of the home and neighborhood. And when the child was no older than four, Lord Voldemort saw the way they forced him into some kind of twisted muggle servitude of cooking, cleaning, and gardening. He saw the way his muggle aunt refused to buy him anything that wasn’t already discarded by his enormous, overweight cousin.

He saw everything imaginable. The scorn, the hate, the names, the punishments for feats of magic, from days without food to the smirk his uncle would give while shoving his nephew inside the dark cupboard once his chores were complete.

There was but one memory, just one, that had stopped the Dark Lord from extinguishing the entire Dursley name and existence from the face of the planet. And only because the memory had stunned him into such a shock, that it had disturbed him for endless days and nights because of its sheer impossibility. 

It was a memory from the zoo.

He instinctively knew the scene would reveal something, but of what, he was not sure. The memory in particular had stuck out in the minds of all three muggles, each with the similar sensations of fear and unease, which did not fit in with his expectations of the family so far.

And so Lord Voldemort watched the memory unfold from the very beginning; from the moment the boy’s aunt rapped harshly on his cupboard door, to his forced trip to the zoo for his selfish cousin’s birthday. He walked beside the young Harry Potter as he trailed behind his relatives, lingering on the edge of each exhibit, seeming happy if only for a moment, and only because nothing had happened to get him into trouble.

When the Dark Lord followed the family into the reptile exhibit, he barely suppressed a sneer as he watched the fat muggle father and son knock harshly on the glass of a boa constrictor, urging it to move. When the serpent didn’t so much as blink, both of them moved on to taunt another animal, and the Dark Lord turned his eyes, watching them go in both repulsion and disgust, wishing he could revive them only to torture and kill them all over again. But his thoughts were interrupted when he heard something so distinctive, he did not think he would ever hear in such a muggle populated area, nor in such a person’s memory.

“Sorry about that…”

And Lord Voldemort turned around sharply, startled to see what he had heard, so very clearly, from someone close behind him.

And there stood the small form of Harry Potter, who had approached the exhibit from behind his cousin, leaning his head against the glass and looking sadly at the snake. It was such a bewildering moment that the Dark Lord barely paid any attention to the conversation itself, focused instead on the mere fact that the boy was speaking parseltongue. Apparently, this was Harry’s first encounter with a snake as well, seeing at how surprised he was when the serpent understood him, even through a thick pane of glass.

He was so distracted by an onslaught of rushing thoughts that he barely noticed the cousin approaching and the accidental magic that followed, nor the screaming and running muggles as the serpent escaped, or the awkward drive home with the boy’s family in absolute silence. The memory faded with his uncle throwing him back into the darkness of the cupboard for an undetermined amount of time.

And when the Dark Lord emerged from the pensieve at long last, he was in a state of pure agitation. How was it possible? Was it a trick? No. It was impossible to tamper with the memory of a language only he should understand.

But the boy was a parselmouth… he should not be. The Potter’s were not direct relatives of Salazar Slytherin. The chance was so minuscule that the revelation left the Dark Lord furious for answers.

But it was not the only shock, it seemed, which left him enraged for the coming weeks. Not when it came to his attention that nearly every witch and wizard in the entire wizarding world had known about this ‘small’ fact since Harry Potter’s second year. Everyone. Except him. And not one of his followers deemed it important enough to tell him.

He had punished them, of course, and once his anger had thawed to a cool regard, he began to think once more about the possibilities. 

Even before his resurrection, he had known very little of the boy’s second year, busy as he was in anger over his failure at obtaining the Philosopher’s stone and existing as nothing more than a wraith. Once he had his body, however, it had been infuriating to find that one of his horcruxes was destroyed, and by none other than Harry Potter himself. It never occurred to him to know the details of how it had happened, only that it did. His focus had been entirely on punishing Lucius for the loss of his diary that he had entrusted to him so very long ago.

But now… now that he knew the boy was a parselmouth, he had an entirely different reason to pursue the events of the boy’s second year. He needed to know what had actually transpired…

A week went by before Lord Voldemort stood once more in front of his pensieve, a collection of memories from the year 1992. There were so many rumors surrounding the events of the Chamber, that he was curious to uncover the truth.

Thus he moved forward to view a set of memories from the various students of Hogwarts, he cared not for their names, in Harry Potter’s second year.

In brief flashes of memory, Lord Voldemort watched as the boy and his friends walked through the hallways; their conversation just out of his reach. He heard the whispers of his basilisk roaming through the wall pipes of every memory too, to which no student was aware.

The Dark Lord saw as the school atmosphere became tense and quiet, increasingly panicked as the year went on as mudbloods and muggle raised students huddled to and from their classes. It reminded him heavily of his own time in Hogwarts, when he had set the snake loose upon the school; his horcrux must have remembered as well, to insinuate the attack in such a similar way.

The one memory the Dark Lord was most eager to view was yet another one of Draco Malfoy’s, when Harry Potter became a known parselmouth to the world. Apparently, it was one of the only times the boy had used his ability publicly, and Lord Voldemort was quite keen on seeing the serpent language spoken once more in the open, this time with a clearer view and an understanding of what he was about to see.  

So the Dark Lord descended into the memory, the shape of a dueling platform taking place inside the Great Hall. He watched from the crowd as the young Malfoy boy and Harry Potter were chosen to duel, then stepped onto the stage as well. From the platform, he watched the two rivals exchange a few crisp words, bow, and then walk to their respective positions.

He also saw the specter of his once spy and servant, Severus Snape, whisper into the Malfoy boy’s ear, with a hard look towards Potter. The blonde heir smirked, and then nodded in affirmation.

Lord Voldemort did not know what would happen next, but when the duel started, he stood in the middle and off to the side as watched the pair exchange relatively harmless spells, each trying to outdo the other.

When Draco became frustrated the longer it went on, he shouted a spell, clearly one beyond his age group, and likely one Severus had taught him in private. And from the boy’s wand extended a poisonous, long snake, as the serpent bound towards Harry.

But the boy surprised him once again. When the Dark Lord’s eyes shot to Harry Potter, trying to discern what he would do next, or what spell he would cast or how he would speak to it and get rid of the snake, Harry Potter seemed to relax, even baring the smallest hints of confusion over Draco’s spell. His green eyes seemed to say it all: it’s only a snake.

Perhaps it was the boy’s youth, or the small traces of light in Harry Potter’s eyes, but Lord Voldemort found himself smiling as Draco Malfoy fell back in fear as the boy started speaking to it.

"Stop. Stop!” Harry hissed; and the Dark Lord found himself surprisingly pleased that Harry Potter was indeed a parselmouth. While he knew not how it was even possible, he did not worry about it for now. He watched in silent disgust over how much scorn the boy had gotten for displaying such a rare and exceptional gift, the crowd easily going against him. It was much the same within his own time, with the sole exception of Slytherin house, which practically honored the ability as proof of the Slytherin lineage.  

But as there was still much more to see concerning the boy-who-lived, the Dark Lord moved on to the next set of memories.

He was standing just inside Albus Dumbledore’s office, Lucius Malfoy having slammed open the door to dispute the re-installment of Dumbledore after the disaster of the Chamber of Secrets. Young Harry was seated at the desk, curiously enough, with Godric Gryffindor’s sword laying on top. 

Harry, for his part, looked worn and his robes were filthy and ripped in several areas. His arm, too, bore the signs of a recent wound, though when the Dark Lord looked, he could spot nothing but bare skin.

Lord Voldemort was clearly missing some crucial piece to the story. Harry Potter, according to Dumbledore, had by this point already descended into the chamber, defeated his diary (he saw it now, in tatters, with a gaping hole in the middle), and saved Ginny Weasley before she could come to harm. But what of the basilisk, the Dark Lord wondered? How had Harry Potter managed to defeat his horcrux when surely, it would have summoned the snake?

He watched, intrigued, as the boy used a cunning trick with nothing but a sock to free the loyal house elf from Lucius. He did not care much for house elves, but even Lord Voldemort could appreciate a Slytherin move when he saw one.

When the memory was complete, and the Dark Lord was once more inside his office, he thought at once to visit Hogwarts, and ascertain from his basilisk what transpired all those years ago; how it was possible for such a young boy to defeat him when there was so many odds.

His basilisk lay dead on the chamber floor. Lord Voldemort stood beside her, stunned; how had he not realized his precious snake was dead, and after all these years? He thought back to the memory of Harry Potter in the old fool’s office— the sword...? Could it be?

But then there it was, in the middle of her head, the basilisk’s death wound was quite apparent to him. It was most certainly a blade that had caused it— the sword, the boy… he must have…

Lord Voldemort retreated from the chamber at once. Dare he say it, but he was beginning to feel startled by the power this boy possessed. To defeat an ancient Basilisk at the mere age of twelve…and with nothing but a sword?

Lord Voldemort fell heavily against his desk, breathing deeply through the nose. So powerful. So young! So much wasted potential, if the boy had harnessed this power, he could have truly been his—he could have defeated—!

No. No!  He would not deny what he had seen… but the Dark Lord would not admit to his own fallibility.

And still, even though his churning thoughts over power and weakness, he felt the desperate need to know more. He needed to see everything…he needed to understand...and the Dark Lord needed Harry Potter in ways he had not fathomed before this very moment....

Chapter Text

It was surely a moment of weakness, but the Dark Lord stayed away from his pensieve for nearly a month after he witnessed his dead basilisk in the empty chamber. He occluded his mind, trying in vain to suppress whatever he had seen, whatever he now knew about the boy.

His Death Eaters, of course, knew something was wrong. Or guessed. As to what exactly they were saying, Lord Voldemort did not care. Although it did irritate him to have his privacy so openly spread among his inner court, he could not stop the spread of small rumors—his search for Harry Potter had been announced quite publicly, after all, and even aside from his sudden need for memories, well, his followers were not entirely fools when they saw him disappear for days on end.

But when a month passed, and his days were spent hosting another week long celebratory ball towards his newly erected Kingdom, the Dark Lord found himself once again settled deep within his manor walls, ignoring the calls to join them downstairs and instead, staring into the milky white essence of a memory.  

He watched the castle form around his body as he strode into the memories of 1993, in what looked like the entire student body attempting to sleep within the confines of the Great Hall. He watched the students prepare for bed in the wake of the attempted intrusion… at the time, of course, being none other than Sirius Black.

He knew the gist of the tale. Wormtail had cried to him about it during most of his weakened state within his dead father’s manor. Black was hunting the rat for his betrayal of the secret keeper for James and Lily Potter. And poor, pathetic Wormtail had rather spent thirteen years hiding as a pet rat to the Weasley family rather than seek out his true master. Oh, the man had paid well enough for that.

He looked around the hall, though, his eyes naturally seeking out Harry, the boy with black, messy hair and round spectacles. He stepped over the bodies of the other, mediocre students, looking for the image of Harry Potter sleeping. Why he wanted to view this, the Dark Lord did not know. Everything about this memory was utterly useless, but for some reason…he could not deny it to himself.

He stopped at the edge of the hall, and his eyes widened a fraction. Harry Potter was laying beside his friends, but the boy was far from sleeping. Instead, his eyes were alight as he gazed up at the starry ceiling above, the stars moving to the rhythm of the nightly sky; Lord Voldemort looked up too, just then, to see the planets and the heavens above them.

Then, without realizing what he was doing, Lord Voldemort knelt down beside the boy who was pretending to sleep. All these protections… all these the locked doors…all were meant to keep the Boy Who Lived safe from harm. From the Dementors. From Black. From… him…

The patronus Charm was a notoriously difficult spell to perform at any age. Along with it being the lightest spell that the Dark Lord knew of, it was one of the reasons he had never desired to learn it— nor could he learn it, given his extreme affinity for the darkest kinds of magic.

But even aside from those reasons, it still shocked the Dark Lord when a thirteen-year-old Harry Potter managed not only to cast the spell in its corporeal form, but did so against no less than 100 dementors, swarming around the weakened body of Sirius Black.

Harry Potter’s patronus was a stag...and a stag so magnificently beautiful, gliding along the black lake like the sun shining through a dark cloud. 

And Lord Voldemort watched the boy’s third year through the memories of many. He saw the boy save Black from the dementor’s kiss; he saw how much Severus had raged over the man’s sudden escape…and he saw how much Harry Potter must have loved his godfather, no matter how brief their interaction truly was.

When he reached the end of those memories, he stood beside the boy as he got off the train, back to a family who did not love him, away from his true home....

And just then, Lord Voldemort could for once understand the boy, for that common, heartless childhood they had both experienced….

Just then, perhaps, they were the same....

Lord Voldemort did not want to view the child’s fourth year. He had, after all, orchestrated the entire event. If not present, then his loyal follower had fed him information on the boy through Wormtail. It was…unsightly. He did not like to remember his own weakened state, as nothing more than a vile infant thing who could not survive without Nagini’s precious milk.

But the Dark Lord would not shy away from what once was. This time, he would see just how Harry Potter had fared in a tournament meant for those so much older than he....

The dragon was an interesting affair. Barty had never told him the specifics, and so he had no idea how Harry would manage the task of facing a dragon, had no idea how even Tom Riddle would have managed the task…but when the boy summoned his broom, the Dark Lord raised an inquiring eyebrow as the crowd behind him cheered. He could see confidence roll off the boy, now with his hands on the broom, even as far as he was, watching the memory from the stands of the crowd.          

Harry Potter truly was an incredible flyer. He flew faster than the dragon could keep track of, taking to the skies like a bird as he dived for the golden egg in a startling, twisting maneuver. Lord Voldemort stood mesmerized by the scene, the boy diving straight downwards so surely, so confidently, even as the memory faded into oblivion, and he along with it…

Harry Potter was late for the second task. Burning questions lingered in his mind as the shivering mess of a boy came running down the hill, with seconds to spare before he was disqualified from the tournament. Oh, how Lord Voldemort's plans were almost completely unhinged because of Harry Potter's tardiness. 

He watched the fourteen-year-old as he shoved gillyweed into his mouth— he even crooked a grin when Harry simply stood there, shivering in the cold, unsure of what to do next— yes, Lord Voldemort was quite aware that Harry Potter had struggled to come up with a way to breathe underwater. He knew this because his follower had come to him on more than one occasion, worried that the boy was too stubborn to accept any help with the task. Indeed, Harry Potter was stubborn. He had waited until the very last moment, the very day of the trial; indeed, the Dark Lord did wonder at how his follower had managed to get the boy the plant in such record time, but alas, Barty Crouch Jr. was dead, and his memories no longer.

He did not have access to the memories of Viktor Krum, but Fleur Delacour had provided well enough, and of her own accord too. Pregnant, she had her husband had given over everything in mercy to the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort had been too preoccupied at the time to punish them, but now, he could not wait to unravel the memories she held of Harry. The boy had won over the half-veela's heart when he saved not only his own hostage in the trial, but the girl’s sister as well. He smiled, although the thought was somewhat dim. The Dark Lord knew Harry had a sentimental side, wherein he could not leave behind the people he cared for. He had, after all, used this to his advantage many times. 

It was true. The Dark Lord did not understand this aspect of the boy. But if it was anything similar to what he felt now... then perhaps it was the same thing...

That if Harry Potter were to return to him now…he may never let the boy go....

Chapter Text

It was the end of another year, and Lord Voldemort sat upon his throne, overlooking his followers and guests with a barely suppressed sneer. Something was pressing at his mind, a nagging sensation that he was missing something… important.

What is it? What’s wrong?

But nothing was different. By all regards, the evening was carrying out exactly as it should—a party held in his honor, his guests dancing to the orchestra or else mingling in the crowd; it was a superficial, flamboyant thing, his birthday, but his followers enjoyed celebrating, and who was he to deny them another year of victory?

The Dark Lord’s rule over Britain had grown from its small infancy into its budding new kingdom of the world; many of his guests were foreign, wanting to have a taste of the power he was willing to give them. In return, of course, for their countries to submit, to bend their knee to his overarching reach.

Even Bellatrix looked delightful in her red glowing gown. If she wasn’t so desperate in trying to catch his eye, he might even call her beautiful.  

But still something was... wrong.

What was it? What am I missing?

His thoughts, naturally, returned once again to the boy… the boy whose memory was plaguing him day and night, trailing behind him like a ghost he could not grasp at…

Is it the boy? Is that what I am missing ?

His thoughts drifted back to what he had seen in the pensieve mere hours ago…

Lord Voldemort stood in a familiar room at Hogwarts; he knew the layout, Defense had always been his favorite subject, and he had visited his professor often enough to know he was currently standing in the Defense room’s office.

He knew the year, too— it was, after all, the year after his resurrection, the year the Daily Prophet had continually attacked Harry Potter and Dumbledore for announcing his return. Yes, Lord Voldemort had read all about that…used it, even, to his own advantage.

But therein he stood, facing a most unsightly woman in a similarly unsightly room; she had, evidently, redecorated.

Yes, the Dark Lord knew all about Dolores Umbridge and her disgusting use of the color pink. He had stolen her memories, of course, when she came to his attention quite willingly; the simple minded woman had given over everything she knew of Harry Potter, thinking to gain some kind of prize for her efforts to his cause; he had given her nothing, just as he had given Draco Malfoy nothing, whose memories were far more useful than anything Umbridge held. 

He knew the reason Harry Potter was currently sitting in her office, too; for shouting Lord Voldemort’s name in class; yes, he had seen that entire spectacle. While certainly brave, it was just the sort of thing Lord Voldemort would expect from Harry Potter, and the boy had played right into the woman’s hand.

But he did not know what Umbridge would do to her unruly student, who she very clearly despised. Perhaps it was not so shocking, then, when she handed the boy a blood quill.

And maybe it was his own reasoning, his own flaw, but the Dark Lord fully expected Harry Potter to fight against it, to shout at the woman, say something once he realized the true nature of the pen in his hand.

But silence reigned, and Lord Voldemort stood speechless, surprised as he watched Harry Potter carve the words into his hand, “I Must Not Tell Lies”, over and over, a quiet rebellion, or perhaps just too stubborn to say anything….

But the detentions went on, far longer than he thought they would; Umbridge had a wicked streak, and Harry Potter kept writing, surely and painfully, scarring the words to his hand while blood dripped down to the floor.

“Why do you do it? Why do you fight?” Lord Voldemort knelt beside Harry’s desk, asking the phantom boy who was quietly writing, watching as the words formed over his hand, healed, and then cut again.

He knew, from the memories of Harry’s continued attendance in Umbridge’s office, that the boy had not gone to Dumbledore like the Dark Lord expected… he had stayed instead, quietly enduring the pain and blood daily; he did not act at all like Lord Voldemort anticipated… he did not understand this boy…he did not understand at all…

The Dark Lord’s attention shifted back to the present when he found someone kneeling in front of his throne. Dolores Umbridge was shaking in her tiny feet; judging by the looks he was getting around the room, the Dark Lord must have called her name, perhaps unconsciously while he was thinking of—

“M-My Lord…you-you called for me?”

Who had invited this obtuse woman? He would punish them; but as of this moment, her presence was rather good. She may just ease his mind from his troubling thoughts.

“Dolores Umbridge. Head of the Muggleborn Registration Division… former High Inquisitor of Hogwarts…”

The woman gave him a simpering smile,

“O-Of course, My Lord. T-That is—”

“Crucio,” he lazily flicked his wand in her direction, and her screams mildly lessened his headache, if that was the only thing that she was good for.

“I didn’t say you could speak.” A few of his guests laughed, and Umbridge attempted to stand.

“Both positions, I seem to recall, had some… difficulties. Is this correct?”

When the woman failed to speak, he spoke over her fumbling attempts,

“I can imagine… and such difficult students too. I wonder: how did you manage to keep them all in line? Detentions, surely, wouldn’t have been enough. Tell me, Madam, how you managed to punish them. Say it.”

“M-My Lord…I-I didn’t—”

But Lord Voldemort did not let her finish.

“Such lies… Madam, do you always lie to Lord Voldemort?” the hall was deathly silent now, as everyone watched the paling Dolores Umbridge, some with fear, some with a wicked kind of glee, waiting for the moment the plump witch would fail.

“I have seen…” the Dark Lord continued, as Umbridge was utterly too terrified to speak, “And I know of at least one student whom you forced to write lines...with an ingenious blood quill too... how very clever...”

What was he doing? What did it matter?

“Nagini..."

 The crowd parted generously between him and his throne, the mass of people giving wide berth to the large serpent queen who slithered up to her master’s feet.

“Yes, Master?”

Umbridge squealed as the serpent went by her. Lord Voldemort ignored her in favor of his precious snake: “Eat”, he said vaguely, indicating Umbridge’s general direction.  

The witch must have caught on to what was happening, but far too late; she tried to run, but the woman's momentum was all Nagini needed as she struck the witch’s neck sharply, making Umbridge scream as blood pooled out of her mouth. Soon, and in front of a thousand eyes, Dolores Umbridge was eaten alive by the Dark Lord’s most trusted familiar. No one said a word. 

“Be warned: to all who displease me, there shall be no mercy. Now, continue.”

And just like that, the party continued, with a somewhat feverish start. Nervous laughter filled the air, but as Nagini went back to her den, and his guests danced to the orchestra, the momentary demise of Dolores Umbridge seemed entirely forgotten by all. 

What is it? What am I missing?

But the Dark Lord knew the answer, now. He understood it the moment he had taken care of Umbridge.

Lord Voldemort wanted Harry Potter. And he wanted him back.

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort was thinking deeply as he leaned against the wall in Diagon Alley, invisible, watching silently as ordinary witches and wizards went about their day.

He had seen the signs…he had known the risks... and still he had been oblivious to the threat that had loomed so near to him, and for so long.

Severus. Snape.

If one could betray him thus, why not another? he thought viciously, as red eyes scanned through the crowd of people, lingering on families who were previous sympathizers of the Order; oh, he knew they were still there, still lurking under the cover of loyalty to his regime, never voicing their own, rebellious thoughts.

But Severus…he truly was one of a kind, wasn’t he? The man had held such strong Occlumency wards that even he, Lord Voldemort, had failed to penetrate his mind. No, the Dark Lord had mistakenly trusted in what he saw: a loyal servant, his faithful Death Eater spy placed carefully within Dumbledore’s ranks. 

But that was all a lie.

He remembered Severus, even now, so young and so willing to bow before his Lord…wanting so desperately to prove himself worthy of Lord Voldemort’s attention.

But after watching the life of Harry Potter…in the background, he had seen the evidence, year after year, evidence that soon became undeniable at some point: that Severus was Dumbledore’s man, not his. 

But why?

The Dark Lord did not harbor any feelings of anger or resentment— the man was dead, after all, and nothing else could be done. But still, he did not understand…why. Why Severus had turned against him.

But did he not already know the answer…? Yes, Lord Voldemort had seen the way Severus begged him, on hands and knees, to save Lily Potter’s life; the only request the man had ever made of him, and he had killed her.

So? His mind supplied casually. He had told the girl to step aside, twice, but the woman had not moved. He had been impatient that night, true, and perhaps… it was a mistake to act so swiftly…but had he not already paid the price?

Still…had Severus really betrayed him over a woman? Over a mudblood? Over love? He sneered at the thought, but it wasn’t with his usual ferocity, and instead, a troubling sense of doubt crept its way into his mind.

Love. He despised the word, much less understood what made people want it. What was the point in wasting away over someone else? No, the Dark Lord did not love, and had never loved; Dumbledore thought it was a weakness, but the old fool was dead, and that was where his love had gotten him.

But love…love was what had, apparently, moved Severus to turn against him; the concept, however worthless, deserved more careful thought if this was the force behind Severus’s betrayal….

Love.

His eyes moved to the families surrounding him, of couples, of children and friends. Was it not entirely pointless? The Dark Lord had moved beyond such trivial pursuits like friends; it had, quite simply, never been important to him.

But love.

“I killed Sirius Black!” Bellatrix laughed as she ran past the fight, mad glee marking her features as Black fell through the veil, disappearing from sight.

Harry Potter had loved, that much he was certain. Lord Voldemort had seen it, in the desperate way he had struggled against the werewolf, stopping him from following his Godfather into the shrouds of death. How he had struggled and screamed, and then pursued his dear Bella in reckless abandon; yes, the Dark Lord had watched this in sheer silence. It had…unnerved him in a way he did not fully understand.

Love.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the idle chatter around him and focusing instead on memories, the deeper ones he had…avoided watching inside the pensieve…the ones he had not wished to relive because of the strange, hollow feeling inside his chest— his own memories of the boy.

 But Lord Voldemort would not turn away from his own thoughts, and had delved into his mind, looking where he had not looked before.   

He landed in the graveyard, next to the stone tomb of his muggle father. Wormtail was restlessly pacing beside the large cauldron, while Lord Voldemort himself was wrapped in a bundle of cloth—he pointedly looked away.

But soon, the sound of the portkey’s arrival, and the Dark Lord saw the moment Harry Potter appeared, although he was not alone. Another, older boy stood beside him. The Dark Lord barely remembered him but was unsurprised as as the boy fell to the ground, dead by his wand, while Harry Potter was dragged over to the grave, then tied and bound to the stone.  

Yes, the Dark Lord had taken Harry Potter’s blood to resurrect himself—he had, on this night, tied them together by blood. He had stolen Harry Potter’s magical protection. He had stolen Lily Potter’s love.  

But his thoughts stopped when he saw his other self arise out of the cauldron, all bones and skeletal frame, until he was robed in a black silk cloak and handed his pale, yew wand. He remembered that moment, too, looking down at his long, newly formed fingers, and how much he had relished in wielding his wand, having his power once again.

But as the Dark Lord watched the memory unfold, his eyes were solely on Harry. He had watched the boy in the moment, yes, but he had not watched him with anything but hatred— and oh, how he had hated the boy back then, who had been the very bane of his existence, the cause of his thirteen years as nothing but a wraith, a weak spirit that could barely possess the smallest of animals. But now, he watched with curiosity and a strange eagerness. Harry Potter should have died this night. But instead, he lived.

Harry, the boy he forced to bow in a mocking duel. Harry, who dodged his killing curse with the swift reflexes of a seeker. Harry, whose eyes were the eyes of someone willing to die, to fight until his last breath. Harry, whose wand had connected with his, startling him and making him afraid for the first time…so very afraid…

Harry Potter should have died, but he lived. As Lord Voldemort watched his other self rage over the loss of the boy, as Harry Potter vanished from sight, as the memory faded to black…

Yes, the Dark Lord knew why he hated to relive these moments in time: it represented his failures, his weakest points, and surely that was all. Surely... it had nothing to do with the green-eyed child who was being tortured by his wand, nor that strange feeling in his chest which he could not explain…no, it had nothing to do with that….

Later that evening, Lord Voldemort sat within his office in a quiet contemplation. He was currently reviewing Harry Potter’s sixth year, 1996, with different memories scattered across the table. But he could not find one, not one, which would enlighten him as to the topics Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore had shared every other week.

Because Harry Potter could be seen, in numerous memories, heading off to Dumbledore’s office during the evenings for so-called ‘lessons’. But that was where his knowledge ended. As frustrating as it was, the Dark Lord had no idea what was talked about during these times, although he guessed it was more than likely something to do with himself.

And not only this, but his curiosity to see the old man's death led him to see that particular memory for the very first time. Draco Malfoy and Bella held the best memories for him to see the differing perspectives, but Malfoy’s memory was the most curious of the two.

How had he disarmed him?

He knew Dumbledore was weakened by his potion, when the old fool had stolen his locket, but surely that was not enough for a mere student to disarm the man who had defeated Grindelwald. Besides, the Dark Lord had seen, in the very first moments of the memory...the way Dumbledore had been distracted, his eyes lingering on the far side of the wall.

Which led him to a new, startling thought, although he wasn’t entirely surprised when it dawned upon him: Harry Potter had learned of his Horcruxes from Dumbledore. This was the topic they discussed in all those secret meetings. And…because he had seen, in various student memories, Harry Potter screaming at Severus for his part in the killing, it was clear to him what had distracted Dumbledore enough for Draco to disarm him: Harry Potter was present, invisible perhaps, when Dumbledore was killed on the astronomy tower. Which meant Harry Potter had gone with the old Headmaster to steal his locket. In Lord Voldemort's mind, this made sense…

But something was still… missing. Something…more had happened on this night, as he watched Severus killing Dumbledore in shining, green light. He had seen the blackened hand on Dumbledore's body, and knew it was from his curse on the ring. He had seen the way Dumbledore nodded slightly, barely even noticeable, and now that he knew....

He opened his desk drawer in idle thought and took out the Elder wand. The wand the legends claimed to be unbeatable.

Severus’s death had not made him its Master, like he had originally thought….

But perhaps…he had been overthinking…if killing was one way of transferring its ownership, was it possible... that this wand could change ownership... over a simple Expelliarmus?   

He could have simply killed Draco Malfoy, that was true. Perhaps it would have alleviated his pounding heart from its present excitement—at long last, he would have one of his problems out of the way. That at long last, he would be truly unstoppable.

From what? his thoughts trailed, but he pushed away the doubt that lingered inside.

Besides, Lord Voldemort would not make the same mistake twice; if his theory proved correct, then Malfoy need not have to die to transfer the wand’s loyalty to himself.

But first, the Dark Lord needed to prove that Draco Malfoy was its current Master. And there was only one way to do it.

“M-My Lord, you want me t-to…?”

“Yes, Draco. Take this wand, and I will cast a spell, to which you are not to dodge, nor cast anything in return. Consider this… a test of loyalty.”

The young man visibly paled, but obeyed with shaky hands, which made Lord Voldemort smile cruelly. The Malfoy heir clearly thought he was to be killed.  

If his theory was correct, the Dark Lord’s spell should not harm him while he was holding the Elder wand. With Malfoy facing him, as pale as a ghost, Lord Voldemort cast his curse. But when Draco fell to the ground screaming, he frowned, and quickly cancelled the spell.

With a single thought, he summoned the wand back to him, while Draco got hastily to his feet, kneeling once again.

He was never wrong... his theory should have worked. Draco Malfoy should have been the Elder Wand’s master… but he wasn’t. Why was this?

Could the wand’s allegiance have changed elsewhere?

Before, he would have killed Draco for bringing him this unpleasant news. Before, he likely would have raged at starting over from square one, when he had been so sure of himself. But something had changed…after years of viewing memories, after watching Harry Potter grow before his eyes, he felt far more lenient than he ever had in his life, and simply dismissed Draco, to which the young man readily complied. 

Harry…are you changing me too? Is this your curse? Is this how you will defeat me?

Stroking his wand, the Dark Lord's mind strangely returned to his previous topic, a lingering question on the tip of his mind that Lord Voldemort had never asked before.  

Love...what was it?

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort did not need a memory to recall the words of the prophecy; indeed, the Dark Lord's mind rehearsed it almost on a daily basis, as if a part of him was not yet ready to forget the damning topic of his own demise.

And he thought he had understood…once upon a time, Lord Voldemort had been so confident in its meaning, devising a new way to kill the boy-who-lived…or so he had thought, once upon a time, that the elder wand would aid him in this quest….

Now, he fiddled with the legendary wand as though it were nothing but a toy. It did not work for him, and Draco had proven not to be its master as well....

Beside him, beside the countless memories still scattered across his worktable, lay the single most frustrating item since Harry Potter’s disappearance: The broken snitch.

It had eluded him for years as to what it could mean, and along with the boy’s cloak, had not left his person since that fateful day.

He had poked, prodded, and every conceivable thing which could fit inside the damnably small contraption, even without the use of magic, left the Dark Lord reeling for answers. And of course that infuriating inscription on the side, as though the old fool were right there, mocking him with his self-assured half-sentences:

I open at the close.

I open at the end. But what end; the end of what?

Presumably, Harry Potter had opened it before he disappeared—Lord Voldemort had already read Dumbledore’s will in its entirety, and knew it was from the boy’s first quidditch match, where Harry had nearly swallowed the snitch in his effort to win....

And did it not evoke a strange feeling inside of him, a trembling curiosity, knowing as he did, how Harry’s lips must have touched the very same metal his fingers now ghosted over, curling around the edges as the wings fluttered close and—

And what was inside? What was so important that Harry Potter must leave his friends to die? It was not like him. Even after all these years, Lord Voldemort held fast to this belief. The boy would not have left his friends to die. 

His thoughts moved to the other part of the will that had troubled him vaguely, like some nagging itch that he was not able to scratch—the book Dumbledore had given the mudblood girl. Although he did not have the exact copy, he knew what was written. But the tale of the three brothers was just a story, in the end. A fiction meant for curious eyes and nothing more.

But then why—

Irritated, Lord Voldemort sought his wand once again, to calm his raging thoughts and questions with no available answers. However, his hand curled around the familiar ball instead, his pale fingers stroking the golden trinket in his palm that looked so dead and devoid of life.

As its wings twitched in discomfort, the Dark Lord relaxed, his anxiety coming down, which was strange as well. Normally stroking his wand did the trick, but as he clutched the snitch, his mind eased into a feeling of reassurance....

Because it was Harry’s snitch. Harry’s first snitch. He remembered the game too. The boy had been fearless indeed, diving down too far and too fast, a second away from life or death— Harry Potter, at eleven years old, was far better on a broom then Tom Riddle ever was.

He brought the little golden ball closer to his lips, and his eyes closed then, lost in a dream....

The Dark Lord did not like this memory. It was an oddly painful one, in a detached sort of way— to view one’s state of weakness, his physical and emotional burden of having been disembodied for thirteen years, as well as his failure to get the stone, was a very sore point indeed. He stood beside Quirinus Quirrell, his once faithful follower who had loaned him his body. Still, he did not like this memory. He did not like the remembrance of his face behind the man’s turban, having to survive on the back of another’s head.

He idly looked in the mirror of Erised, where Quirrell was still attempting to gain the stone. It was strange, but Lord Voldemort remembered seeing himself within the glass, obtaining a new and powerful body so unlike what he had now. When his eyes met the mirror, he saw the tall figure of Tom Riddle, older, but charismatic and passionate in a way his body still did not hold. The mirror was a trap set by Dumbledore, he had known that even back then, and still the Dark Lord could not get past the mirror when his desires to use the stone were so obvious. 

Then, not turning, knowing, the boy arrived. He saw him in his peripheral vision, so young and innocent. So fierce and brave when taking on a shade of Lord Voldemort’s power.

“You?” Harry shouted.

Lord Voldemort watched the exchange from beside the mirror, watched as Harry Potter was bound in ropes and brought before the glass to aid Quirrell in his desperate quest for the stone.

He watched as the mirror granted him what Lord Voldemort had never be able to do— a completely selfless child, did the boy have no desire to harness such power? Or perhaps...he just naïve as to the true abilities of the stone. However, even now, Lord Voldemort did not think that was the case....

He wondered, not for the first time, whether this was Harry’s first meeting with the mirror of Erised. It did not seem possible, but the boy must have encountered it before. How else could he have known that the mirror showed only desires and not simply one’s own image? 

Back then, the Dark Lord had promised to return the boy’s parents, if he would join him and give him the stone. It was a lie, but besides that, such a feat was not possible; no, not even he could bring back the dead….

As he sat upon his throne, his followers giving him report, his fingers threaded through the boy's cherished cloak, which rested upon his lap. It was almost as frustrating as the snitch. Why leave behind such an obvious tool for hiding? Why not take the invisibility cloak? Unless it was not his choice to leave it behind, which made the Dark Lord's chest constrict in a painful way, as though he were suffocating....

And either shall die at the hands of the other....

He would not die. Lord Voldemort was safe. Nagini was safe. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

His mind wandered to another frustrating topic, the secret of their connection. When he had first tried to find the boy, it was like a wall had been constructed, blocking him out as though Harry Potter had never once existed. Now the connection had faded, and the Dark Lord could not even remember what it was like to be within the boy's fragile mind....

For neither can live…

"My Lord?"

He looked towards Lucius, the one who had spoken; the once disgraced man who had redeemed himself over the growing years. He stood off to the side, giving him a confused look. It reminded him of what he had asked Lucius to do, which made a rare smile cross his lips.  

"Do you have the prisoner?"

...while the other survives.

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort stood on the balcony, watching the dark forest that separated his manor from the rest of the wizarding world. It was his private estate, and currently he was the only living being inside, besides his precious Nagini, curled up as she was in a deep sleep.

His mind traveled back to the scene he had fled mere moments ago; yes, fled. For Lord Voldemort had made an unsightly error, and one he was not likely to repeat. Lucius was cleaning up the ‘mess’, as it were, and likely held a thousand unasked questions, but the Dark Lord did not care. At the moment, his heart was still pounding in an unnatural way, still beating far too fast over a death that should have been joyous.

The body of Harry Potter lying dead upon his floor, glassy green eyes staring back at him, and the way his lifeless body had trembled and then lay still and—

Because when Lord Voldemort could not stop his wandering mind, when his desires overtook him and he wanted to see the boy within his sights, in the flesh and not within the hazy confines of a memory, when the past was not enough to soothe his anxieties and fears, so the Dark Lord took his study to an even more obsessive level; he had done the unthinkable, and against all his better judgments, transfigured his prisoner into something that resembled Harry Potter.

Try as he might, though, the Dark Lord could not replicate the boy exactly. There was always something…off. The nose. Or the eyebrows. And when he had grown tired of the man’s begging, his endless pleas and hopes of escaping, when the man evidently failed to preform in the way that Lord Voldemort demanded, he had killed… him.

He had thought that seeing his prophesied enemy dead on the floor would bring him great joy. Instead, he had panicked.

And the Dark Lord did not understand… why. Why had he panicked in such a way? He had long since discovered his desire for the boy to return, of that much he was aware of. But he had always wanted the boy dead... so why had he fled the scene as though his heart was ripped in two?

It was this, more than anything else, that unsettled him now. Because he did not know when his thoughts had changed. He did not know how, or why, or even more dangerously still, if he even wanted to stop them from changing….

More than a decade passed since Lord Voldemort first began this endeavor. At night he studied his memories, restlessly looking for clues as to Harry Potter's whereabouts, and when his irrational self overthrew him, he would take countless prisoners to his study to observe what could never fully satisfy him. 

Bellatrix grew jealous, naturally, as the time flew by. She persistently tried to distract him by pushing the boundaries of their relationship. He had tortured her far too many times for overstepping her place, for her whining and begging, for her tears to let the past, let the boy, go. To focus on the future. On magic. On her.

He had tortured her relentlessly for that insinuation, barely leaving her mind intact for allowing her pitiful feelings to appear in such an obvious and sentimental way.

Over the years, Lord Voldemort had likewise regained most of his former appearance. It was easy once he set his mind to the task.

And he had many reasons for doing so. He did it to sway the population to his side. He did it to breed compliance to his new regime. He did it to appear harmless and kind to his enemies... only to shatter that image whenever he so desired.

He did it to watch his prisoners with the face of Harry Potter respond to him in different ways. He realized they were much more willing to do as he asked when he had a more pleasing visage to entice them. Eventually, as Lord Voldemort could not keep killing his so-called experiments, he kept only his best, his favorites, secluded in the privacy of his manor. All with black hair and green, green eyes....

It was foolish, to be so afraid of one’s own self. To be so... averse, to looking into one’s own mind, to fully understanding one's own past and self. So very foolish indeed, but the Dark Lord could not find any other explanation for what he was currently feeling. He had long since lifted the strand of memory into the basin, but now he could only sit and stare, quite reluctant to traverse into its foggy depths.

The pale liquid, so thin and frail and old, stood before him like a great ocean, it seemed. 

After months of working up the courage, he had resigned himself to watch the one memory he really should have watched first. For decades Lord Voldemort had avoided it, to the point of pretending that the memory simply did not exist— but it did exist, so carefully kept in the deepest parts of his mind, waiting for the day when he would dare to look at it. 

And only now he dared. Now, he had every reason to view the memory—it was the last and final memory he had not already seen. The point was long overdue. Because for every conceivable explanation to the mysteries surrounding Harry Potter, all could possibly be solved in this one damnable memory. 

With a final snap of his jaw, Lord Voldemort descended into the memory of that wretched Halloween night.

What fate had planned, he had yet to realize. 

Chapter Text

It was the little things that struck him so when he landed on the pavement of Godric's Hollow, following the footsteps of his former self. It was the sky, so black and dark, cruel in the moonlight— it was the frost, nipping coldly at his toes; it was the curling chill upon his spine, the frigid air, the night so haunting and eerie despite what he had come to do. Yes, Lord Voldemort remembered all of it, even if now, in a mere memory, he could not feel a thing.

And so the Dark Lord walked again the path of his younger, eager self, who held not a candle of wisdom as to what could possibly go wrong. He had come to kill a child, and as far as his old self knew, a child could never defeat him. If only.

He watched as they drew nearer to the cottage, his breath hitching when his memory blew the door off the hinges. In moments, he would know. Know what was causing his heart to beat so fast, to finally know what the connection between them was. His every instinct told him to keep watching, keep watching…

“Lily! It’s him! Take Harry and go! I’ll hold him off!” James Potter shouted. Even watching the scene unfold again, Lord Voldemort could not help but admire this foolish Gryffindor’s bravery. It reminded him so much of Harry, who had stood so proudly against him, with his back tall, his eyes forward, his wand held firmly in his hand....

But James Potter held no wand, and the Dark Lord watched impassively as his memory shot the killing curse in but a few calm strides. He stared as Harry Potter’s father fell down on the stairs, dead.

A scream sounded from upstairs, and Lord Voldemort walked slowly behind his other self, stepping lightly over the body as they headed towards it. The mother had tried to barricade herself inside the boy’s room, putting young Harry in the crib and holding herself in front of him.            

Yes…he remembered this moment all too well. The moment he had overlooked, had fallen victim to because he had never understood the magic of a self-sacrificing love. Even now, after all these years, he still did not understand...

He moved past the dark figure of himself and the woman, coming closer to the boy within the crib. Harry looked far too innocent as a child, he noted. But those eyes, green and defiant, he could see simmering just beneath the surface. And this was the moment. The moment when the boy’s mother had given all her love, and her dying magic had attached itself to protect the boy. 

“Please, not Harry! Not Harry!”

“Stand aside girl.”

“Not Harry, please not Harry, take me instead!”

“Stand aside!”

And as she wept for her son, and as Lord Voldemort stood beside the child, he noticed the boy had not once looked away from his mother’s back. After the third time where Lily Potter refused to move, refused to be spared in the place of her child, the room lit green once more, and the woman fell to the ground like a puppet without strings. The child still stared ahead, and looked curiously at the figure walking towards him, as though he could not comprehend that his mother had just died. The figure drew nearer, and the Dark Lord stood back, watching as his former self laid the tip of his wand upon the boy’s forehead, in an almost loving gesture. This was the moment, and if he dared to breathe, he might just miss—

“Avada... Kedavra!”

BOOM!

The Dark Lord might have fled the memory now if he hadn’t been looking so hard at the boy. The sheer loudness of the crash was deafening this close, the moment the spell rebounded upon him, and his body disintegrated into nothing; and yes, he could see himself now, barely alive, a wraith, a blackened spirit in the air but nothing more. He did not remember after this moment, and so he watched closely through the debris as the child now cried, and the air cleared, and… no, no, it was not possible, it was not—

A fragment of himself, splitting, then flying towards the boy; a black shadow latching itself into the wound upon his forehead.

No, no, no, it was not this, it could not be—

The memory started to fade as the Dark Lord lost his consciousness, and the rest of his soul escaped through the broken roof. He caught one final glimpse the boy, a bleeding scar, the child screaming into the night. He could not understand it, yet at the same time, everything made sense …but anything, anything but this, this….

He broke free of the memory and emerged into his office, his mind in turmoil over what he had seen. Over what fate had thrown at the Dark Lord in the cruelest twist of irony. 

The boy. Himself, splitting nearly in half after his failed attempt to kill a child. The murder of his mother fresh on his wand. His soul, his soul, finding the only source of a container it could, given the circumstances. 

A living horcrux. Harry Potter was a horcrux. His horcrux. 

Should he not have felt...? Had he split his soul so many times that he could not recognize the boy for what he was? 

After what felt like hours, the Dark Lord finally sat down, and a twisted smile found its way to his lips. His heart beat wildly at his sudden knowledge, a realization that hope may not be lost after all. 

If Harry Potter was his horcrux...then he must still be alive. He must. If Lord Voldemort was still alive...then the boy should still be tethered to this world, somehow. He knew how tricky horcruxes were, and the only way to get rid of his binding soul would be for Lord Voldemort to kill him himself. Which he had not done, and to which he would never do again. Yes...if Harry Potter would not be found ...then Lord Voldemort would make him be found. Now that he knew what connected them. Now that he knew the truth. There was magic to be learned, and soul magic was the most fascinating magic of all.

And he would bring the boy back…

Even through the depths of death itself.

Chapter Text

Death.

To die was to be weak, and Lord Voldemort was neither weak nor dead. He was immortal… and would be so long as he had his horcruxes remained safe by his side. He had lost so many, true, but now he had found another, and he was quite unwilling to let this one go.

Death.

Had he not conquered death? Had he not outplayed death with the creation of not one but seven horcruxes? Death owed him nothing, and he would never die, so what was the cause of his concern…?

The Dark Lord sat by the dying hearth in a deep contemplation, Nagini curled by his feet, and one of his pastimes lurking near the door in a vague attempt to not be noticed.   

The boy standing there was one of his better creations, but alas, paled in comparison to the actual Harry Potter. Even now, looking at him, Lord Voldemort could not quite put his finger on what was wrong, just that it was.

Gaining eye contact with the squib, he motioned the boy forward, and he silently complied. As the boy kneeled at his feet, so wrong, Harry would never, but still he asked him,

“What do you think of death, boy?”

And the boy started shivering on the floor, limbs shaking as though he were under the crucatious curse. Clearly, he expects to be killed. Lord Voldemort sighed.

“No, I will not harm you, just answer the question. What do you think about death, hm?”

The boy calmed slightly, and then, in a near whisper,

“I-I think we all have to die…my Lord…it is n-natural. B-But of course not you, m-my Lord!”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, displeased by the answer despite his initial curiosity. But what could one expect from a squib?

“You may go now…and tell the others not to wander tonight. I have plans.” the Dark Lord dismissed him with a bored look.

When the boy finally left, Lord Voldemort summoned his notes he had made on living horcruxes, spinning the snitch around his fingers as he read. Such was his habit, and now that Lord Voldemort was close to his answers, it felt even more appropriate.

He did not question it anymore when his mind traveled into the memories of Harry Potter. He had viewed nearly every important moment of the boy’s life, and the memories never truly stopped; even now, as he watched his kingdom from afar, Lord Voldemort knew he was longing for something the world had already forgotten. Dismissed. Irrelevant in the wake of the Dark Lord’s victory. But Lord Voldemort did not forget. He could not forget.

And as he basked in the light of the moon, standing quite alone in the seclusion of the forbidden forest, his mind could not help but recall all those trivial, fascinating details about Harry Potter. The way the boy’s eyes lit with so many emotions, and the Dark Lord could remember with the purest clarity each and every reaction of the boy-who-lived. From the moment he learned he was a wizard, to the day he lost his godfather, to the day he faced Lord Voldemort in the skies, to the day he disappeared. All of it, the Dark Lord wanted that and more. So much more.

Which was why he was currently standing in a design of his own, a design so terrible and raw and angry that the magical creatures that lurked within the forest stayed far away from him tonight—it was, after all, against the laws of nature, but necessary for what he desired to achieve.

For how could he, Lord Voldemort, ever say he had conquered death when he had really done nothing of the sort? He had become immortal, yes, but it was not the same. If he could not bring Harry Potter back, if the Dark Lord could not travel into the depths of death’s realm…then no, he could not say he had defeated death. At least, not until he could do it. Not until tonight.

He knew, somewhere deep down, that the boy-who-lived was no longer in this world. His tests had all proved negative, of course. But Lord Voldemort was never one to quit, and when he had looked deeper into their connection, now that he knew what the boy was, he had found a spark, a tiny, infantile light that still existed between them— but it was faded, almost as though the boy was no longer living in this world.

If not for the light that still connected them, the boy would surely be lost. It was small and fragile, but if Lord Voldemort pulled it in just the right way, he was certain he could bring Harry Potter back.

He closed his eyes, and the chanting began. In over a minute, raw energy filled the clearing, and black tendrils of shadow formed over the tall trees.

In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a particularly dark shadow watching him, but he ignored it and kept up his work.

After an hour, screams could be heard, the earth itself ripping apart, but still he ignored it and kept chanting. A shape was starting to take place, and a shallow pool of water began to form in the clearing, freezing over in the chilled wind. He kept his pace, but even he was beginning to fatigue.

Then he saw it. A small, glowing ember that radiated the entire forest in golden light. He pushed on, convinced as he was that this was the right path. The shadow in the corner was still watching, but if he thought he saw it shake its head, Lord Voldemort did not care.

His heart was beating wildly, his palms sweaty and his hair disheveled, but the Dark Lord did not care. He knew he was close, and yes; he could see him taking form…yes, he could see the outline of that familiar body taking shape under the dark water….

Still chanting, he knelt down closer to the water, watching, pulling, tugging that small little ember to come closer…to bring back Harry Potter’s soul….

Come back to me…come back...come back…to me…

Lord Voldemort gave one final tug on their connection, willing the light into the body before him. He thought he heard the shadow laughing, but he was too fixated on the sight before him.

Harry Potter lay beneath the freezing pool of shallow water, looking exactly as he did as when he had first gone missing. He appeared to be sleeping, although troubled lines of worry were etched on his features.  He resisted the urge to touch him, afraid that he might vanish once again if he so much as blinked.

When it became clear that Harry would drown if he did not act, as carefully as he could, the Dark Lord dipped his hands into the water. It was beyond freezing, so cold he felt his fingers instantly blacken, but he dare not go back without Harry. As he pulled the boy free from the pool, with a shuddering gasp, he quickly pulled his cloak around the figure in his arms.

By the light of the moon, the shadows had all disappeared, but an unearthly chill seemed to revolve around the boy. For now, he did not worry. He had brought Harry Potter back. The world could be right again.

Death had been defied. He had Harry Potter in his grasp.  

And Lord Voldemort had won.

Chapter Text

The boy was neither heavy nor light as Lord Voldemort apparated them back to his manor. All of his thoughts ceased to mean anything but the swirling notion that he had succeeded, and Harry Potter lay asleep in his arms.

He had done it.

At last, the Dark Lord had brought back the boy who had caused him so much heartache and pain, so much grief and yearning that he still did not know what it meant. He had brought back the boy who caused him restless days and nights for years, and now answers were going to be found and, at last, he could have some semblance of peace within the turmoil of his mind.

No one greeted him as he walked through his private manor, and no one disturbed the unusual quietness as he made his way towards the very end of the estate, where Lord Voldemort’s private chambers lay. He hadn’t considered much in preparation beyond getting back the boy-who-lived, so now, as he walked, he considered where to keep the boy until accommodations could be made.

He was cold to touch, and an unusual frost touched the boy’s body, even extending to Lord Voldemort’s own robes and attire. He wondered at that. Had he… failed in some way? Had the ritual to go beyond death’s grave backfired, and now death had somehow…leaked onto the boy?

It was surely impossible. Death could not reach the land of the living, and Lord Voldemort felt certain in the very fact that the boy’s heart was still beating within his body.

When the Dark Lord reached his chambers, he securely locked the wards to prevent anyone from coming or leaving the room without his permission.

He set Harry Potter gently on the bed, and then covered his body with his own robes. The frost crackled as he did so, and Lord Voldemort frowned as the prevailing ice licked at the bed beneath Harry’s body. He cast a heating charm, which quickly melted the ice, but his body was still cold to touch.

He remembered the shadow that had seemingly laughed at his attempts to bring back the dead. Well, the boy was no longer dead. Lord Voldemort had made it so.

He thought about how Harry Potter had… died. He did not know how, and as tempting as it was to scour the boy’s mind before he awoke, he left it be. He did not want to harm the boy’s fragile state of being.

The Dark Lord then knelt beside the bed and watched Harry Potter breathing, up and down, a sign of life. He smiled to himself. He had, at last, conquered death. The boy was proof of that. He had brought Harry Potter back… at long last.

He closed his eyes, and a sigh escaped through his lips, as though Lord Voldemort had not rested in ages. As though he had never missed Harry Potter at all, and the boy had simply been here all this time, laying in a peaceful rest by his side.

Well, he was here, now, and touchable, real, and everything Lord Voldemort had missed. He was exactly the same, and once he awoke, everything would be as it should.

But Harry Potter did not wake up immediately afterwards. Lord Voldemort had been anxiously waiting for his return, hardly leaving the boy’s side, and only then for the inevitable meetings or when calls for his attention could no longer be ignored. He despised those who dared draw his attention away from the boy and had punished a number of them if only to cool his deteriorating thoughts.

By the fifth day, when there was still no sign of the boy waking up, the Dark Lord was a mess. He hardly slept, ate, or had done anything at all but stare, restlessly, at the boy sleeping on the bed.

By the sixth day, the Dark Lord could not convincingly say that Harry Potter was merely sleeping. He listened for heartbeats. He repeatedly tested the boy’s temperature, which was always below freezing. He warmed him with dozens of blankets, heating charms and fire, yet it still seemed to have no effect of his cool temperature.

The Dark Lord let no one in. And no one, not even his closest Death Eaters, knew about his feat against death, the only evidence of it laying before him, soundlessly unaware as he broke down into fits of a maddening despair.

Had he done something wrong? Had he not conquered death? Did Harry Potter still escape him?

Why was this ghost of a boy still haunting his every thought? His every action?

 It was only on the seventh day when something changed. Lord Voldemort had left, against his better judgements, to meet with a professional Healer who could, under strict supervision, diagnose what was keeping Harry Potter from waking. He would obliviate them afterwards, he did not care, all that mattered was getting the boy to rouse from his deep coma.  

And perhaps it was for the better, for when Harry Potter opened his eyes, Lord Voldemort was gone.

Chapter Text

Wrong.

When Harry Potter opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t in the fact that he was in an unfamiliar area, though. It wasn’t in the dark, oppressive room he had found himself in— no, it was in the fact that he was very much…alive. And he wasn’t supposed to be.

He knew he was supposed to go to Voldemort to die, and that was the only thing. He remembered stepping into the forest, cloak hiding his body when—

His heartrate skipped a beat when he couldn’t remember any further than that. He couldn’t remember ever making it to stand in front of his enemy. Tears leaked into his eyes, and suddenly he was hyperventilating, short gasps into the air while his heart was beating madly in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and the air was quickly becoming cold. He didn’t know what that was. He didn’t feel cold, though, and on the contrary, he felt quite warm.

Struggling against the heavy sheets, Harry fell out of the bed in an ungraceful heap. He landed hard and noticed immediately that he was wearing someone else’s robes, as they were far too big for his body.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Everything is wrong.

He had to get out. He had to die now, or else Voldemort—if he hadn’t already—!

He didn’t know how he even managed to stand, but Harry finally made it to the door. It was locked, however, and no matter how hard he struggled with it, it stayed sharply closed.

Harry looked around the room for the first time. There was a dark bed, a fireplace with a couch, and a large bookshelf nearby. There was another room by the closet, and when Harry carefully made his way over, he cursed when it was just a bathroom. There wasn’t much to give him clues as to who the room belonged to, but he discarded every idea in his head that came close to reasonable. Whoever it was had to be rich. But it couldn’t be Malfoy’s house, because although Harry remembered saving him in the Room of Requirement, the room was too…dark, even for Malfoy’s tastes. Perhaps the Order had acquired some type of safe house?

He didn’t want to think too long though about the Order of the Phoenix, though, because every time he did so, he was painfully reminded of the losses he had seen. Lupin. Tonks. Fred. It was almost too much, to the point of being unbearable. He wondered if Ron and Hermione had made it out. They had to though…they always made it out.  

Harry noticed it was starting to freeze over in the room, the fireplace doing nothing to stop the ice from forming. Eventually his rapid pacing ceased, and he crumbled on the floor in a heap of emotions, trying in vain to think of anything other than the last battle. He wondered if Neville had managed to kill Nagini. He wondered, if he was still alive, then Voldemort must still be—but he couldn’t think of that. Maybe the horcrux inside of him had been destroyed while he was unconscious. Maybe the Order had found a way to kill it without killing him. He had to think of that.  

Still, Harry cried, huddled in the corner of the room, as everything around him turned to ice.  

Hours crept by, and Lord Voldemort was irritated by the sheer amount of time it had taken to acquire a decent healer whose mind he did not care to ruin afterwards. It didn’t help matters that the healer he had brought into his mansion was nervously asking him questions about his soon-to-be patient.

“When did he arrive, m-my Lord, and in what state?”

“W-What exactly do you mean, my Lord? He emits cold?”

“You will see.” Was all he said. But when the Dark Lord opened the door to his private chambers, he was struck by how much ice was crackling around the room, though he had been gone for only three hours, at most. However, when Lord Voldemort also noticed that the bed was empty, his heart stopped, and realizing the healer was still at his back, he told him to wait by the door while he assessed the situation.

Stepping into his chambers, Lord Voldemort closed the door and noted that Harry Potter was indeed still in the room, in the corner, in fact, sitting on the floor and looking at him as though he had stepped out of time.

How ironic, he thought. That Lord Voldemort should be the phantom of Harry Potter’s life. Perhaps for the first time, the Dark Lord hesitated at moving any closer. Indeed, he hesitated at making any movements at all.

They stared at each other from across the room. If Harry Potter was incapable of speech, then Lord Voldemort was faring far, far worse—inside, he was a mess of warring emotions at the sight of this boy alive, awake, in his presence instead of just a memory. He was failing at keeping his expression in check, his urge to smile at the sheer complexity that had brought Harry Potter back to him through a mix of good fortune and his own, infallible magic.

He could only just stop himself from the urge to hold the boy, but rationality, reality, came back to him swiftly. Harry Potter knew nothing of Lord Voldemort’s increasing obsession. And by the way the boy was subtly moving, crouching as if to spring into action at any given moment, only told the Dark Lord that the boy still expects to be killed. It was only natural. After all, the last time he had seen Harry Potter alive was in the battle at Hogwarts, a war over 40 years ago, lost to the history books as a time when peace and order had not yet been achieved by Lord Voldemort’s will.

But such was a topic for another day. Right now, he knew he had to calm his racing heart and the fragile state of complex magic that was settling into the air. Perhaps Harry Potter did not realize it, but Lord Voldemort could feel the boy’s magic, heavy and light and a hint of darkness, suffocating the air and freezing over the room as if it had always been made of ice.

Perhaps the healer could do his work now. Without looking at the surprised expression crossing the boy’s face, the Dark Lord swept back out of the room and towards the healer, who was still standing beside the door and looking increasingly nervous.

“You may go in. I expect him to be cured of his ailment… and any other problems you may find, by midnight. Do not speak to him about anything outside of curing him. I’ll also give you my permission to use magic to ensure his cooperation. I anticipate he will be difficult, but if anything else of note arises, you are to contact me at once.”

And without even turning to see if the healer had listened to him or not, Lord Voldemort apparated out of the hall and into his personal study.

In all honesty, he did not expect this healer to completely cure whatever was causing the boy’s body to freeze everything in sight. It was strange magic, and if Lord Voldemort had done something wrong in the ritual, then only he could find what that reason was.

Now that the boy was finally awake, the Dark Lord’s mind rested at long last, and he fell into a state of dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Narcissa Malfoy knew something was wrong, but when, where it had started, she did not know. Since the war, perhaps, but back then she had been…frightened, scared for her family and…strange, out-of-sorts, to say the least. While her Lord had driven out the old Ministry pressurized under Dumbledore to replace it with a more… aligned, pure-blooded system, one of which she was very glad for, Narcissa occasionally felt that same fear deep inside her bones… as though something had not gone the way that it should. But what was it? What could have caused her to feel such feelings when, by all rights, everything was going well?

Her grandson Scorpius was doing well in school, a second year Slytherin, and Draco was head of the house now, Lucius long ago giving up his duties and passing the mantle over to their son. By all accounts, the Malfoy family name had been restored its prestige and honor, and any previous, pre-war fallout between Lucius and their Lord had been, thankfully, resolved over the years as both Lucius and Draco proved their worth. Lucius had been one of their Lord’s key advisors in rebuilding the wizarding world after the war, implementing a number of new measures to ensure the survival of their race against the muggles.

Narcissa still remembered the night her husband had come home, trembling, and pale, after a visit to the Dark Lord’s manor. Such was not an uncommon sight, and Narcissa had immediately stepped into her natural healer mode, addressing any concerns for the aftereffects of the crucatious curse. But to her shock her husband was not suffering from a round of the torture curse. Indeed, Lucius had remained tight lipped about the whole affair, and no amount of prodding could let him reveal what he had seen or done within their Lord’s manor. And Narcissa hadn’t been one to pry, but the following days had seen her husband consume more fire whiskey than appropriate and Lucius would avert his eyes whenever Narcissa had tried to question whatever was causing his abnormal behavior.

Narcissa had thought, at the time, that it was a one-time occurrence. That whatever Lucius had seen or done in the Dark Lord’s manor would fade, but it never quite did. From time to time, Narcissa would see Lucius drink far too much, and occasionally, he would let something slip. But still, Narcissa had no idea what was causing this behavior, and over time, she had eventually put the matter out of her mind.

Now, however, that same old fear was building in her stomach, and she didn’t know what was causing her concern. She was just about to put her worries aside and head upstairs to bed when a pop sounded nearby. It was her house elf, Maisy, who was trembling all over.

“Lady Malfoy…the Dark Lord is requesting to see yous straight away. Master Malfoy is already there, but I is suggesting you don’t delay.”

Narcissa frowned, and when the elf popped away, she hurried downstairs, all the while shaking herself at what could have caused such a visit.

Her mind went back through all the times she had ever spoken to her Lord but could think of nothing she had possibly done, or not done, to cause such anxiety. 

She heard them before she saw them, and, collecting herself, drew nearer to the entrance foyer. There was an awkward silence between the two men, but she simply bowed upon seeing her Lord, and then hazarded a glance at her husband, who was stiff and pale.

“Narcissa. I understand that you are quite an accomplished healer, is that so?” Her Lord asked.

“Yes, My Lord. However, I’ve been retired for several years now and—”

“No matter. I am confident you can do what I require. I only ask that whatever you see, you do not repeat it outside of my manor. Is that clear?”

Looking over at her husband, she could see the hesitation in his eyes and posture, and while Narcissa would normally ask why, she knew that she, nor Lucius, could object to the will of their Lord. Nodding to her once, Lucius bowed his head. Narcissa followed swiftly after that.

“Yes, my Lord.” she spoke, her voice ringing full of truth.

“Good.” Her Lord then held out his arm. Narcissa hesitantly took it, and with a sharp pull in her stomach, she left Malfoy Manor, wondering what on earth she would see that could cause her husband such anguish.

The healer Lord Voldemort had first taken to his manor had not done so well. Indeed, the man had only lasted in the room for a total of five minutes before the boy lashed out and, evidently, injured the man with pure, raw magic. It was unfortunate, but not wholly unexpected. So Lord Voldemort had stepped into the room yet again, after the healer alerted him to the dangerous state-of-mind the boy was in. And with another crushing wave against his heart (what was that? why was his heart beating madly against his chest at the sight of—), the Dark Lord cast his most powerful sleeping charm after a short duel with the boy. For even though Harry Potter’s magic was hostile, the boy could not naturally fight for long without a wand. It was understandably tragic, so Lord Voldemort had gently set him back on the bed and stepped out to get a different healer, after erasing the man's mind, and preferably someone of more talent.

With another heart wrenching turn, Lord Voldemort looked once more back at the boy sleeping, then apparated as quickly as he could to Malfoy Manor, and sent an urgent pulse through the Dark Mark to signal the old Malfoy patriarch to gather his wife in short notice.

Narcissa moved cautiously behind her Lord, the dimly lit hallways unnerving and intimidating to anyone who did not know the layout. The portraits on the wall were all scenery, and strangely enough, none of them moved. This fact alone nearly threatened to topple Narcissa’s confidence, and she wondered what kind of healing she would be required to do today.

They approached double mahogany doors at the end of the hall. It was apparent to her that this was her Lord’s chambers. When they entered the room, Narcissa’s eyebrow slightly raised at the sheer amount of coldness emitting around the room, even noticing thin layers of ice forming on the furniture. And the furniture itself was toppled over, broken shelves and books lay scattered across the floor, tables overturned, and mirrors shattered in what Narcissa took to be some kind of aftermath of a duel. But with who? Who would dare attack their Lord in such a way?

Her eyes drifted to a figure on the bed, the source of the strange coolness in the room. From this distance, she only saw a head of messy black locks, and a thin frame. She didn’t know who it was, but something about this person struck her as familiar.

Narcissa noticed a strange look crossing her Lord’s face when he gazed at this person, and with a slightly hesitant bow she asked,

“My Lord, what do you require me to…?”

Not even turning to face her, he said,

“Heal him. Whatever you can find. He is under a sleeping charm right now; it is best not to wake him. And remember, not a word leaves this room.”

“U-Understood, My Lord” Narcissa then approached the bed, while her Lord stood back and sat down in a nearby chair to watch.

When Narcissa was near the patient, she noticed what had been bugging her before. The familiar, jagged cut on the boy’s forehead, the dark messy hair—she could never forget the figure of Harry Potter, even after he had been missing for so long….

Putting her questions and shock aside, something she was sure her Lord would not tolerate right now, she quickly cast every diagnostic spell she had, along with her healing arts. A scroll appeared beside her, hovering in the air, and quickly writing down the results.  

When Narcissa read through the notes, her shock was even more apparent. She turned to her Lord at his questioning gaze and read through the list.

“My diagnostic spells alerted me to three important factors, My Lord. The first is that the boy is completely healthy, body wise. He has no physical or magical injuries that I can detect, although it would appear he is suffering from states of malnourishment, which can be remedied with a regular diet and potions. The second factor is…I cannot tell for certain, but my magic detected another source of magic within him, on his core, and I believe this is what is causing him to freeze everything in sight. However, his magical core is healthy as well, a bit unstable due to pent up energy, but otherwise in perfect shape, which leads me to believe that whatever foreign magic is affecting him, it is not harmful to him.”

There was a strange look on her Lord’s face at the news, one in which Narcissa could only describe as…relief.

“The final factor is his mental wellbeing…. He is in a state of extreme shock, My Lord, and if not for the sleeping spell, I suspect he would be having a mental break down. However, I am not skilled in the mind healing arts, so I—”

“I understand.” Her Lord interrupted her, standing up from the chair, “You may go now. If I require further assistance, I shall let you know.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

As Narcissa left the room, only then did she notice what had been bothering her while interacting with her Lord—the Dark Lord’s eyes never once strayed from the boy on the bed.

So the boy was perfectly healthy, aside from the shock. And the foreign magic inside his core, which wasn’t doing him any harm. That was good. So good, in fact, that Lord Voldemort was startled to find himself physically relieved. He sat back down by the chair beside the bed, tempted to wake the boy again. But if he was in shock, then seeing Lord Voldemort again would probably not help him at all in getting accustomed to his surroundings....

He had waited and waited for the boy to wake, going mad in his desperation, and now he was hesitant to wake the boy. What irony.

He wondered, again, for the thousandth time, how Harry Potter had gone missing in the first place.

And again, he was tempted to scour his mind for clues, but something held him back. Maybe it was the peaceful look on Harry Potter’s face as he slept under the sleeping charm, or perhaps it was the fact that he simply did not want to destroy the fragility of the boy’s mind while he was still in shock.

Either way, Lord Voldemort would have to wake the boy up sometime. He cold not sleep forever.

Hesitantly, the Dark Lord reached out and grasped Harry Potter’s hand, marveling at how cold the boy’s fingers still were. The hand was much gentler than he anticipated, and smaller, but just as he imagined it would be. And the cold was not worsening but emitting at a steady pace now that he noticed it. Perhaps it would die down with time, and perhaps, Harry Potter could learn this strange magic, control it. For now, Lord Voldemort was simply content that it was not harming him.

He was uncertain of how to proceed. If he woke him, the boy was likely to throw another fit and destroy the room, not that he cared, but it was rather dissatisfying. He did not want to cause unnecessary mental anguish for the boy if he saw Lord Voldemort alive, but it seemed there was no getting around it. They needed to speak. He needed to… explain…the situation. He needed the boy to listen. Still holding his hand, Lord Voldemort turned his wand and cast the spell. It was time to talk. If this boy was anything like the one he had grown to learn in his memories, it would take time. Of course.

But time was something he had plenty of.

Rennervate….

Chapter Text

There is something inexplicitly odd about waking up in a place where he shouldn’t be. It was reminiscent of his cupboard days, where he felt simultaneously cramped and unwanted, miserable, and yet, he had always felt a small amount of safety in his cupboard, where his uncle’s meaty hands couldn’t quite fit into. This place was somehow similar too, it felt cramped and suffocating but oddly enough, safe, and he wondered why he felt this way…but that was before his mind went through his most recent memories, his thoughts all but stopping when he remembered the reason he had gone to sleep in the first place.

The sensation of feeling safe was replaced with pure fear. He opened his eyes to find himself back on the bed, in the room he shouldn’t be in, and the one person who shouldn’t be was sitting beside the bed, watching him with a curious look on his face. It was something Harry had never seen, not in Tom Riddle’s diary form, nor in the snake-faced monster he knew so well.

And just as suddenly, Harry was hyperventilating again, the air refusing to enter his lungs, the pressure in his mind screaming about how wrong this reality was.

Then hands were steadying his trembling body, telling him to breathe, but he shoved them away violently, physically reacting to the sensation of touch. By him.

“Don’t touch me!” Harry was screaming, but his voice, his body, felt far away.

He tried, weakly, to move off the bed, but found his legs to be unresponsive. Had he…?

“I did. To stop you from running around like a headless chicken.”

Harry was bewildered, first by the image of a headless chicken, then by the thought that it was Voldemort who had said it. And done this to him. He snarled, a fierce thing in his chest.

“I’ll kill you! Let me go! I have to—I have to—!”

“What, kill yourself?” The way Voldemort said what Harry had been thinking so casually, so calmly, caused him to flinch.

“I’ll—I’ll—”

“Harry. I know you will not understand this at the moment. Just know that I am not here to harm you. I…”

Harry wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to breathe and stop the panicked thoughts from arising. If Voldemort was alive, what happened to his friends? What of Hogwarts? And the Order? What happened to him in the forest? He couldn’t remember, and that, above all else, frightened him, even more so than the monster sitting beside him.

He tried to move again, only to fall on his side when his legs wouldn’t move. Voldemort was still speaking, but Harry couldn’t hear a word. Unwillingly, tears leaked into his eyes, and then he was sobbing.

Voldemort had stopped talking at some point, but Harry wasn’t sure which was worse. The fact that he wasn’t in a dungeon, or the fact that Voldemort was speaking to him in a calm, soothing manner. As though Harry was the crazy one. It angered him beyond belief, threatening to consume him whole.

“Kill me. I need to die. Please.” Harry didn’t care if his plea sounded like begging. He needed to die for the horcrux inside him to die. It was what Dumbledore had planned, after all, to finally destroy Voldemort. That Harry had failed to kill himself in the forest meant that it was partially his fault that Voldemort was still alive.

It was all his fault.

Whether time passed or not, Harry was suddenly aware that he was left in the room alone. Voldemort had gone away at some point, but when, or why, Harry wasn’t too sure. Time flowed sluggishly around him, like he was draped in a heavy, weighted blanket that didn’t allow for much movement. Reluctantly, he tried to move his legs again, and was astounded to find that he could move them freely. Voldemort was gone and Harry could move. It was almost too good to be true.

He cautiously sat up on the bed, then looked around—just to be sure that Voldemort was really gone. The room was back to its meticulous state of perfection, the broken tables sat upright again, and the books were all neatly placed back into the bookshelves from where Harry had tossed them. He also noticed that the cold in the room had slowed down, or at least, his body wasn’t ejecting coldness into the room any longer. He wondered at that, but quickly dismissed it in favor of finding a way out.

There has to be a catch, he kept thinking, slowly moving his mobile legs to the edge of the bed. Harry tentatively stepped onto the carpet, fearing that sudden movement would cause the monster in human form to come back.

He realized, in a moment of pure horror, whose robes he was wearing—but the thought of running around naked wasn’t too appealing either.

Why aren’t I in a dungeon? he kept thinking, even as he cautiously moved towards the door, the only apparent exit in the dark room.

Why isn’t he killing me. Is it because…

What if—don’t think it don’t think it—the horcrux….

He reached out to touch the doorknob and gasped when the door actually swung open. Is this a game? Did he do this on purpose? There is no way Voldemort forgot to lock the door.

There has to be a catch. This is it. This is a trap.

But one he was willing to walk into regardless. He looked back at the room, the dark wooden furniture, the pristine fireplace. But the hallway, the open door, was too tempting to resist.

He needed to find a way out. Then, and only then, could he find out what happened.

The Dark Lord knew when he was not wanted, and so granting the boy the space he needed to…adjust, to his new arrangements, Lord Voldemort decided to let the boy roam around his manor, alone. Of course, he had warded the entire premises and windows, there was no escaping that way, but if it helped the boy gain the confidence to move freely once again, and not wish to die (oh, how he hated Dumbledore then), the Dark Lord was willing to let Harry do as he wished. The boy would probably think there was some sort of trap, but there wasn’t. If Harry wished to explore and attempt to escape, once he saw there was no escape, then perhaps he would be more willing to talk.

So for now, Lord Voldemort actively stayed away in his study. He did not wish to disrupt Harry in his private thoughts, and besides, perhaps the boy would even seek him out in the end.  

If Lord Voldemort happened to forget the other beings still living in his manor, the remnants of those agonizing days spent fruitlessly trying to bring back what he had lost, the Dark Lord was left perfectly unaware.  

Harry had passed endless hallways, door after door of useless rooms meant to showcase wealth and establishment. He had even found the front door, but unlike the other doors, this one was locked. No amount of pulling, or even a vague attempt at wandless magic, could pry it open. 

He was sure he was suffocating. Harry knew it was a trap, that eventually Voldemort would come and take him to a dungeon and torture him. But he hadn’t found Harry yet, and the thoughts still nagged at him that something was off.

When Harry stumbled upon a door in what appeared to be the lowest end of the mansion, he felt sure someone was watching him. Maybe it was a house elf—maybe the house elves could help him, like Dobby did in—Dobby, Harry’s favorite house elf, had been murdered by Bellatrix in Malfoy Manor. Dobby had saved them at the cost of his own life. Harry nearly choked on the memory, but just as suddenly, Harry pulled open a door and stumbled upon a very strange scene.

There were boys, about twelve of them, all his age, it seemed, all of them dressed in white, silk robes. And they all looked so similar to Harry that Harry nearly stumbled back out of the room in shock.

Some of them were playing a card game in the corner, but at Harry’s arrival, they looked up at the sound of the door opening, but upon seeing Harry, they went back to their game as if nothing had happened.

“What’s—”

“Another one?” Someone called nearer to Harry, his black hair just as disheveled as Harry’s was, but the eyes, the nose, the mouth, were all just a little bit off from Harry’s own. It was the same throughout the group, all of them had similar features, but none of them quite matched the other.

“I guess so. You’d think he’d grow bored but—”

“Shh—! We’re not supposed to talk about—”

“Oh be quiet, Devan. It’s not like he cares what we say, anyway. So you’re new? What’s your name? My names Andrew, by the way.” One of the boy’s playing the game of cards called out to Harry, but Harry just looked back.

“M-My name is Harry—” Harry had started, but just as soon as he spoke everyone in the room was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” These boys were very rude, some of them. They laughed and laughed and the one called Andrew even started choking until his friend thumped him on the back.

“Of course you’re Harry. Everyone here is Harry... I meant your real name, silly! ”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. His mouth felt very dry. He didn’t know what he was experiencing, but more than shock and disbelief, without warning, he collapsed to the ground. He was shaking when one of the boys helped him up.

“Hey! Someone get him some water! Quick!”

Harry didn’t know what happened after that, but as he was losing consciousness, Harry was sure he was dreaming. It couldn’t be real. There couldn’t be so many people who looked exactly like him, living in a place where Voldemort resided. Yes, he was certain he was dreaming. Hopefully when he woke up, he would be back with the Order, with his friends.

Anywhere but here.

Chapter Text

But Harry didn’t wake up with his friends. He didn’t wake up with the Order, in Gryffindor tower, nor in 12 Grimmauld Place with Sirius, though his heart ached when he remembered Sirius, standing beneath the tapestry of his old home, explaining to Harry how he had been burned off the family tree.

Harry woke up on a rickety bed, in a room full of other, similar beds, reminding Harry so vividly of an orphanage that he physically jumped up and fell off the mattress.

“Hey. Are you alright now?” A boy so similar to Harry asked from the opposite side of the room. But Harry was just staring, so confused by what was happening he wasn’t sure if anything was real anymore.

“Hey. The others are still in the other room. If you want to talk… I mean—it’s not like you have to, and we don’t even know each other, but I can listen. I’m not here to judge. Hell, we’ve all been through some shit. It’s how we got here in the first place.”

“I’m not—” Harry didn’t know what to say. That he wasn’t one of…them? Whoever these people were, replicating Harry. It felt so surreal, watching someone so similar in looks to Harry speak and interact with him. It was almost too much.

Was this Voldemort’s doing? Did he do this?

Why? Was the biggest question he had in his mind, followed by an intense sickness that Harry nearly vomited.

Why would he…transform, transfigure, whatever he had done to these people, to look like Harry?

It was clear it wasn’t Polyjuice, because even the person in front of him looked slightly different. He wasn’t sure what it was, maybe his hair, maybe his eyes, but Harry was sure he didn’t look identical to him.

Suddenly, a door in the back of the room opened, and in walked a confident looking replica of himself (too tall, he realized, Harry was much smaller) followed by two others.

“Is he good now?” The tall one asked, looking over at Harry, then the other boy in the room.

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said much. I suspect he’s still in shock.”

“Well, whatever the case, get him some proper clothes. There should be some in the closet. I don’t want the new kid to be singled out so soon.”

“Right.”

“And new kid?” The tall one, perhaps he was the leader of this strange group, was looking at Harry.

“Don’t go wandering around outside. He specifically said that we are not to roam the halls. Also—I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there’s a giant snake somewhere in this manor. I know I wouldn’t want to run into that thing.”

It was like being punched in the gut. His throat was lodged somewhere in his stomach. Harry supposed he should have seen it coming. Nagini was still alive, then.

Two horcruxes left, his mind helpfully supplied.

That meant he couldn’t… die until he had killed Nagini too.

Somewhere far away, his body was moving, being led into the bathroom, with a bundle of white robes to dress into.

Harry quickly discarded Voldemort’s robe and put on the new clothes.

He didn’t yet know if it was possible, but he decided then and there that, if given the chance, he would save these people too. He didn’t know what Voldemort had done, why he had done it, but either way, Harry’s instinct to save people, especially people that had nothing to do with him yet were somehow caught up in it anyway (because of Harry, these people were probably dragged from their homes and—). He felt an immense amount of guilt at this, but it quickly washed away through all that he was experiencing, from anger, righteousness, to feeling fear for the first time against something he didn’t quite know how to handle. How Voldemort was acting different from his usual self. How he looked different too, like an older version of Tom Riddle.

What had happened? What had changed?

He didn’t know.

Inside is study, Lord Voldemort was frowning. Nagini had since settled down by the fire after a day of hunting, and as the hours ticked by, he felt certain he was forgetting something. Harry had not shown up. As disappointing as it was, he mused, he supposed he should probably go and find the boy before he got into any real trouble. He could not leave—Lord Voldemort was certain—but what was this strange feeling in his chest, that primal instinct that told him something was off, that the boy was somewhere he shouldn’t be. But Lord Voldemort had no place in the manor he shouldn’t—ah.

Without another thought, he stood and made his way down to the area he had designated for them a long time ago. He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t even embarrassed. No, the Dark Lord was merely worried that the older of his experiments would take notice of who Harry was—he did not want this. Some of those boy’s were criminals, squibs yes, but criminals, nevertheless.

Lord Voldemort scowled as he made his way down. He was certain this was where Harry was hiding.

Harry was sitting next to a boy called Adam. They were in the first room Harry had found. It had nothing in it except a few tables, some chairs, and a couch. Harry was having a surreal moment, sitting at a table where everyone looked the same, and dressed the same. He wondered how on earth these people even recognized each other.

Some of the others had introduced themselves to Harry, but he had kept his name to himself, fearful of another round of laughter, but he also didn’t want to reveal himself. He didn’t want the others to know….

Maybe this is how I can escape, Harry was thinking wildly, intrigued by the idea. It reminded him of how the entire Order had taken Polyjuice potion to look like him, flying away into the night. But then he recalled just how disastrous that had ended. And somehow, as always, Voldemort had still known who the real one was.

Adam was talking about something, but Harry wasn’t truly listening. He needed to get these people out of here, and back wherever they had come from. He needed to do something, anything, to stop…stop whatever was happening from continuing.

“Hey, are you sure you’re alright?” Adam said to him, probably because Harry was looking around the room instead of listening to him. He shook his head.

“S-Sorry…”

“No problem. As I was saying, the first day is always rough. But you get used to it. He hasn’t called for many of us in months, though we still live here.”

“I-I see…” Harry honestly didn’t know what to say. He was in a state of denial right now and couldn’t seem to move past it. How could Voldemort have done something like this?

Why, why, why…

“Hey, what was your name again?” Another boy came over, (the eyes were wrong, and his nose certainly didn’t look like that), asking the same question. Harry noticed several others in the room listening in.

When Harry didn’t immediately answer, Adam took over in his defense. Harry was suddenly grateful for the other boy’s presence.

“He’ll tell us eventually, don’t bother him so much, Merlin. I swear, you lot are so nosy.”

“Anyways…” Adam continued talking, “Just so you don’t get any ideas in your head, the Dark Lord has never taken any of us. He barely even touches us. So don’t worry, I think he just likes to look at us occasionally… like we’re this Harry person he keeps searching for.”

Suddenly, something shifted in the atmosphere of the room, and Harry knew instantly what was happening. From casual talking to outright panic. Scrambling boys stopped whatever they were doing and took up a position against the wall, their heads lowered.

Adam grabbed Harry by the hand and dragged him over to the far side of the wall and told him to keep his head down and no talking, no matter what. Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He knew Voldemort was coming for him. Harry only prayed that he wouldn’t be found.

Lord Voldemort was angry by the time he made his way into the small room where a dozen of his experiments were currently stationed against the wall. He knew he should have done away with them sooner, but at the time, he had been focused on finding Harry and did not concern himself with trivial pursuits. He frowned when he did not immediately spot Harry Potter in the crowd. Everyone was wearing the same outfit, as usual, standing, slightly stiff, waiting for his commands.

He knew Harry was here, however much the boy was trying to blend in. He could practically feel the boy’s fear and adrenaline just from walking in the room.

Very well then. He could play this game too. If Harry was pretending to be one of the squibs, Lord Voldemort decided that he would try and piece together the real one through his memory alone.

But one could only look at memories for so long before the image of the boy set in stone. The others were simply lacking compared to Harry in every way…yes, Lord Voldemort found him quite easily, stationed at the very back of the row.

“I know you are here, Harry.” He hissed in parseltongue, deciding that the others need not know what they were talking about. “I am not going to harm you.”

He could see the boy stiffen at his words and feel the terror of the other squibs in the room who did not know the ancient language. After a moment’s pause, Lord Voldemort waited for Harry to step out.

He sighed when Harry, evidently, did not reveal himself and continued to keep his head low.

“If we must…” Lord Voldemort muttered, then headed down the row to the very end. When he got there, he stopped, because in front of him was not Harry, but a different boy. Too slender, wrong angles in the face, was kneeling before him and blocking his way towards Harry.

“P-Please m-my Lord, he’s still adjusting to—!”

“Move.”

“If you would only take me—”

“I said move.” Lord Voldemort hated repeating himself. If this squib did not move in the next second, he would—!

“W-Wait! Don’t harm him!” Harry shouted, and Lord Voldemort’s attention was immediately drawn.

“Let them go! I’m here. You won. Just—let them go. They don’t have anything to do with—"

“Done.” Lord Voldemort said, he had no qualms about keeping these spare replicas when the real one was alive, in the flesh, and far more valuable.

“You—w-what?” Harry had clearly imagined a different scenario to the one he was presented with. Lord Voldemort could almost imagine the type of fight the boy was expecting. He smiled, amused.

“It will be done. They will go back to prison and be tried for their crimes, although I suspect most will be exempt in due course. I will revert them back to their original forms. Was there anything else?”

“I don’t—”

Lord Voldemort waved his wand in an intricate fashion, startling everyone in the room. At once, every single boy who was dressed like Harry reverted back to their original bodies. There was a collective gasp from the group as they took in their old features, and then Lord Voldemort called for his house-elf to take care of returning the squibs to their holding cells. Once every single boy was gone from the room, and Harry was looking increasingly confused, did Lord Voldemort speak again.

“I know from your expression that you are scared, Harry Potter. Do not be. I only request that you listen to me, and I will answer any and all of your questions. I will wait for you in my office… it is on the second floor. If you decide not to heed my request, that is fine. But know that I cannot allow you to leave right now. It is imperative that you listen. I also have some questions for you as well.”

With that, Lord Voldemort turned around and headed out of the room.

He somehow knew instinctively that Harry would follow.

Chapter Text

While Lord Voldemort awaited the presence of Harry Potter, his mind wandered to what exactly he would tell the boy-who-lived. He thought back to years, of waiting in the forest for the boy to come, only to never turn up. He thought back to when he had tortured his friends for information, and then killed them when their minds proved that they truly did not know where Harry Potter had gone. The Dark Lord could not take back what he had done. It was true. Even if he had miraculously revived Harry from a state of half-death, the boy had never fully gone over to death’s embrace due to the presence of his horcrux. He could not do the same and revive the people he had killed, the very same people he knew Harry held in high regard; cherished, loved.

He could not take back his actions. He knew Harry Potter would hate him for what he had done. And proceeded to do, in the aftermath.

Perhaps, for this reason alone, Lord Voldemort was solemn as he pointed his wand towards his head and pulled. The memories came smoothly, ghostly white as he floated the pensieve over towards his desk and put them inside.

It was, after all, the least he could do. It was also the only way to truly explain himself. Words could only provide so much, the ability to see what he had done, to hear, and feel the turbulent emotions that had wrecked him for years, was so much more powerful.

But now would come a test. If the boy would watch…until the very end.

For now, the Dark Lord could only wait.

When he arrived, Harry Potter was obviously conflicted. He opened the door slowly, and, while watching Lord Voldemort very carefully for any sudden moves, he chose a spot next to the door, leaning against the wall.

“Very well. You may stand, our talk will likely not be long, but I find it imperative that you listen very carefully to what I am about to say next.”

When Harry gave no visible reaction, the Dark Lord sighed. He may as well get straight to the point, then.

“It has been… 40 years… since the Battle of Hogwarts. You went missing somewhere around the time I had called you into the forest.”

He stopped here, waiting for a response. He did not want Harry Potter to think he was lying or trying to trap him.

Harry paled. Clearly, this was not the topic he expected.

“W-What did you say?”

“I said it has been 40 years—"

Harry was shaking, then fell to the floor and the Dark Lord stood up.

“Don’t!” Harry shouted from where he had fallen, “What do you mean? It’s not—that’s a lie! It can’t be—”

“I assure you, Harry Potter, it is real. You have not been in the world for 40 years. I alone managed to revive you. Now, if you wish to know what happened in the meantime…” he gestured to the pensive sitting on his desk.

“I have… prepared some memories for you since the time of your disappearance. You may pursue them at your leisure. I suspect you will despise me more than you already do. All I request is that you watch these memories… from the start to finish.”

Harry had tears in his eyes. Lord Voldemort did not even need to read his thoughts to know that the boy was thinking about his friends.

“I will leave you…. If you require my presence, simply call my name. Unfortunately, I still cannot allow you to leave the manor. I will also not allow you to harm yourself. The house-elves have been instructed to watch over you.”

He stood up from his desk, intending to apparate to Malfoy Manor, where he would stay for the duration. He had so much he wanted to ask him… but knew that it would have to wait until the boy was ready.  Besides, as it was, he already knew the boy had little knowledge of his own disappearance. Those questions could wait.

With one last, longing look towards Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort stepped away and apparated into the night.

Harry lay crumbled on the floor long after Voldemort had left. The house-elf had made itself known, but Harry did not care.

It was impossible. Voldemort had to be lying!

40 years could not have passed. He could not have disappeared during the final, crucial moments…. But still, Harry could not recall ever making it into the forest to die… that much, at least, was true.

And so is Voldemort’s visible change…Harry thought. Not only physically, but his mentality towards Harry, his changed demeanor, was also something that had been nagging at him since Harry had woken up.

After what felt like hours, he finally moved. He was tired, hungry, and alone. He knew he should go look for an escape…he didn’t trust Voldemort, no matter what he had said. But—

The memories lay innocently on the desk, beckoning him closer. He wanted to know what had happened to…. But he was scared. Scared of what he would find.

With one hesitant step forward, Harry looked down into the memories swirling around inside the pensive.

And in a rush of pure adrenaline, he plunged headfirst into the memory waiting for him.

The forest clearing was surrounded by Death Eaters. Voldemort stood in the center, in front of the fire, with his head bowed as though in prayer. Hagrid was tied to a tree, muffled struggles coming from him as his huge bulk protested his binds. The Death Eaters grew increasingly anxious, shuffling their feet and nervously glancing around.

Harry knew this scene. He knew it as if he had actually been there. But no. He was watching the memory of Voldemort from the hour he had given Harry to arrive in the forest. The scene where Harry should have arrived, to face Voldemort’s killing curse and end his own life.

After several moments, a Death Eater entered the clearing and kneeled in front of Voldemort.

“There’s no sign of him, My Lord.”

Still, the Dark Lord did not move. Harry was watching with increased anxiety as Voldemort tilted his head up, looking at the stars.

“I thought he would come. It seems I was…mistaken.”

After several more minutes of tension, Voldemort turned to look at the crowd, as though noticing their presence for the first time.

"It has been one hour… and Harry Potter has not shown. Whether it is cowardice, fear, or otherwise, we shall know soon enough. We shall resume the fight. Bella.”

“Yes? My Lord?”

“Seek Potter’s friends. I will deal with the boy myself.”

Harry nearly sickened at the way Bellatrix was gleaming with joy. It was almost a surreal moment as Harry watched the Death Eaters make their way back towards the castle, dark shadows walking through the woods. Voldemort, however, stayed behind, still staring into the fire.

Harry watched as minutes passed by, and still the Dark Lord stood. And just when Harry thought the memory would end, Voldemort spoke into the quietness of the night.

“Harry Potter….”

The memory shifted. The war was not over. Spells lit the night, and then Harry was suddenly standing in the Great Hall, with the Death Eaters binding the remaining forces, and Bellatrix’s wicked glee as she knelt in front of the podium where Voldemort stood.

“My Lord, I have them. The Mudblood and the Blood Traitor.”

“Very good Bella. Bring them forward.”

Harry’s breath hitched when he saw the tear-streaked eyes of Hermione and Ron being pulled into the Hall by two other Death Eaters, wands pointed at their throats.

“Where is Harry Potter?” Voldemort began, and Harry’s heart lurched when he saw the confused look on both of his friend’s faces.

“Where is Harry Potter?” Voldemort repeated, this time with little patience. He sent a sharp crucatious at Hermione, where she screamed, bound on the floor.

Harry himself was screaming, “I’m right here! Stop it!”

But Voldemort did not look over. Ron was desperately trying to get free of his binds. Then, just as suddenly, Voldemort lifted the curse, and Hermione lay still on the ground, sobbing.

“I will ask you once more. Where is Harry Potter?”

Ron visibly clicked his mouth shut, a look of resolute determination on his face. Voldemort sighed.

“Very well. If you will not tell me…” Harry was crying. His friends protected him, even when he knew they didn’t know where he actually was.

Blood started dripping out of Ron’s nose, and after a minute of staring into Voldemort’s eyes, Harry realized his mind was being torn apart.

“Stop. Stop!” Hermione shouted, but her voice was cracked. When Ron suddenly collapsed to the ground, unmoving, she slammed her eyes closed.

Harry watched, powerless to do anything, as Bellatrix grabbed hold of her hair and lifted her up. Still, Hermione kept her eyes closed, until Bellatrix’s nails dug deep into her eyelids, and she was forced to look.

“I’M RIGHT HERE! STOP IT!” Harry sobbed, tearing his hair at the scene before him.

Hermione’s body began to shake as she stared helplessly into Voldemort’s red eyes.

After a minute, Voldemort turned away, a look of disappointment apparent on his features.

“I see. They know nothing.”

Bellatrix tilted her head.

“Nothing, my Lord?”

“No. We will continue the search. Bring me more of Potter’s friends.”

As the scene dissolved, Harry was thrown back into the room, into the present, by sheer will, as with the desire to see no more. He vomited on Voldemort’s pristine rug, but he hardly cared.

So Voldemort had killed his friends. Harry had known it from the very start. From the very moment Voldemort told him that the world had gone on without him. He had known... and yet still—

After time passed, in which Harry did nothing but sob quietly on the floor, he decided, with renewed vigor, that he needed to escape. Now. Immediately.

Screw Voldemort’s other memories. He didn’t want to watch anything else….

No, Harry would escape. He had done it once before; surely, he could do it again.

As the rest of the memories lay swirling on the desk, Harry turned his back and walked out of the room.

He never once looked back.  

Chapter Text

When Harry was seven, he had tried to escape the Dursley’s by climbing over a tree in the backyard. Unfortunately, the tree didn’t agree with him, and Harry fell out of the branches… only to land perfectly on his feet without so much as a sprained ankle. Dudley had seen his unnatural fall, and Harry’s plan had been foiled when Vernon locked him in his cupboard for nearly a week. Needless to say, he didn’t try again.

Only now, as Harry struggled to find a break in the wards around Voldemort’s manor, did he consider the trees. However, it was too easy to assume he could simply climb over the garden wall and be gone. Harry had spent the last five hours going over every inch of the manor he had woken up in and found…nothing. Nothing. And if Harry purposefully chose not to go back to the office with the memories, well, that was his decision. Never mind how his thoughts strayed to the pearly white memories of Voldemort, waiting for him to watch, possibly the only chance Voldemort would ever allow…the answers to his questions, but too painful to even consider.

No, I won’t. I won’t do what Voldemort wants me to do. It’s—

Painful didn’t even begin to describe the feeling. It was a raw, burning, sick feeling in his gut that couldn’t be put into words. He wanted, so badly, to know what else had happened…but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He—

Before Harry could fully think it through, he had somehow walked back into Voldemort’s office. The memories lay still on the table, their essence nearly a compulsion as Harry stayed rooted in the doorway. He had scoured the entire manor for something, anything to help him escape. The wards seemed impenetrable, and besides that, Harry didn’t have a wand. This was the only room left.

What did Voldemort even have to share with him, anyway? Besides killing his friends?

It was strange, but before he knew what he was doing, Harry was plunging into the next memory waiting for him. Whether it was a desperate act against the desperation he felt, being trapped in a place he didn’t know, and with no escape in sight, Harry wasn’t certain.

Only the memory existed now.

It was snowing. Light snow was outside the glass windows, as Harry landed in a study very similar to the one he had just left. Nagini was cradled near the fireplace, and Voldemort sat at his desk, a pensive look on his face. A knock suddenly came at the door, and he stood.

“Enter.”

“My Lord…” The face of Lucius Malfoy always stirred something unpleasant in Harry. He watched as Malfoy bowed his head and then gave his report.

“T-There is nothing, my Lord. The entire castle—the forest—w-we have searched…everywhere. There are no traces of him, my Lord…and all spells lead us to the forest, but that is w-where we found—”

Lucius reached into his robes and pulled free the snitch and Harry’s invisibility cloak. He handed them over, in which Voldemort took them into his hands, carefully examining each item.

“N-No one saw him leave the castle, my Lord, so I s-suspect—”

“Yes. The cloak. You may leave now. If I require further assistance, I shall call for you. Continue the search.”

Voldemort barely looked at the man as Lucius left the room. Harry was startled when Voldemort’s hands clenched around the snitch and his cloak, threatening to tear them apart.

Then, in an instant, he calmed, placed them quietly within his robes, then strode over to the fireplace, where he took out his wand, and summoned some very familiar items to Harry.

The diadem, broken and mangled by the inferno. Slytherin’s locket, cracked open and stabbed with a sword. The cup, a single puncture wound from the Basilisk’s fang. He placed these items on the desk, next to the old diary of Tom Riddle, lying innocently upon the desk, a gaping hole in the center. Then he took out his wand once again and spoke in such soft tones Harry could barely hear him. Not that he understood the language, but Harry did understand what he was trying to do.

He was trying to call back the lost pieces of his soul.

Harry watched as time passed, as every spell Voldemort tried ended with the same, pathetic result: the cold items in front of him remained stationary, dull, rusted metal and now, useless, ancient artifacts that were broken and torn apart. Voldemort’s spells did not work—to which Harry was silently relieved.

Voldemort, however, was not.

When his spells failed to do anything, Voldemort turned his attention to the world around him. He tore apart his office in a wild fury, his scream so loud Harry could feel it in his very bones. The desk ripped in half. The windows shattered, the paintings tore, the books flew and lit on fire. Harry had to remember he was only in a memory when pieces of furniture threatened to smash right into him. Harry knew that this probably wasn’t the first time Voldemort had tried to recall his soul fragments back. And failed.

While Nagini had escaped the wreckage by slipping soundlessly through the door, when the violence was finally over, Voldemort was left standing there, a shadow of his former self, out of breath and worn from the destruction. And Harry thought he knew what Voldemort was possibly feeling right then. Anger. Hatred towards Harry, sure. But also loss. And Pain. Pain so raw that Harry could visibly see it on his face.

Harry had disappeared in the forest, or so Voldemort told him, but he still didn’t know why or even where he had gone during that time. And before this exact moment, of pure anger from Voldemort in the privacy of his office, Harry had not thought of the…consequences of his own disappearance.

That Voldemort would be just as lost without someone to target as Harry physically was.

The memory began to fade, but Harry’s eyes still lingered on the strange form of Voldemort, all powerful and yet broken, experiencing probably the closest thing he could feel to pain at the death of his horcruxes. Everything he prized was ruined…and ruined by Harry. And nothing, no ancient spell or ritual could bring them back to life.

Harry wanted to be happy about this moment, his own kind of revenge for the death of his friends, but for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to smile. The expression of loss, the hopelessness on Voldemort’s face was something very real to him. Harry knew the feeling, had felt it everyday, in fact.

And Harry could never wish that kind of pain upon anyone.

Not even Voldemort….

The next memory began, and the scenery changed.  Harry was no longer standing in the ruins of the office, but in the middle of a forest, with thick trees and leaves upon the ground. Voldemort was standing, in his intimidating form, seeming displeased. Harry couldn’t see what the problem was, but the man was frowning, his pale, snake-like face turned as though thinking deeply.

At a brisk pace, he began walking through the forest again. Harry had the sudden realization that this was the forbidden forest near Hogwarts, but deeper, perhaps, than Harry had ever travelled. He could not even see the castle from this deep in the woods.

Harry followed Voldemort’s form, calm only in the fact that this was a memory, and nothing, physically, could hurt him. Yet Harry was still startled when a howl rang through the woods, or when the noise of a branch cracked nearby, or some other creature could be seen lurking in the distance. For the most part, however, the wildlife in the woods kept Voldemort at a lengthy distance. And Voldemort, for the most part, ignored the threat of the woods and kept walking deeper. He never lit his wand, as though he could see clearly in the dying light. Perhaps he could, Harry thought.

All of a sudden, three arrows shot out, and Voldemort dodged them expertly, shifting to the side as the arrows landed one by one on the tree just behind him.

Harry held his breath as five large centaurs came into view. How had he not seen them, until now? But here they were, the half-horse half-men coming closer to Voldemort. But Voldemort had eyes for only one of the creatures, who was walking slowly towards him from the group. Harry recognized him immediately.

“I know why you come.” Firenze said sternly to Voldemort, “Your existence is vile to us. You are a monstrous being. Go, and never return.”

The Centaurus around Firenze all bared their bows at Voldemort. Voldemort, despite the threat, only smiled.

“I shall offer you a truce, Centaur, in return for what I seek. If you accept, your colony shall be given the entire forest as territory, and the personal assistance from Lord Voldemort from the other beasts that may infringe upon your land. I shall give you a vow… if only you cooperate.”

Harry saw the moment one of the younger centaurs looked uneasy, almost hopeful, while another lowered his bow half an inch, whispering frantically to Firenze. Harry was wishing dearly that they wouldn’t accept the truce when the others centaurs spoke.

“We cannot trust him. He would lie and steal our land—”

Another on the opposite side of Firenze said,

“He is also the wizards’ new leader now, we need—”

“Hush. I know.” Firenze muttered to the side, then, turning to Voldemort, he said in a strangely calm voice,

“I know what you are. I know what you seek. Yet I also have seen what you will become. And for that reason only, shall I accept.”

“Good. Now you will tell me where Harry Potter is, and any other useful information you have seen in your astronomy concerning his location”.

Harry stood off to the side, watching as Voldemort made a lengthy vow with Firenze for the information on his whereabouts. Harry thought Voldemort must have been desperate to come to them for information. But then, when the oath was finally finished, Firenze smiled a shameful smile, one that had a hidden meaning that only the centaurs knew. Which became apparent immediately.

“I do not know where the boy is. He has been gone from the stars for nearly a year now; we have not seen any sign of his presence, in the stars or elsewhere, since the battle.” And as Firenze and his companions laughed straight in Voldemort’s face, Harry also cracked a small smile. It seemed as though Voldemort had been tricked. Voldemort stood stonily; his entire demeanor frozen in a dangerous aura of anger.

“However,” Firenze calmed down, then said seriously, “I do know what is to come, and while the stars do not share with us all of our questions, I can only tell you where Harry Potter is not. He is not here. Either he is dead—”

“Lies!” Voldemort hissed, but Firenze went on,

“Or he is not in our world any longer. I fear for both.” He bowed his head quietly, suddenly solemn.

Voldemort looked at the centaurs in anger and silence.

“So you do not know where he is. Fine. If that is all you know, then I shall be going.”

“Vile human, you will not break your oath!” The other centaur spoke, but Voldemort had already turned away, intending to walk back through the forest.

And just when Harry thought the memory would end, Firenze spoke one last word to Voldemort.

“I will offer you some insight, against my better judgements, because you lack the basic insights a normal human has. Take it, or not. Fate does not care either way.

“There will come a time when you shall know of something more important than your own life. You will resent it, at first. You will even try to rid yourself of it. But it exists, and it shall come to you in a moment of clarity. Many years from now.”

Voldemort had stopped walking, but with his back still turned, Harry could see his expression. Anger, and yet, Harry also saw his eyes wide and full of fear.

“What do you—”

But by the time Voldemort turned around, the centaurs were already far away, running back into the wilderness.  

The memory ended, while Harry was left more confused than ever.

And as Harry tripped out of the pensive, back in Voldemort’s office, he was lost, deep in thought. What did Firenze mean? What could be more important to Voldemort than his own life?

Harry didn’t know what the centaurs meant, and that, perhaps, more than anything, left him seated in Voldemort’s study for far longer than he intended.

Chapter Text

It was a rather strange occurrence, when Draco Malfoy accepted the Dark Lord into his manor and home once more, the first time since the war so very long ago....

And, if Draco liked to conveniently forget that part in his Lord’s history, as though it had never happened, well, it was all perfectly reasonable. He wasn’t avoiding the issue as much as he was simply avoiding that uncomfortable knot in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him whenever he was reminded of his own role in the history books.

Whenever someone mentioned the war, never mind the remnants of rebels here and there over the ongoing years (which, in Draco’s mind, didn’t really count as war), Draco would go to numerous attempts to divert the topic, leave the room, or else forbid it from ever being mentioned again, especially in his own home, with his own family. His parents rarely talked about the past themselves. His wife, Astoria, knew Draco well enough to avoid the topic altogether. And his son, Scorpius, who had, at one point, been bursting with questions about what life was like before their Lord’s regime. Well, his son had since become tight lipped after seeing his father’s reaction: stiff, pale, averted eyes, and anger, so much anger.

So yes, Draco liked to avoid talking about that particular war, and was simply content to live the rest of his life in the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s victory, completing his duties as a faithful, loyal Death Eater, serving his Lord without a single thought as to what could have been.  

Except now.

Now, with the Dark Lord living so near to his family once again …well, Draco felt as though the fragility surrounding his semi-peaceful life was slowly tearing apart. And all because the Dark Lord was staying in his manor. Because, however unintentionally, his Lord was literally shoving that uncomfortable topic into Draco’s face, and now he could not avoid the past it triggered.

Memories, so many memories he had buried….

Years ago, during that time in his life, when Draco had been less sure about his position within the Dark Lord’s ranks, newly recruited as he was…when, once upon a time, Draco had even dreamed of a life without his Lord’s involvement, without the Dark Lord’s victory. It was a strange thing to contemplate, now, as he stood in the very same hall where the first celebration had taken place after the victory at Hogwarts.

His wife had left to see her own family for the duration of the Dark Lord’s stay, and with his parents in a separated section of the manor, and Scorpius safe in Hogwarts for the time being, Draco was, unhappily, the only one left in the main household besides the house-elves. And of course, his Lord.

If only… he thought, before stopping that treacherous line of thinking before it had fully formed.

If only what? Such a thought was for a different time, a different life, perhaps. Not now. Now that the war was indeed over and had been for a very long time. Yet the rebuilding of wizarding society had taken far too long, in Draco’s opinion, to produce the results his Lord had once envisioned.

It had taken time, decades even, and Draco knew firsthand of the… preoccupation his Lord had with finding his long-lost nemesis….

His father had been let out of Azkaban to head the search, while Draco himself had been lost in drinks. And he remembered the strangeness of it all too, after the war. A period of both celebration and… panic at the missing boy-who-lived. The Dark Lord’s wrath had been a terrifying thing, in those days, when no one could find the elusive Harry Potter.

Even Draco had been questioned on his whereabouts. Ruthlessly.

He wandered down the hallway, intending to sleep early, for the headache all this reminiscing had brought.

But even before he fell into a blissful sleep, Draco Malfoy had to close his eyes against the haunting vision of his former classmate, reaching out a hand, saving him from his impending death at the hands of the fiendfyre….

Harry searched the manor again. This time, he knew what he was looking for. Unfortunately, so did Voldemort because apparently it was neither in the man’s office nor anywhere else. Harry had the distinct memory of dropping it on the forest floor, just before his memory became a dark cloud of nothing.

He couldn’t remember anything beyond…going into the forest. The invisibility cloak had fallen from his shoulders, of that he was sure. He had felt it fall, but then…his memory stopped there. Whatever else had happened, though, had done the world no good. Voldemort won. And Harry had disappeared for nearly half a century.

So now he was searching for his cloak, which, according to Voldemort’s memory, was confiscated when Harry failed to show up to die. Which meant Voldemort had it. Only now he didn’t. Unless it was with the man himself, still hidden in the depths of his cloak.

There was also the question of the ring horcrux. The deathly hallow. Harry had opened the snitch, of that he was sure, to see his family once again before he inevitably died. He couldn’t remember beyond that point, though, and the thought was pure madness.

He started to pace. He was outside once again, walking beside the garden, trying to find a way to escape before Voldemort came back. The walls surrounding the manor were an illusion; the wards, however, were real.

As he thought of the hallows, his heart started to race. The missing ring. His cloak. The Elder wand in Voldemort’s possession.

Does Voldemort know? Does he know about the hallows?

It was true that Voldemort had chased after the Elder wand, but in Harry’s memory, he had only done so to combat the connection between their wands. He didn’t…believe in….

But does he now? Was Voldemort the new Master of Death? Does he have all three?

Impossible…Harry thought, even though he was desperately searching for an answer other than the obvious one. Voldemort’s new appearance. The man’s strange demeanor. The missing items.

Hermione had always been convinced that connecting the hallows did not actually do anything. Hermione… always the skeptical one, while Harry had run off with the idea once he had figured out that his cloak was a hallow. Add to the fact that Dumbledore had wanted Harry to learn of their existence… but did connecting all three items grant the user power over death? He didn’t know.

As he thought of this, the air around him grew frigid. The leaves fell to the ground, and a cool frost was licking at the grass. But Harry wasn’t cold. Not in the slightest.

Wasn’t it like this when I woke up…?

He remembered the cold air around him which had turned the entire room into a sheet of ice. He wondered at that, now, as the garden slowly started to freeze too. The crackling of ice, the frozen earth beneath him. Still, he wasn’t cold.

A shadow between the trees moved, which set Harry scrambling away from the treeline of the garden. Voldemort? He fumbled for a wand before realizing he didn’t have one. He fell backwards, slipping on the ice. The shadow laughed, but only momentarily. A voice blossomed in his mind, at once everywhere and nowhere, around him, and yet from deep within.

“Master…”

As the shadow moved closer, Harry’s heart nearly stopped. His hands curled in the grass—a stone was there, and Harry grabbed it without thinking. He was about to throw it at the thing when he noticed the engraving—the deathly hallow—but how?

“Master… call and I shall come. My gifts are yours…”

As Death strode forward, an ungodly shadow against the sun, Harry felt lightheaded and surreal. Death knelt in front of Harry and said, again that voice,

“I am always near, always waiting. You do not remember, but that is fine. I shall await the day you return to me.”

“W-What are you—”

“He who flees from Death…know that he has no power over you, Master. Call and I shall come. My gifts are yours….”

The grass started to thaw, then, and the great shadow looming over Harry was gone at once, melting into the setting sun with those strange, parting words.

He was stunned silent, shocked to the core. Death’s gifts…the deathly hallows…were his?

And if Harry’s heart skipped a beat, with the hallow still in his hand, he didn’t show it. He clambered to his feet, ignoring how his heart was still pounding after that strange meeting with Death. In a turn of impulsive rashness, twisted the stone in his hand three times over.

He closed his eyes, even when he heard the shuffling of feet around him.

He knew it had worked. How desperately he wanted to see them. He didn’t realize how much until the stone was in his hands once again.

Harry opened his eyes. Perhaps it was the sight of them, pale, but there all the same, that brought tears to his eyes. Perhaps it was the fact that they were there at all, irrevocably, unquestionably dead, that made him realize the truth of Voldemort’s memories. Seeing the memory had been one thing…but seeing another kind of proof, his friend’s spirits in front of him….

“Ron. Hermione.” Harry said softly.

“Hey Harry,” Ron said, giving him a small wave.

Hermione was giving him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry” Harry whispered to them, needing them to hear it. He was sorry. Sorry he had failed—sorry he had disappeared, sorry he had—

“It’s not your fault Harry. Don’t ever think it.” Hermione said solemnly but sternly.

“Yeah mate. Not your fault.” Ron said too, giving Harry a comforting smile.

And Harry stayed there the rest of the night, in the presence of his friends. They were less talkative in death, but he didn’t mind.

Just seeing them again brought a kind of life back to Harry, something he hadn’t realized he was missing in the first place.

Harry nodded off to sleep, leaning against a tree, with the spirits of Ron and Hermione sitting down beside him.

And so another day passed before Harry would even think of returning to the memories. Instead, he spent the time talking and laughing with the spirits of the dead, his friends, family, even Severus Snape had come too, nodding at him in silence.

Harry did not ask too much about death, and what happened after. But soon, far too soon, Harry knew it was time to say goodbye, or else his family and friends would suffer from being in the world of the living for too long. He didn’t know how he knew it, but it was the looks, the expressions on their faces, the longer they stayed by his side. It was with a heavy heart when Harry dropped the ring into his pocket, letting them go once more, back into the void of death.

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live…. Dumbledore had once told him, so very long ago, after staring into the mirror of Erised.

Harry had not spoken to Dumbledore through the ring. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t know what his old professor would tell him. And it was that thought entirely that brought him to a standstill, staring back into the memories floating in the pensieve.

Harry wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with. And if that meant viewing Voldemort’s damnable memories, then so be it.

And so Harry dipped his head into another set of memories.

He didn’t know what he would find there, but at least it was a start to understanding what had happened to the world since his disappearance.  

When Voldemort eventually came back…Harry would be ready for him.

Harry couldn’t have known, just then, the madness of Voldemort’s memories…or the way they would make him feel, as though he was slowly unravelling a long and winding thread, and at the very end, he would find something so damning and insane… that it was impossible to comprehend….

Chapter Text

          When Harry stepped into the next memory, he realized with a start that he was standing in a large gathering room, with Death Eaters all around. Voldemort was at the head of the table, the fire burning behind him and casting an eerie glow to the scene.

          “Any news, Lucius?” Voldemort spoke to the man currently sitting near the end of the table. Lucius, Harry noted, looked visibly sick. He was pale, his hair was lank and thin, and his eyes were red rimmed from tiredness and stress.

          “N-No leads, my Lord. Our sources are currently scouting the…the forest for any traces of—dark magic, dark rituals, or anything unusual. We haven’t—”

          “I see.” Voldemort cut across him, clearly disinterested now that there was no new leads to go upon. Then, “Does Potter strike you as particularly interested in dark magic, Lucius?” the man tilted his head, waiting for an answer. Harry thought that Voldemort looked genuinely interested in the question, though that could all be false.

          “N-No my Lord but we wanted to be s-sure and cover all p-possibilities…”

          “No, he does not strike me either as resorting to dark magic simply to escape my grasp. But one cannot say for certain…now, especially.” He trailed off into thought, and Harry noticed that several of his inner circle were clearly uncomfortable.

          “If I may speak, my Lord?” Bellatrix asked, casually from her place next to the man.

          Voldemort gestured for her to continue, and she smiled. Harry felt visibly sick just from the sight of her.

          “While Potter may elude us, I purpose to head the search party…I promise you, My Lord, I will bring him to his knees for you…” She looked at the man with watery, love-sick eyes.

          They shared a look, one in which Harry rather thought Voldemort was sneering at her display of emotion, before carefully wiping his expression blank.

          “Very well. Lucius, you are no longer required to search for Potter. Bella will be leading in your place. Do not disappoint me.” He added, and Bellatrix nodded her head, her eyes full of worship.

          “Never.” she whispered.

           The memory shifted, and this time, Harry found himself back with Voldemort, alone in the office. Harry didn’t know how much time had passed since the last memory, but then Voldemort pulled something out of his pocket—the snitch. He examined it carefully, his expression thoughtful, and Harry knew he was reading the lines written on it.

          Without warning, his magic lashed out, causing several books to explode and a chair to rip itself apart. Voldemort was snarling at the snitch clutched in his hand, its wings fluttering helplessly against him, and Harry knew why—because even Harry himself had been frustrated not knowing what the words meant. It was only after watching Snape’s memories that Harry knew what Dumbledore meant by the words, what he ultimately expected—and the very thing Harry had failed to do.

          But Voldemort did not know this, and so the words were obviously very taxing on his mind.

          He slowly put the snitch away, back in his pocket.  

          Then the man was up and pacing before a portrait on the wall—Harry only noticed it now, but it was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin.

          “My heir, I know you are frustrated. But the boy is likely d—”

          “Lies. Lies! He is not—he cannot be—”

          “You must continue with your goals. Cease this irrelevant pursual. It has been over five years now.”

          Voldemort snarled again, and his magic ripped through the room like a violent tornado. If Harry were physically present, he would have blown over by the sheer force of it.

          “You are paranoid, my heir.” Salazar hissed, displeased by the disruption of magic, “But there is nothing to be paranoid for. The boy is gone. There is nothing more to be done.”

          “Then what of the snitch? The boy’s cloak? Wizards do not just disappear, Salazar. There is always a trace.”

          “I suppose.” The portrait consented, then, “But is it wise to lose track of your goals, in favor of chasing after a phantom? Your followers are worried, my heir. They worry you are losing sight of your original vision—”

          “Let them worry. Lord Voldemort does not care.” Voldemort sneered into the glowing fire, “I only want the boy, Salazar. Is that too much to ask?”

          Salazar sighed through his frame, “No, it is not. Do what you will, then. Pursue your memories, find your leads, is it no business of mine.”

          “Tsk.” Voldemort turned his back on the frame, but not before Harry saw a look of understanding, of a dawning insight, and for a moment, Harry was worried as to what it could mean.

          “Memories. Of course.” Voldemort whispered. Harry saw him change direction towards the cabinet, that was, miraculously, still standing.

          He opened it and pulled from its depths a silver basin—Harry knew what it was. He had, after all, spent a lot of time in Dumbledore’s office with one. A pensieve. 

          “What are you doing?” the portrait asked, curious now that Voldemort appeared to be active, instead of rampaging around his office.

          “I am going to gather memories. Of the boy. I am missing something vital, concerning Harry Potter. I know it. I will reconstruct everything there is to know. Lord Voldemort will leave no stone unturned.”

          Salazar looked pained for a moment, before smoothing over his features.

          “Very well. It is a plan, at the very least. I can not fault you for that. Though may I suggest something?”

          “What.” Voldemort barely looked over at the portrait, Harry could see, as he was fully immersed in writing something down on a parchment.

          “If you do not find what you are looking for, whatever that may be, then remember my previous advice, my heir, before your obsession grows into something insatiable. There is no point in pursuing something that isn’t there.”

          Voldemort made no move, as though he was truly ignoring the portrait now. Only Harry could see the tenseness around his eyes, and the harsh lines of his quill that crept steadily across the paper.

          The room was quiet, then, except for the sound of Voldemort’s quill scratching.

          Harry wondered what he was writing, before the man spoke.

          “Send word through the portraits of the manor to my followers… that Lord Voldemort is gathering memories of Harry Potter. Anything of value. I will send this missive out for tomorrow morning, and it shall be spread across the Daily Prophet. Soon, I shall have an abundance of memories for my perusal.”

          When Salazar’s portrait left the frame, Voldemort once more took out the snitch, glancing over at the frame.

          “I will burn you yet.” He promised the empty portrait.

          “And I shall find you, Harry Potter. And when I do….”

          He left the sentence unfinished, and Harry shuddered against an unforeseen wind.

          The next few recollections left Harry feeling raw. He saw how Voldemort collected memories of him. He saw him torture Draco Malfoy for many. He saw Voldemort rip through minds, taking the pearly white memories, and then storing them in carefully labelled vials, to which he tucked into his pocket. Evidently, though, Voldemort was left searching far and wide, for years it seemed, and from people Harry didn’t even know—and he knew why. Because Voldemort had killed his friends, and the man didn’t have many people left who could even provide memories of Harry.

           The thought made him sick.

          But Harry took breaks. He left the memories to eat, to cry, to curse Voldemort again and again. He was left alone, but Harry knew he didn’t have much time left before Voldemort would return.

          The next set of memories Harry watched had him feeling slightly dizzy, confused by the implications. He was basically watching a memory of a memory, of Voldemort watching Harry’s memories and Harry, in turn, watching his.

          He saw his own sorting, only this time, Voldemort was kneeling in front of himself on the stool, listening to his silent plea not to be put into Slytherin.

           Harry saw the shock written on Voldemort’s face, as his memory self left the stool and walked straight through Voldemort. The man’s eyes trailed after him, and Harry saw the look of confusion on his face before the memory vanished into the next.

          “I think he’s brilliant” Harry had said to Malfoy, their first real meeting in Madam Malkin’s. Harry watched the conversation, his eyes on Voldemort as the man watched too. It was almost humiliating, that the man was watching this very…awkward moment. But Harry could see the frown in his eyes, the way the man was watching Harry with confusion in his eyes. He could see the moment when Voldemort saw through Harry’s own façade of wizarding knowledge, though Malfoy had never picked up on it.

          When Hagrid showed up in the window had Harry smiling unconsciously. He remembered the scene well. Draco Malfoy had been utterly scandalized that he was on speaking terms with the Grounds Keeper of Hogwarts. Harry half expected Voldemort to sneer like Malfoy, but Harry caught him looking at younger Harry instead, as though Harry’s words had surprised him.

          But then the memory faded, and they moved onto the next.

          Harry knew Hagrid was dead even before he saw the memory. Still, he wept for a long time afterwards. It was with great trepidation that Harry ventured into the next memory of memory, with Voldemort gliding along, Hagrid rowing the boat, and the look of utter confusion on Voldemort’s face, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

          Harry saw himself, so tiny, hugging a thin blanket as Hagrid stomped through the door. Harry smiled, then, because he would forever remember this memory as something special. The first time he was told he was special, and not a freak.

          Harry was silently reeling that Voldemort was exposing his most vulnerable secrets, not only of the Dursley’s treatment of him, but of special moments that Harry prized as his. And Voldemort didn’t have the right to—

          There was anger on Voldemort’s face. Harry had seen it flash as he sneered down at the Dursley family. The man seemed outright appalled that Harry had not even known of his parents’ death as anything other than a car accident, his face crumpling into pure anger over Harry’s evidenced lack of knowledge.  

          Harry was honestly surprised. Was it anger for Harry? Although, maybe he was remembering his own childhood as Tom Riddle, too. Harry had seen, in Dumbledore’s pensieve, how Tom Riddle had not known anything of the wizarding world either before Dumbledore came to visit him.

          As the memory came to an end, Harry was left watching Voldemort’s face.

          Maybe he was wrong, but Harry rather thought Voldemort looked preoccupied with something, his face contorting even as the memory dissolved, and they moved into another sequence of memories.

          Maybe he was wrong, but Harry suddenly had a terrible feeling of what he would witness next.

Chapter Text

          The Dursley’s were never warm to Harry. Never kind. And still Harry did not wish for their deaths. But he knew Voldemort had gone after them for their memories—and the thought didn’t sit well with him. Thankfully, or not, Voldemort did not show him exactly what happened to his family. And he also did not reshow Harry his own childhood abuse, though he knew Voldemort had seen possibly everything imaginable.

          It was embarrassing. It was infuriating. But it was also silently revealing, in a way that only Harry and Voldemort could possibly understand. And so, when he stepped into the next memory, Harry followed behind with a small amount of detachment.

          It was the memory of the zoo.

          He followed behind Voldemort as he followed behind his younger self. There was curiosity, anger, and something else written over Voldemort’s face. He couldn’t quite tell what it was.

          Voldemort stopped whenever his younger self stopped to observe the animals. Harry watched as the Dursleys left him behind on numerous occasions, the pain still stinging even after all these years. The way his relatives had been forced into buying him a lemon candy had been one of the best moments of the trip. The resulting chaos, however, and his month long stay in the cupboard had not been particularly pleasant.

          He watched them enter the reptile exhibit and followed behind. As Voldemort turned to sneer at his uncle and cousin for knocking violently on the glass of the boa, the narrowing of his eyes told Harry he wished nothing but murder upon them.

          Harry saw the moment when the memory changed into something else. Voldemort had clearly stepped into this memory not knowing what to expect. So, when the man’s head snapped around, hearing Harry whisper in parseltongue and the aftermath of accidental magic, Harry knew it had fundamentally changed something in the man. Fear? Astonishment, perhaps?

          So, he didn’t know.

          Interesting, though Harry was entirely unsurprised. The man was narcissistic, and probably thought he was the only one capable of speaking the language.

          As the memory continued, with people running in every direction to escape the loose serpent, Harry could only stare at Voldemort’s face. Stunned, shocked, and a look of pure fascination that left him mildly disturbed.  Then the scene vanished, and Harry was jarringly pulled into the next awaiting memory.

          Harry shouldn’t have been surprised as Voldemort once again raged across his office, searching for memories that he, apparently, did not have. Salazar had left the portrait for the majority of the destruction, and when he returned, it was to find Voldemort in a state of pure agitation as he paced his office.

          “It is impossible. Surely not? It can’t be—” Voldemort was saying.

          Harry simply stood to the side and watched him pace around the room. After all, this was nothing new to Harry. He had seen him several times in these memories, alone in his office, destroying his precious books and parchment as he was desperate for answers he did not have.

          “What ails you now, my heir?” Salazar hissed once Voldemort had seemingly calmed down enough.

          “The boy is a parselmouth. He should not be.”

          Harry watched as the portrait lifted an elegant brow in surprise.

          “Are you sure? Is he—”

          “No. He is not related to the Slytherin line. It makes no sense. It is impossible.”

          “If it were impossible, my heir, then it would not be so.”

          Harry smirked as Voldemort’s face narrowed dangerously at the portrait. They clearly did not get along sometimes. Then, realizing the man’s volatile expression, Salazar calmly explained his ideas.

          “If his boy is as famous as you claim, then perhaps your followers knew of this ability too?”

          “That, my friend, is even more impossible.” Voldemort sneered, “Surely someone would have told Lord Voldemort if the boy was speaking to snakes. It—”

           Voldemort paused, as if remembering some trivial detail of the past. He frowned, thinking about something unknown to Harry. Without lingering, Voldemort pressed his finger to the tattoo on his arm, summoning someone to his office. 

          A knock followed minutes later, and Harry was unsurprised, once again, to see Lucius waiting. Harry had a feeling of what was going to transpire. However, Harry had little to no sympathy for Lucius Malfoy. The man had hurt him far too much for that.

          “My L-Lord, you called for me?”

          Seeing the man, who looked pale but a little healthier than the last memory, Harry watched as the man knelt down, his head bowed as he stumbled over his words.

          “Yes. Lucius. Recall for me…what was the story of my diary again? Potter’s second year, I believe. Recall what you told me. I need to hear it once more.”

          Any blood in Lucius’s face quickly fled the moment Voldemort told him to remember the events of the diary. But still, the man continued, sinking, if possible, even lower to the floor.

          “F-Forgive me, m-my Lord, I recall telling you of how I g-gave your diary to Ginevra Weasley, to frame the W-Weasley family… and she—she lost it, only for Potter to find it himself. Potter, from the stories that were told…destroyed your d-diary himself. Forgive me…that is…all I can recall from the boy’s second year.”

          Harry watched as Voldemort hummed, twirling his wand through his fingers.

          “Yes. I remember now. And what of Draco, Lucius? Does he recall anything…significant of that year?”

          Lucius dared to look up at the mention of his son.

          “Not that I am…aware, my Lord…”

          “Hm. I have, Lucius, some important revelations regarding Potter that I need for you to confirm. You see, I have recently investigated a memory of Potter, one in which revealed to me that Potter could speak to snakes. I find myself both fascinated and confused by this revelation—I wish to know the cause of such a thing—what is it?” Voldemort paused, evidently noticing the dawning look of recognition on Lucius’s face.

          “A-are you referring to Potter’s p-parselmouth abilities, my Lord? I-I thought…the papers were not very kind to the revelation…m-my Lord—!”

          Harry visibly winced at the sharp crucio sent Lucius’s way. The man convulsed for over a minute before Voldemort released him. Then Voldemort was looking into the man’s mind—Harry could tell from the way his nose bled—before releasing him.

          And there was anger in Voldemort’s eyes at the abrupt revelation. The portrait was correct. Everyone, even Voldemort’s most loyal followers, had known of Harry’s ability to talk to snakes. And not one, it seemed, had ever informed their Lord.

          Harry merely watched as Voldemort screamed in anger.

          “Get out! Now.”

          Lucius did not need to be told twice. Hastening to the door, he slipped out into the hallway and closed the door.

          Voldemort was sneering at the portrait on the wall, who had a smug look of knowing on his face. Harry watched as the two exchanged heated looks from across the room. Then Voldemort turned away.

          Salazar huffed out a breath, resuming to sit back in his chair and the moment passed.

          The next set of memories led Harry to revisiting his second year at Hogwarts. Though this time, the memories were jarring and fragmented. It seemed as though Voldemort did not have a lot of memories to work with. Sometimes, the most Voldemort could get was Harry and his friends passing in the hallways, whispering words that Voldemort could not hear.

          And Harry could tell that Voldemort was desperate for answers. Answers he obviously did not have.

          When it came to Harry and Draco’s duel from second year, the memory was crisp and startlingly clear. Harry remembered that day well, and the…fear, anger, he had received for it afterwards.

          Voldemort was right behind Harry’s younger self, watching the moment intently. He almost…Harry couldn’t be sure, but he looked intrigued. As if there was nothing more interesting in the world than a duel between two second-year students.

          As Harry and Draco exchanged bows, the memory played on. Harry was busy watching Voldemort to see how he would react to another display of Parseltongue.

          “Serpensortia!” Draco yelled, and the snake burst forth form his wand.

          And Harry remembered this moment well enough. He hadn’t been scared, like Draco assumed he would be. No, Harry had instead been confused by spell. Harry now guessed this was because he could speak Parseltongue. The snake wouldn’t harm him if he could simply speak to it.

          Harry looked up to see Voldemort’s reaction. There was something strange on his face, looking on as the younger Harry moved slowly towards the snake.

          Harry would almost call the expression…fond, even understanding. But that was absurd. In no way would Voldemort feel that way for Harry Potter, his prophesized nemesis. He couldn’t—

          But Voldemort was smiling now, smirking, oh so very softly, as his younger self spoke to the snake. Snape vanished the creature, but not before the shift in the crowd had changed considerably. It was difficult for Harry to remember just how much fear he had received for this ability, but now, watching the memory again, he recalled just how that felt.

          To have everyone turn on you for something you couldn’t even control... for a talent he had practically been born with….

          Voldemort was narrowing his eyes at the crowd, but that look of strangeness appeared one last time before the memory changed, and the background faded to black.

          Voldemort was looking confused as Harry sat in Dumbledore’s office, the sword and the damaged diary sitting on the table. Lucius entered the office, as Harry watched the memory unfold. He watched himself free Dobby, which put a fond smile on Harry’s face, but that was it. It seemed Voldemort did not have any memory of the Chamber, or what had transpired in it. That was good. If he had—well, Harry didn’t want to know what his reaction would be.

          Evidently, though, it was not to be. The memory changed, and Voldemort descended into the Chamber of Secrets alone. This time was solely a memory of Voldemort’s, as the man was likely travelling down to see what had happened, exactly, to his basilisk.

          Harry winced slightly at the look on Voldemort’s face. It was pure, unbridled shock. His eyes were comically wide at the sight of his basilisk, dead on the floor. He walked up slowly to the corpse, hand outstretched…hesitating, before reaching over to touch the large wound on the back of its head. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.

          “Impossible. It is not real. He could not have—”

          Harry watched as Voldemort fled the scene in a whirl of dark robes, the memory changing just as abruptly as he did. The man was back in his office, breathing heavily over the desk, his eyes still wide and unseeing.

          “What is it now. How many times will you destroy your office before you realize the fruitlessness of your efforts?” Salazar’s voice dripped with contempt in English, likely as an insult.

           Voldemort didn’t even seem to notice. He was still leaning over the chair of his desk, muttering about impossibilities and wasted potential. Harry watched this all silently. He didn’t know what to think.

          Then Voldemort was shaking. His hands trembled on the desk. Harry was wondering why, before he realized in a startling comprehension. Voldemort was shaking in… fear. He was afraid. Of Harry. Of the twelve-year-old Harry, that is, who had defeated a basilisk with nothing but a sword.

          “So powerful.” Voldemort whispered, “I could have been—”

          The switch was startling. One moment, Voldemort was fearful of Harry’s very being. The next, he was striding around his office, assuring himself of his own powerfulness, and how a mere boy could never have defeated him. It sounded weak, even to Harry’s ears.

          “I need more, Salazar. It is more imperative than ever.”

          “More what?” the portrait was clearly irritated.

          “Memories….” Voldemort whispered to the room.

          It was a dark promise, one filled with so much obsession that Harry shivered against an invisible wind.

          Voldemort was changing, Harry could tell, impossible as it was. But what kind of change was happening?

          He wouldn’t know until much later…but the memories took a distinct turn from that moment on.

Chapter Text

After Voldemort’s promise to look for more memories, Harry didn’t know what he was expecting. More memories of himself, more talking with the portrait. Instead, Harry was facing an odd scene.  

Voldemort was standing on a balcony, leaning against the wall and looking out into the dark garden surrounding the manor. It was such a quiet contemplation, Harry wondered what he was thinking of.

He shook himself.

It doesn’t matter what he’s thinking. He’s still a monster.

Harry did not know when his physical appearance would change. The Voldemort of the present had undeniably changed his appearance back to an older Tom Riddle. In these memories, however, Harry was still facing the monster. He was still a nightmare to behold.

Yet behold him he did. Harry did not once turn away.

From his pockets, Voldemort took something out, holding it between his fingers. The golden snitch was catching on the moonlight as Voldemort twirled it around, the wings slightly bent and broken.

Harry wondered why the man even kept it. After the last memory of the snitch, it was clear the item was very frustrating to him. And besides, it was practically useless without the stone. But then again, Voldemort did not know what it contained, nor what the words meant. Possibly still did not know, although Harry couldn’t be sure.

The night sky burned above him, but Voldemort’s eyes stayed on the snitch in his hand.

Suddenly, he let it go, and it leapt shakily into the air around him, flying just beyond his reach. He let it fly in the air around him, idly observing its patterns. Then, just as suddenly, he caught it again with razor sharp accuracy. His hand tightened around the snitch, before, coolly, Voldemort let it go once more.

The man repeated this several more times before he put the snitch back into his cloak. He frowned, his eyes shifting to the side as he deliberated something, and then, in a swirl of black, he apparated away, Harry going along with him.

When Harry reappeared, it was to the sight of a wintery ball, snow falling gently from the ceiling and hundreds of death eaters celebrating below.

“My Lord!” Several younger women gasped at their Lord’s sudden appearance, though Voldemort looked merely bored with the proceedings.

“My Lord,” Lucius Malfoy emerged from the crowd, bowing low before Voldemort’s feet. Harry wondered how much time had passed, for the man looked slightly older, healthier for his age, than he did when Harry had last viewed him in Voldemort’s office. However, the man still trembled when kneeling before his Lord.

“These celebrations are in your honour, my Lord. I c-called to—to implore you …stay the evening, at the very least. It would be more than enough to appease the foreign Ministries, t-to assure them of your continued… involvement. T-There are rumours, my Lord, that you are…distracted—”

“Enough.” Voldemort snarled, his eyes flashing red, “I do not care for mere rumours, Lucius. I will deal with the foreign dignitaries later. I am spending my evening alone, upstairs. Do not disturb me again.”

And with that small, unveiled threat, he swept out of the room without a backwards glance. Lucius looked upset, if only because Harry knew that he would now have to deal with the foreign lords and ladies and answer their questions as to why their Lord wasn’t celebrating downstairs too. Harry felt perplexed by the entire scene. He knew what Voldemort was evidently ‘distracted’ by… but it still made Harry feel strange and… more than a little curious.

Voldemort was neglecting his role as a leader, in order to view memories of—Harry? He… didn’t know how to feel about that. Was Voldemort so disimpassioned about his victory in the war, yet so consumed by Harry’s disappearance, that he was abandoning his own cause and future? As far as Harry had known Voldemort, the man was fanatic about his beliefs, no matter how twisted they actually were. Yet Harry also knew the man was…obsessive… when he didn’t understand something. Perhaps that was it. His obsessive nature to find Harry was overshadowing his duties to the wizarding world.  

Harry could still hear the music and laughter as he followed Voldemort up the stairs, into a different, more secluded part of the manor. Harry realized belatedly that they were in Malfoy Manor, if all the blonde-haired portraits on the walls were any indication.

He watched as Voldemort walked into a sizable office room, likely Lucius’s own, and pulled out a memory from his pocket. He cast his eyes around for a pensieve, unlocking the cabinet in the far corner to bring it out.

Voldemort levitated the circular bowl to the top of the desk, pouring the memory inside it very carefully. Then he dipped his head, and Harry felt weirdly disorientated as he was pulled so very visually into the memory of a memory.

Harry was now in the Great Hall. It seemed so surreal to see Voldemort himself standing there amongst the hundreds of innocent students piled inside. However, Harry knew this scene. It was from his third year. Sirius had broken into the Gryffindor common room in an attempt to kill Peter Pettigrew, and now the entire school was locked inside the Great Hall to sleep. Harry looked around, curious to see so many familiar faces sleeping in the night—and so young too. His face was wet before he even knew he was crying.

But what did Voldemort want with such a memory? Was he viewing this scene purely to grasp what had happened in Harry’s third year, or was there more to it?

Harry found himself before Voldemort did. He knew the man was looking for him in the sea of students sleeping on the floor. Harry ignored Voldemort for a moment as he focused on his friends.

He walked over to Hermione, Ron, and himself sleeping near the wall. Ron was snoring. Hermione was struggling to get comfortable on the floor. He saw Neville nearby too, and even Seamus and Dean near the rest of Gryffindor house. He looked down at himself sleeping. Only…Harry wasn’t exactly sleeping. He did not remember this. It was strange… to watch something he had no memory of. Harry was looking up at the ceiling; he saw his eyes light up beyond his glasses, looking at the starry night sky above.

He heard more than saw Voldemort’s soft exhale, as he finally reached Harry’s sleeping form. Harry saw his usually stern expression change, only just, to something a little softer and—

No. That can’t be right.

Still, Harry watched as Voldemort kneeled down to his younger self, staring, openly transfixed at the boy with the lightning shaped scar. He must have thought Harry was sleeping too—for his expression turned surprised to find Harry still awake in the dark. Voldemort looked up briefly to see what Harry was staring at, before looking back down again. The moment was striking to Harry, who was still watching with anxiety at…whatever was happening. It seemed different, to how Voldemort typically approached the memories. He was usually in search of something. Some key piece of knowledge to Harry’s whereabouts. This seemed more…personal, and the reality was jarring.

“So many protections…Harry Potter… and…all to keep you safe…” Voldemort whispered, so softly Harry almost did not hear.

He stayed like that for a minute more, as if memorizing Harry’s features. And when Voldemort finally rose to his feet, Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest. He knew only vaguely why. It was such a strange moment, for Voldemort to even be viewing this memory. It was practically useless. It did not tell him of Harry’s location, hold any clues, nor did it reveal anything more about his years at school. It was simply a memory of… Harry. And that was it.

He didn’t know why, but he felt…exposed…when the memory finally faded to black, and Voldemort along with it.  

As Voldemort watched Harry’s third year at Hogwarts, Harry also watched Voldemort’s expressions and mannerisms change. He saw himself fall from high above the quidditch pitch through the eyes of another student. He saw Voldemort clench his hands into fists, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as Harry was saved at the very last moment.

Although Voldemort was relentless in his pursuit of memories—the man likely had thousands hidden away—Harry also knew he didn’t have much to work with. Harry saw the entire year unfold from various different perspectives. From students, to professors, some of it was new even to Harry, and he had lived it. 

Oddly, he saw the moment he had faced off against a hundred or more dementors—the act of saving Sirius summoning his first true patronus. His brilliant stag raced across the lake as it deflected every single Dementor in the area. It was breathtaking to watch. He didn’t know who had seen him, or how this memory was even obtained…but there it was… and even Voldemort looked impressed at the display of pure magic.  

Voldemort looked in awe of Harry’s younger self, as though he couldn’t quite… believe his eyes…..

Harry saw Voldemort watch everything imaginable. He also knew the man had put together a number of different facts about the year itself from mere memories alone—for instance, Hermione’s time-turner around her neck, saving Buckbeak, to Sirius’s escape from the Dementor’s kiss. Harry also saw the way Voldemort was watching Harry’s every move in those moments, as though he was trying to decipher some puzzle, one he had no grasp of. He frequently walked around in the memories too, as if to see what was happening at a closer angle.

But when it was time for Harry’s younger self to go back to the Dursley’s, Harry watched as his memory waved sadly to his friends, before turning around to face his relatives. Harry remembered…how it had felt. He had just found out he had a godfather. A godfather he had known for a very short amount of time, who had also offered him a place to stay, if only for a moment. It had been taken away just as fast. Harry had been told he needed to go back to his relatives for the summer regardless…the very same relatives who mistreated him his entire life.

Voldemort watched the scene with a strange expression on his face, his red eyes looking down as Harry’s memory quietly picked up his trunk to follow his uncle to the car.

And Harry almost thought that, maybe, the man understood him. Understood how lonely it was to live in a place without magic. Even for a summer.

Tom Riddle would have understood. Harry knew that to be true, at least.

As the memory faded once again, Harry was left staring into the red eyes of a man who had turned into a monster. But a monster who, perhaps, also understood what it was like to leave the magical world behind every summer. To live in a place that was entirely uncaring, unloving, unfeeling.

The memory ended, and when Voldemort emerged from his pensieve, he saw down in his chair and, for once, he did not immediately dive into the next memory. Instead, he sat there, for more than a few minutes, in a quiet, solemn mood.

He did not speak. He did not have to.

Harry understood that too.

Chapter Text

The next set of memories were both awkward and painful. Harry’s fourth year, after all, had not been a particularly happy year. Not with the tournament. Not with Moody. And especially not with Voldemort returning to his body in a ritual from Harry’s own blood.

No, Harry hated his fourth year at Hogwarts. Even just knowing how the man had orchestrated the entire set of events, from Barty Crouch Jr. disguised as his Defense teacher, to putting Harry’s name in the goblet and setting everyone against him, angered him greatly.  

Still. Harry watched as Voldemort descended into the memories of the tournament. He wanted to see the man’s reaction. He wanted to see if he felt anything at all. Not that it mattered, but Harry wanted to see if Voldemort would feel anything for all the suffering Harry had been put through that year.

He was not expecting any promising results. Even through all the memories he had seen thus far, wherein Voldemort appeared solemn or angry on his behalf, Harry somehow doubted the man would feel anything when suffering by Voldemort’s own hand.

But still. It was almost as if the man was trying to…actually understand Harry’s life…in a way no one had ever attempted to before.

The thought was insane. It was insane.

And yet when Harry dived into the memories of the Triwizard tournament… the idea stayed with him, even despite his own misgivings….

He stood in the stands, watching his own display against the dragon from afar. Harry had never seen this point-of-view before, and he couldn’t help himself. He was curious.

Harry always felt he had simply fumbled his way through the entire tournament, a tournament meant for those much older than he was, and he mentally cringed at what he was about to see.

Voldemort, however, looked thoughtful beside him. He was staring down at Harry’s entrance to the dragon, looking intrigued despite himself, as though he too were a spectator and did not know what was going to happen.

Although, Harry supposed, perhaps he didn’t. Harry didn’t know the exact details—if Voldemort knew what trials Harry had done, or how he had done them. Judging by his expression alone, this trial, at least, was a first for the man.

Harry had, as usual, been given the worst dragon out of the bunch. It was the fiery Hungarian Horntail, and Harry, seeing it now, sitting atop its nest of a single golden egg, remembered it all as clearly as if he were actually fighting it once again.

When Harry finally summoned his broom, he looked over to see what Voldemort thought of this strategy.

Harry was stunned to find Voldemort smiling…with a curious brow raised. He was…smiling.

Voldemort was watching Harry fly with rapt attention, a strange little tug on his lips as Harry weaved around the dragon, attempting to trick the dragon off the egg. Harry remembered…he had just been trying to survive at the time, but now that he was watching from the stands… it looked as though he actually knew what he was doing.

Which was as far away from the truth as it could ever be.

Harry heard a sound from beside him, a sharp, jolting laugh, when Harry finally succeeded in luring the dragon and nosedived straight for the egg.

Harry had never heard Voldemort laugh out of enjoyment, and the thought was strange, unsettling.

As the memory faded, Voldemort continued watching Harry fly with captivated eyes. Harry wondered what he was thinking, for the thousandth time, before the memory was gone, and they moved onto the next.

Harry cringed watching his ungraceful entrance to the second task. He had nearly tripped in the mud, his younger self panting from running all the way to the lake. Harry remembered he had only five minutes to get down to the task before he was technically disqualified.

He looked at Voldemort—the man seemed amused, even despite Harry’s obvious tardiness. He seemed to know more about this task than the last, for he was visibly enjoying Harry’s antics with the Gillyweed—mainly, standing barefoot in the cold lake, hoping desperately for it to work, and not really understanding the results when it did.

He watched as Harry dived into the lake, before the scene abruptly changed, and Harry was watching himself save not only Ron, but Fleur’s younger sister too.

Harry felt nostalgic watching the memory unfold, as though it were only yesterday. He remembered the feeling of desperation under the lake, knowing that if he did not save Fleur’s sister, she could die. Although the judges had reassured Harry this was not the case, Fleur herself was forever grateful to Harry for saving her little sister. Harry didn’t quite understand it at the time. He had only been doing the right thing…however, Hermione had later told him he had a ‘saving people’ thing.  

Harry's eyes locked on Voldemort when he thought this. 

And the thought itself was maddening, stupid, and everything Dumbledore would argue against, if he were still alive.

But the idea came to him anyways, unbidden to Harry’s mind, and once it was there, it rooted itself deep inside his thoughts.

Could Voldemort…be saved?

Perhaps this strange idea is what ultimately made Harry think about the next set of memories he viewed. He wanted something…some vindication that he was wrong in his thoughts, and that Dumbledore had always been right—that Voldemort was inherently evil, that Voldemort could never be saved, or even deserved saving.

What Harry got instead left him feeling raw, unable to shake the uncertainty that he was feeling inside.

Could Voldemort be saved?

Harry realized Voldemort had skipped over the events of the third task entirely. He did not know why, and was therefore unsettled as he watched Voldemort view the beginning of his fifth year instead. Was the third task unnecessary to watch? Because Voldemort already knew what had happened, because he too had lived through it?

Harry supposed it didn't matter, because in the end, he watched as Voldemort watched the memories of his fifth year unfold. It was... undeniably strange to relive all the hatred he had gotten for something that was, and had always had been, true. It was also painful in a different way. Sirius, after all, was still alive at the beginning of his fifth year. If things had gone even remotely differently, maybe his godfather could have lived….

Harry saw the moment he had stood up to Umbridge during class. Saw the way Voldemort looked displeased that Harry had fallen for such an obvious ploy to get him into detention.

Harry did not care. He didn’t even care when it was happening. Hermione had even scolded Harry for it, but Harry knew it was important to tell the truth.

Just as now, Harry knew the truth would come out. Whatever end Voldemort wanted him to see, Harry would see it.

Voldemort was not pleased with Harry’s detention. He looked mildly revolted by Umbridge’s redecorated office when Harry’s memory arrived and sat down at the desk. Harry smiled against himself at Voldemort’s clear distaste of the color pink—it seemed not even Voldemort could tolerate all the pinkness, let alone the plump little witch sitting in the middle of it.

Harry was all too aware that these were private moments between him and Umbridge—moments that he didn’t want anyone else to see. Harry had never even told his friends how many lines he had been forced to write, nor how long he had stayed in his ‘detentions’—they had only seen the aftermath in his hand, and Harry had pointedly refused to tell them.  

Now it seemed like Voldemort would discover the truth of these detentions. It was a painful memory, and the scars on the back of his hand still bristled with an invisible pain as he watched his younger self write the first few lines in his own blood.

But against all odds, Harry had stayed silent. He watched memory after memory of Umbridge’s detentions, forcing him to write over a thousand lines each night. He had written solidly until several hours past midnight, when Umbridge would inevitably tire and send him back. His hand would be a mangled mess by the end of the sessions, but Harry had kept quiet. He had not gone to Dumbledore. He had not told anyone of how many lines he had written in the blood quill. It was a fight between him and Umbridge, and Harry could see that same determination on his memory’s face as he wrote line after line after line….

Voldemort, at some point, seemed incredulous over this small fact. The man looked…angry, beyond so, at his treatment. And bewildered, confused, at Harry’s continued resistance.

“Why do you do it? Why do you fight?” Voldemort knelt down and whispered, staring transfixed at Harry’s scarred hand.

As if his memory self would reach out and answer him, Voldemort was inevitably left with more questions than he had answers to. Harry’s heart stopped when Voldemort seemingly reached out to touch his hand, only to stop when he realized that that this was simply a memory, and Harry would not feel his phantom touch.

Voldemort abruptly stood back to his feet, leaving the memory there, and emerged from the pensieve back into his office.

“Back so soon?” Salazar asked. Voldemort only looked at him, not appearing to have heard the sarcasm in his comment.

“I do not understand. The boy should have gone to Dumbledore. Everything about Harry Potter tells me that the boy should have gone to Dumbledore. The old man would have stopped the detentions instantly. Instead, he stayed, to fight a pointless battle against one of his professors. He was bleeding profusely—I do not understand why—”

“Why someone would fight for what they believe in?” Salazar hissed softly, jolting Voldemort out of his stupor.

“It seems the boy is more than you thought he was,” the portrait spoke again, “And it also appears as though you have gravely misjudged him….”

Voldemort merely took the offered statement in silence. Harry rather thought Voldemort would explode in anger, like he had done in previous memories when the portrait said something unfavorable.

Instead, Harry watched from the background as the man sat down by the fireplace, staring into the dying embers of the fire.

“So it would seem…”

It was painfully clear that the next memory was at a different time and place. Familiar faces Harry had seen in previous memories looked…changed. Different. Older, but just barely. Only Voldemort himself remained unchanged. Still in his serpentine form. Still overlooking his followers celebrating beneath him.  

Harry wondered what the occasion was, before Bellatrix stumbled up to the platform, clearly half drunk in her tipsy demeanor, wishing him a happy birthday. When Bellatrix began dancing with her husband shortly after, her eyes stayed locked on Voldemort for the entire dance. It was slightly unnerving for Harry to witness the interaction in its entirety. Voldemort ignored her presence with an indifferent gaze, not even deigning to look in her direction, although the woman was determined to get some sort of reaction out of him, if judging by her bold behavior.

For several minutes, the scene remained unchanged, with Death Eaters dancing across the floor, and Harry wondered what this memory would possibly show. Then Voldemort spoke, and everyone in the room seemed to freeze when they heard it.

“Dolores Umbridge….”

It was as though a pin had dropped when Voldemort spoke. Everyone heard. The music stopped. And out of a curtain of onlookers, there she was. Older, with growing white hair. She looked hesitant when Voldemort spoke her name, only stepping forward when no further call was made, and several people gave her looks as if to proceed. Harry felt a burning in his chest just at the sight of her.

He didn’t want to see her again, especially as she was enjoying herself in the company of Death Eaters. Especially after the last memory. She did not deserve to be here. Harry desperately looked to Voldemort, wondering what he was doing. Why—

“M-My Lord…you-you called for me?”

Voldemort leered down at her.

“Dolores Umbridge. Head of the Muggleborn Registration Division… former High Inquisitor of Hogwarts…”

Harry bristled when Umbridge was clearly pleased that Voldemort remembered who she was.

“O-Of course, My Lord. T-That is—”

“Crucio,” Voldemort intoned lazily, causing Umbridge to be swept off her feet, twisting in pain. She screamed loudly before Voldemort abruptly cut her off.

“I didn’t say you could speak.” Harry watched as several guests laughed at Umbridge’s obvious failings.

What are you doing?

“Both positions, I seem to recall, had some… difficulties, correct?”

Harry stilled when Voldemort spoke over her once again.

“I can imagine… and such difficult students too, at Hogwarts. I wonder: how did you manage to keep them all in line? Detentions, surely, wouldn’t have been enough. Tell me, Dolores, how you managed to punish them. Say it.”

What are you doing?

“M-My Lord…I-I didn’t—”

“Such lies…Madam, do you always lie to Lord Voldemort?”

Harry watched in trepidation, his heart beating to a strange rhythm inside his chest. The rest of the hall had stopped speaking, the crowd growing eerily still and silent as they watched the incident unfold before them.

“I have seen…and I know of at least one student whom you forced to write lines…with an ingenious blood quill, etching words into their hands, scarred forever...”

What are you doing?

Harry did not know what was happening, but all too soon, Voldemort called for Nagini to finish Umbridge off.

Harry watched the memory in morbid fascination. In some ways, he had almost despised Umbridge just as much as Voldemort himself. The way the witch had so very obviously taken pleasure in his pain, as he wrote over a thousand lines each and every night, and her condescending smiles as she forbid anyone from learning how to properly fight in a war she clearly knew was happening.

But did she deserve this?

No.

Harry knew that. He knew that very deeply.

But when he emerged from the memory…somehow…he did not feel the same.

Chapter Text

If Harry first thought that Voldemort would avoid his own memories of their encounters, he was very, very wrong. In the next memories, Harry could see the…dilemma in Voldemort as he paced around his office, verbally wondering what he should do with his own memories, sitting in a collection of vials on his desk, ready to be used.

“I do not see what stops you, my heir. They are your memories of the child, and therefore, perhaps the most important.” Salazar hissed from his spot on the wall.

“The most important…yes…but what will I see? I already know what they contain. Besides. I do not wish to…see….”

“See what?”

Voldemort cursed the portrait, before taking a vial and placing it in the pensieve.

“I need to see him. I need to…understand….”

Harry had only a moment of confusion before Voldemort placed his head inside the pensieve. The memory spun, and too soon, he was in the familiar backdrop of the graveyard.

He shivered against himself, remembering all too well the sounds and sights of his worst nightmare. He stared at the tombstone where he had been tied down. He stared at the name Tom Riddle Sr. written on the top.  

Harry closed his eyes as the baby form of Voldemort, carried by Wormtail, was brought into view. Voldemort’s memory was watching with something like pain across his features.

His breath caught when he saw himself arrive through the portkey, along with—

Cedric.

Harry nearly closed his eyes again. Very nearly. But…some part of him wanted to watch Voldemort, and for some reason, it was such a powerful desire that it overrode his own nausea at the scene playing out.

Harry only heard the whispered spell that ended Cedric’s life. He only vaguely saw his distinct shape, lying on the ground. He was watching Voldemort’s form instead, his expression, for any change at the scene in front of him.

Did he enjoy watching Harry suffer? Or was he—.

There was something in Voldemort’s expression, as he watched Harry tied to the tombstone, that was…different. Pained. Wronged. He might have thought the memory of his weakened state was distressing for him, but then Harry noticed how Voldemort’s eye’s only traced Harry’s younger form. The man hardly even a glanced at his own, mutilated body in Wormtail’s arms. Even when the cauldron was bubbling, and Wormtail cut off his own hand. Even when Voldemort’s new form was rising from the cauldron. Voldemort’s eyes did not stray from Harry. And Harry, in turn, did not stray from watching Voldemort.

As Voldemort watched the memory, there was a conflicted expression on his face. As if he were the one battling the Dark Lord, and not Harry.

Harry saw as the other Death Eaters came, laughing at his memory under their hoods. And when Voldemort and Harry dueled, Harry saw the moment their wands connected, and the light enveloped them in a curtain of gold. All the while, Voldemort never took his eyes off Harry’s younger self. It was as though he was… fascinated by the sheer amount of willpower Harry had possessed during their fight.

Only after Harry escaped with the portkey, Voldemort finally looked in the direction of his own memory, watching himself scream in anger at the loss of the boy-who-lived. There was a sense of detachment on his face, so much disgust with himself that he was sneering.

As the memory dissolved, Harry was left feeling…odd. He emerged from the pensieve and sat down in a nearby chair. He was shaking. From the experience of reliving his nightmare, yes…but also something different.

The look in Voldemort’s eyes as he watched Harry was not one of someone watching their enemy suffer. There was no enjoyment in those red eyes. There was no hidden laughter.

There was only concern. And...a sense of unease. 

When Harry finally calmed down enough to view more memories, he was watching his sixth year all over again. Although, from time to time, Voldemort seemed…puzzled over something, and when Harry finally discovered the reason, he was smiling against himself.

Voldemort, evidently, did not know what was talked about during his meetings with Dumbledore. The man seemed overly disturbed that this small fact could not be gleaned out of the countless memories he had collected over a vast number of years. As though his well of knowledge was not enough to reveal what Harry and Dumbledore were talking about.

Good. He doesn’t need to know.  

Besides…Harry thought, with only a small amount of guilt, he had been viewing memories of Tom Riddle with Dumbledore. Harry now knew how extremely personal and… private it was to see those moments. After watching Voldemort tear through his own memories, it was only natural to feel violated and upset for someone else to witness your worst childhood moments. He imagined Voldemort would feel the same as Harry, had he known what they were up to.

Eventually, though, Voldemort had to move on to more pressing memories than discovering what Harry was doing every week with Dumbledore. Instead, he moved onto Dumbledore’s death, and was watching the interaction closely. Harry realized he must have gotten the memory from Malfoy, as it was him who the memory followed closely behind.

Harry knew he was there too, under his invisibility cloak, but he was interested to see if Voldemort would know that.

He also felt… conflicted, seeing this moment happen again. On the one hand, it was the death of Dumbledore, his mentor, and the one who had guided him through it all, the one who had fought Voldemort with everything he had and...helped Harry, throughout his years at school. But he was also the man who had allowed him to be abused by his family for years…who had watched him struggle, who denied him important information even at the cost of his life. And for what? All to reach the end, to his…supposed-to-be death. He remembered clearly the message in the snitch. It was clear, after he viewed Snape’s memories, what Dumbledore had intended him to do. And Harry had all the intention to do it, even though he knew it was a manipulation.

But I failed, he thought, pulling himself away from the moment.

I failed and now I…

He paused. Voldemort was watching the scene with rapt attention. He was looking at Dumbledore’s wand.

The Elder wand.

It was almost as though Harry could see him mentally connecting the dots. That Malfoy had been the one to disarm Dumbledore, and thus, became its temporary Master.

Harry’s heart was beating unusually fast.

Does he know? Does he know, even now? That Harry was—

Call and I shall come…my gifts are yours….

He swallowed against his dry mouth. Death had been a figure in the back of Harry’s mind, ever since their encounter in Voldemort’s garden.

Harry watched with half closed eyes as Dumbledore fell off the roof, seeming to fall in slow motion. He watched as he ran after Snape, screaming incohesive words. Behind him, Hagrid’s hut burned, just as he remembered. Voldemort was still watching him, though, eerily silent and still in the night.

All at once, he emerged from the pensieve with Voldemort, back into the man’s office, while Voldemort gazed around the room, disturbed by what he had seen.

“He was there. The boy. With Dumbledore…he was there…”

Harry did not need to know how Voldemort deduced that Harry had been with Dumbledore that night. It was evident enough in the way he had screamed at Snape’s retreating form.  

But whatever else Voldemort had gleaned from those memories, Harry did not care right then. When Harry was finished with that specific memory, he decided to take a break and sat down on the floor.

His head was a mess. He felt on the verge of tears, and he didn’t know why.

Because... Voldemort was changing. He could see it. He was changing right before Harry’s eyes.

And... he didn’t know how to stop it.

When Draco Malfoy first heard that his Lord would be staying in his manor, he had not thought much would happen. Draco, after all, had never achieved as high a ranking as his father—he thought he would rarely even see his Lord, let alone actually converse with the man.

Yet here I am….

Draco was sitting in his father’s old office, in the guest chair, of course, while his Lord was standing behind the desk, staring out the open window of the manor outside.

He did not have any indication as to what this meeting could be about. And if Draco’s hand’s shook, well, it was only natural.

When his Lord finally spoke, it was with a strange sort of calmness that Draco had never heard before. If not for that, Draco was sure the topic of conversation would have sent him to his knees.

“What do you recall… of Harry Potter, Mr. Malfoy? Do you still…remember him?”

As if he could forget. Even though Draco could not always recall what had happened, after so many years, he would probably never forget what could have been—

No. He would not think of that here, of all places.

“O-Of course, my Lord. I—still remember him. He was—” Draco stalled, unsure of his Lord’s intention with such a…personal question. Was he probing to see where Draco’s loyalties lie? Was this the true reason for his visit to Malfoy manor? Was he second guessing Draco’s trust?

At his obvious hesitancy to voice his opinion, the Dark Lord sighed and turned around.

“You may be honest, Draco. I have…no desire to harm you should you have conflicting feelings on the matter.”

Draco was left with his mouth slightly agape, so he quickly closed it. His Lord was asking…Draco’s personal thoughts on Harry Potter. A boy so long forgotten by the world around him, and yet— it was as if he still lingered on the edges of Draco’s mind, from the time the Dark Lord had ripped apart people’s minds as he desperately tried to find him, to the time it appeared his Lord had…given up.

Had he, though? Draco did not know the answer to that.

Draco cleared his throat to continue where he had left off.

“He was…my school rival. If one could call us that. We—we were always fighting. Whether about trivial school matters, or taking orders f-from you, my Lord. I didn’t realize until recently…but now… when I think of him, I don’t hold… any animosity towards him. He may be dead, but he….”

He didn’t know how to continue, so Draco trailed off, looking hesitantly at his Lord.

The man’s expression was closed, and Draco could not tell what he thought of it at all. He said not to worry, to be honest, but all Draco could think of was that he had said the wrong thing.

The man abruptly turned around again, looking back out the window. Draco held back a sigh of relief.

“And…what do you think about…love, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco thought he misheard; his Lord’s voice was nearly a whisper. And love? What was with the sudden change of topic?

“P-Pardon?”

But when the man did not repeat himself, Draco stuttered out a hesitant reply.

“I-I think… love is…w-when you…c-care about someone?” his voice broke out in a nervous sweat at the end, making it sound like a question rather than someone who knew what they were talking about.

Draco had rarely ever thought about love, of all things. He had not even married his wife out of pure love, but rather because his parent’s had arranged it in the end. He did still love Astoria, but he had the feeling his sentiments would go unheard if he voiced them.

“I see. And what do you think about… unrequited love…do you know…is there a…cure for it?”

Draco stared at his Lord, uncomprehending and more than a little scared.

Was his Lord…was he implying…?

“I-I don’t know, m-my Lord. I…don’t know if there is a… cure. M-maybe if you…!”

His Lord turned around in an instant, startling Draco from his answer.

“What makes you think I am talking about myself?” his Lord bit out, incensed.

Draco fell to the floor.

“I—! Apologies, m-my Lord! I did not…mean to offend! I was just—”

But just when he thought he would be sent into a painful punishment, the fire in his Lord’s eyes suddenly died out, and he turned around once more.

“Continue, if you will.”

Draco got to his feet, still shaking from his error. He sat back down slowly.

“I—I was saying…m-maybe if…someone was feeling…unrequited love…the best cure would be to…separate themselves…from the person they love. To find…someone new. Someone who loves them back. I-I would think so, anyway.”

His Lord was silent for so long, Draco thought that perhaps he had not heard him. Then, barely audible,

“What if…that is not possible? What then?”

Draco’s voice was equally stunned as he answered, barely above a whisper himself,

“Then...they must live with the pain, m-my Lord. For however long it takes….”

Chapter Text

The days passed quietly, and Draco Malfoy was no closer to figuring out what was wrong with his Lord, if there was anything wrong in the first place, or if it was even his place to question it at all. Since their strange talk about love, the Dark Lord had secluded himself in his rooms. Draco had been…advised…to stay away for the remainder of his visit. On the other hand, Draco felt compelled to go see his parents. If his wife was staying away for the duration of the Dark Lord’s stay, then perhaps his parents would be a good enough distraction for his troubled thoughts.

When Draco had taken over the family as Lord Malfoy, his father and mother had moved into the back wings of the manor. Now, as Draco moved towards his parent’s portion of the mansion, he thought about the last time he had seen them, nearly a month ago.

His father was an important figurehead in the wizarding world, aside from his Lord, of course. Lucius Malfoy was, after all, responsible for many of the laws put into place after the war ended and their Lord was persistently…distracted.

Draco shoved those thoughts forcibly aside as he made his way down the hall.

“Poppy.” Draco said as he walked, the little elf popping into existence beside him.

“Yes, Master?”

“Tell mother and father I’ll be visiting soon. Prepare tea in the sitting room.”

“Right away, Master.”

The house-elf left as Draco opened the doors to his parent’s lodgings. He wouldn’t stay long. Draco always felt awkward around his parents, truth be told. It wasn’t that they were terribly old for their age—his father and mother both had greying hair, yes, but only his father had visible wrinkles around the eyes. Both were retired, but his father still managed Death Eater activities as one of his Lord’s most trusted men. No, the awkwardness arose whenever his father would comment on how Draco could have maneuvered himself further ahead in wizarding society if he only had the desire to do so. Draco never had, and thus, he had never managed to live up to his father’s expectations of him. Draco was not an inner circle member, after all; he was, in short, a disappointment.

Once Draco arrived at the sitting room, he saw his mother waiting for him with a tea cup in her hand. His father, however luckily, was not here yet.

“Mother. How are you?” Draco asked while settling himself down on the couch, “I’m sorry for the short notice. I was just…thinking—”

Draco didn’t know why he felt compelled, now of all times, to visit his parents. But he couldn’t lie to his mother either. Narcissa looked at him softly, though, and didn’t ask.

“It’s fine, dear. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Lucius will be here very soon. I’m afraid he was working in his office when we heard the house-elf.”

“That’s fine. I won’t be staying long. I just…wanted to see—” Draco coughed.

Narcissa took a careful sip of tea before placing it back on the table. They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, before the doors opened and Lucius walked in.

“Hello, son. How are you…holding up?” Lucius said as he made his way over. Draco could see half a sneer on his father’s face, but then he carefully smoothed it over, as though it were never there in the first place. But Draco had seen.

“Fine.” He answered simply, and then, as though it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, as though this weren’t the very reason he was visiting them in the first place, Draco leaned in with a faux casual manner, “I was wondering…well, not that it matters, but I was wondering…have you two noticed anything…strange… about our Lord? I just—he talked with me about unrequited love, of all things—and I just—”

Smash!

Draco startled as his mother dropped her tea cup and it shattered across the floor.

“Mother—what—”

Narcissa hastily waved her wand, casting several powerful silencing wards and protection against eavesdroppers. When she was finished, she repaired the cup and set it back down.

“U-Unrequited love, you say?” Narcissa paled dramatically, looking almost to the point of fainting.

“Yes. He spoke of—”

“Do not speak so carelessly about our Lord, son, especially when he is staying in this very manor.” Lucius’s face was hard and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

Draco paled too, looking towards the door, half expecting to see the Dark Lord standing there already, ready to hit him with the torture curse for speaking so casually about their private conversation.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I won’t speak of it again. I—”

While his father looked content with leaving things as they were, his mother, on the other hand, looked once towards the door, and whispered so quietly Draco could scarcely even hear her.

“There is something happening…I cannot speak of it, nor should you, but you will see soon enough. I—I don’t think he can keep it secret for long. Not with—” Narcissa sighed, her hands shaking with a tremendous effort to keep calm.

Then Draco watched as his father did something he almost never saw during the daylight hours—he sighed loudly before walking over to the cabinet and pulling out a very strong firewhiskey. He poured a glass, then looked over and levitated Draco a glass too.

Draco hesitated before he took the glass. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?

Harry wanted to deny what he was seeing. He wanted to vehemently refuse to acknowledge what was staring him so blandly in the face. But at every new moment, every new memory he watched, he was faced with information that he did not want to accept. It was impossible. It was maddening. And still… he could not reject what he was seeing after a certain point in time. Because Voldemort actually—

Cared?

Could he say that?

About… Harry.

Surely, the world had gone mad.

Harry still didn’t know how far that care extended. He did not know what Voldemort was actually feeling when he watched Harry in those moments of time.

Longing, perhaps?

Or maybe sadness?

At first, Harry didn’t think Voldemort could even feel those things. Now, he was faced with the concept at every new memory.

Oh, Voldemort was still cruel, he knew that very well. He saw those lapses in temper, those moments when his sanity seemed unstable, at best. At his worst, Voldemort would crumble into a terrible rage, and seemed entirely hopeless.

There were times when Voldemort appeared to detest his newfound feelings for Harry. There were many more when he seemed not to mind his changing perspective.

It was a maddening cycle of endless repeat, and Harry did not know when it would end.

Soon—too soon for Harry’s liking—the memories began to change. No longer was Voldemort merely watching and re-watching Harry’s memories through the pensieve. He was—

Harry cringed when he saw it the first time. Voldemort was transforming a prisoner into Harry’s double.   

“Look at me.” Voldemort commanded, once he was finished.

The prisoner was shaking in a form that looked almost like Harry, but not quite. The eyes, the nose, something was off, although Harry couldn’t exactly describe it either.

The prisoner looked up hesitantly, and Harry saw something change in Voldemort’s eyes. His eyes were… soft, tender when he looked down, and Voldemort’s voice shook when he next spoke. 

“Harry…Potter.”

“Please, my Lord! Don’t kill me, please!” The prisoner shouted in fear, and Harry saw the moment the illusion shattered. Voldemort’s eyes hardened.

“Say my name.” he commanded harshly.

“M-My Lord, please…”

“Say it.”

“I-I don’t know—please have mercy!”

After several more rounds of the prisoner’s pleas, Voldemort finally had enough. He struck quick with the killing curse, and the prisoner—still looking like Harry—slumped down to floor, dead.

Harry’s heart was beating unusually fast when something in Voldemort snapped. Apparently, the illusion was back in place—but Harry dead on the floor did not please him in the least. Harry watched, stunned, as Voldemort stepped away from the body in shock, his eyes wide and gripping his heart in a frantic motion.

When the illusion did not shatter—the dead body still shaped as Harry—Voldemort screamed and summoned Lucius, of all people.

“My Lord, how may I—”

Apparently, seeing Harry Potter dead on the floor did something to Lucius Malfoy as well. The man stumbled to his feet, pale faced and shocked.

“Dispose of the body! Tell no one about this.”

And then Voldemort apparated away from the scene in a flurry of robes, pulling Harry along with him.  

Harry dearly wished that had been the only time. But remembering the clones he had stumbled upon in the manor, Harry knew Voldemort had taken his obsession to the next level.

He also saw the moment Voldemort changed his appearance. One moment he was as serpentine as ever. The next, Voldemort conducted a ritual to assume his previous looks.

He even saw Bellatrix change in the memories. She looked older, with greying hair, but her eyes remained fierce and full of desire as she looked towards Voldemort. In one of their regular galas, Bellatrix was kneeling in front of Voldemort’s throne, who looked thoroughly displeased by her very existence.

“You have failed, Bella. Where is the boy?”

“Please my Lord, I beg—" Bellatrix was shaking. Harry thought it was not from fear, but from the fact that she had failed her beloved Lord.   

“After all these years, I expected something from you. You took over the mission from Lucius, and yet—”

“Please, my Lord!” Bellatrix screamed, tears running down her face, “Forget about him! Forget the boy, he’s dead! He’s not worthy of your time…” Harry watched as Bellatrix crawled forward on her knees to kiss the hems of Voldemort’s robes.

“He’s not worthy of you, my Lord. Forget him! Focus on your regime, the future…” she kissed upwards towards his ankles, “Focus on magic, my Lord…” she looked up into his eyes, his impassive face, and then said something which didn’t altogether shock Harry, but made him tense when he saw Voldemort’s expression grow stony.

“Focus on me, my Lord. I love y—”

“Crucio.”

And while Bellatrix screamed under the curse, bent backwards and utterly wrecked, Harry rather thought he saw her heart break too. He didn’t feel pity. Harry didn’t feel anything for Bellatrix Lestrange besides hatred. And yet he had the strangest sensation as he watched Bellatrix scream in a pain beyond physical pain—

It was as though he were drowning—

He was ripped from the scene before he could even finish the thought.

Harry was a ball of unending nerves the longer he watched the memories unfold.

It was clear, after some point in time, that Voldemort…desired Harry. In an intimate way. He couldn’t exactly say when the change happened. Only that it did.

And it was terrifying.

It was the only way Harry could explain the longing, the expression on Voldemort’s face whenever he looked at him. It was in the way Voldemort would re-watch certain memoires over and over again, yearning for something he could not have. It was in the way Voldemort had stopped looking at the memories like clues to his whereabouts, and instead was watching them for comfort.

Dumbledore had always told Harry that Voldemort was incapable of love. That love was Harry’s greatest strength, and that Voldemort could never understand it.

Now, looking at Voldemort’s desperation to see, feel, understand him…truly understand him…Harry wasn’t so sure anymore.

But he didn’t know. He didn’t know what Voldemort was truly feeling in those moments of time.

Perhaps that was why, when he delved into one of Voldemort’s last memories, Harry was facing a scene he’d much rather forget.

Godric’s Hollow. The night his parents died. And the night Harry was forever marked. He didn’t even need to see it to know what Voldemort was looking for in this last scrap of memory.

A reason for their connection.

As Harry walked step by step with Voldemort, traversing the same road on that fateful Halloween night, Voldemort himself was looking strange, an unrecognizable look of horror on his face as he watched his memory-self blast through the door and into the home. Harry didn’t realize it until that moment, but this memory was painful for the both of them. Voldemort had died this night too, after all.

Yet Harry didn’t even need to watch this memory, for all it was worth. He had already seen this scene in Voldemort’s head, a lifetime ago when escaping Nagini in the home of the deceased Bathilda Bagshot.

But watching Voldemort through the pensieve was an entirely different experience. Harry saw, in a vibrancy he had never seen before, how his mother was struck down, her red hair framing her face as she stood against Voldemort for one striking moment before she was blasted away into the wall.

He wondered when Voldemort would realize. Realize that Harry was a horcrux.

It was painfully clear the man already knew. Harry’s plan had died the moment he woke up on the wrong side.

BOOM!

“No. No, no, no! Not this—!" Voldemort resisted the truth as he saw a dark piece of soul flying out of the debris and piercing Harry’s forehead just as Voldemort himself, and the memory, disintegrated into nothing.

Voldemort appeared back in his office, pulling Harry along as the memory continued.

“No. No! It can’t be…he’s—”

Voldemort paced around his study, and Harry could see the desperation on his face at the news. That Harry Potter was actually holding a piece of his soul. That this was the reason for their connection.

And… that Harry was still no where to be found.

When Voldemort seemed to remember that small piece of information, he flew into a rage that bordered on desperate—desperate for answers, desperate for Harry….

Wherever Harry had gone to when he first disappeared in the forest, he knew it was Voldemort who had brought him back. How, though.

It seemed like Harry was going to find out.

The centaurs greeted him at first sight. The prophetic message Firenze had once delivered to Voldemort seemed like a lifetime ago, but Harry could tell Voldemort recalled it too as he strode into the forbidden forest. 

“You have seen what cannot be unseen, and you have learned what cannot be unlearned. Your heart is not a vile as it once was…” Firenze said, standing before Voldemort with a small gathering of centaurs, “However, what you seek to do today is an abomination of nature. To defy death so brazenly…even we do not tread within those cold waters.”

“Firenze… do you believe he has power enough to do the deed? What if he fails? I have seen the stars—it is…unclear to me.” Another nearby spoke, stomping his hooves impatiently.

Firenze looked over, before returning his attention to Voldemort, who stood still and patient, awaiting their judgement. It was a stark contrast to how Voldemort had interacted with them before, so long ago.

What Firenze said next shocked Harry to the core.

“You have learned what it means to love, human. I can see it. Love, at its rawest form, is the desire to protect, to know. You seek to bring back what you have lost—protect them, then. Know them. For that, we will allow you passage. For that alone, we will consider what you do here tonight.”

Voldemort’s eyes glistened in the night, but otherwise, he did not appear shocked.

Harry’s mind, however, was reeling.

Voldemort?

Loved.

Him.

If Harry had thought Voldemort desired him before, well, it was nothing compared to when the centaurs said it.

Because love…that was an entirely different thing.

“Thank you.” Voldemort said, “I will proceed in the clearing ahead.”

The centaurs all nodded once before running off into the forest.

Voldemort encountered no other creatures as he strode forward into the night.

Harry almost didn’t want to watch the final scene. Voldemort had started a ritual to defy death—to somehow bring Harry back through his horcrux connection, to delve into death’s realm and take back from Death itself.

Had Harry died? All he remembered was opening the snitch and then…nothing.

He remembered that strange encounter in Voldemort’s garden too. Death had come to Harry, giving him back the resurrection stone. But if Harry truly was the Master of Death, like the stories told, then what did that even mean?

Harry was pulled from his thoughts when the ground started shaking in the memory. Harry noticed there was an unnatural stillness to the forest, as though Voldemort were trespassing on something sacred and hallowed. Harry thought he saw the shadow of Death watching from one corner of the forest before water started pooling under Voldemort’s feet and then—

Harry's body was there now, underneath. Ice was slowly forming over the top of the shallow pool.

And Voldemort. He was whispering. Desperately to himself with his eyes half-closed.

“Come back, come back, come back. Please…please…please…”

When Harry did not emerge from the water, Voldemort reached down into the depths and pulled. His fingers instantly blackened from the ice, but still he tugged on Harry’s body with every ounce of strength until, at last, with one great heave, he lifted Harry from the clinging waters of death.

Harry himself shuddered, watching the way the ice slowly cracked around in the memory. Voldemort pulled off his cloak and wrapped Harry’s body in it. And Voldemort…he looked—

Relieved. Worn and tired. But ultimately…

Happy.

He smiled the softest smile once he saw that Harry was indeed breathing. He looked at peace. 

When he apparated back with Harry in his arms, the memory faded, bringing Harry abruptly back to the present.

However many days had passed since Harry first began watching the memories, it was all over now.

And now…he knew the truth. The truth Voldemort had wanted him to see in the first place.

That Voldemort actually…loved…him.

Voldemort…after so many years of watching these memories…fell in love…with him. His nemesis.

And what was Harry even supposed to do here? He couldn’t—he couldn’t—

I can’t….

Harry realized this with a sadness he didn’t know he had in him. Because it was sad. Voldemort, for all his loveless self, over so many years, had actually learned how to love…only for it to fall short because Harry himself would not—could not—reciprocate his feelings.

It was sad, but still—

He didn’t know why, but he felt tears fall at the corner of his eyes.

He didn’t know why he fell to the ground, sobbing.

He didn’t know.

Chapter Text

He knew he had to get up. There was a dull ringing in his ears, and his knees felt weak from where he was kneeling on the carpet.

Harry had dried out his tears long ago, but the feeling of emptiness came upon him like quicksand, stealing away the last of his energy, making him feel lethargic and numb, of all things.  

He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, either. Maybe that was a start.

The house-elves were very generous to Harry. Since waking up, and by the time Voldemort had left, the little elves had made him dozens of meals, ready to eat whenever he wished. Now, as he looked around the room, he saw a bowl of hot soup ready for him on the table by the fireplace.

Standing was difficult.

Eating was somehow worse.

Everything tasted like ash in his mouth.

By the time Harry finished, he felt exhausted. Maybe he could just sleep….

Sleeping came easily. Perhaps, too easily. As soon as Harry curled up on the couch, he drifted off.

He didn’t even dream.

He didn’t know why he did it. Stupidity, perhaps. Companionship, maybe. Advice. Either way, after Harry had awoken, still on the couch, and with Voldemort still gone and away, he realized, perhaps for the very first time, that Voldemort truly was giving him space. He wasn’t going to come until Harry called for him—he knew that now for certain.

And it gave Harry time. Time to do something extremely stupid.  

He twisted the Resurrection stone that still lay in his pocket. Although this time, he wasn’t looking for a long-lost conversation with his friends. He wanted—needed—someone else’s company.

He knew the moment it had worked. Harry had shut his eyes, afraid of seeing his old professor, but after everything…Harry just wanted someone to talk to, someone who could look at the situation rationally…and tell Harry the truth. Even a snide remark or two wouldn’t be too amiss.

When Harry opened his eyes, Severus Snape was standing, looking around the office with a barely suppressed sneer. Like all the others, though, he expression lacked. Everything about the dead…lacked. 

“Well, Potter? Are you going to speak, or shall I?” Snape turned his dead eyes on Harry.

Harry shifted on the couch and involuntarily sat up straighter. When he had called his friends and family before, Snape had been there, however briefly. This time, they were alone.

“You are a fool, Potter, if you think this changes things,” Snape said into the growing quiet. Harry watched him come closer, but he didn’t move.

“The Dark Lord may have fallen in love with you, but look around. This world is not the one you left behind.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as Snape stalked ever closer, saying everything Harry was thinking…and more.

“You need only step out the front door and see... the world is still under the Dark Lord’s reign. He may have been distracted, but that does not mean he did not implement a number of policies that revolutionized the wizarding world, and you are foolish, Potter, if you fail to see that.”

“I—"

“And what will you do now, Potter? Now, as you know the truth?”

Harry knew the answer long before he spoke.

“I need to leave... I—I need to see everything he’s done…”

“Yes. You do. And while I won’t send you on some suicidal mission as Albus did, never forget Potter—love that is blind… is blind.”

Harry dropped the stone, and Severus Snape vanished as though he had never been.

Once Harry knew he had to leave, it was as though his energy completely renewed. He ran from the office, looking up and down for the thing that had evaded him since he first thought to look for it—his invisibility cloak.

 He stopped halfway up the stairs, intent on looking through Voldemort’s bedroom, if need be, before he had the thought.

What if…what if…

Death had, after all, said he could call for his gifts. And was his cloak not one of the Deathly Hallows?

“D-Death?”

Almost on cue, a shimmering silk appeared before him—the invisibility cloak was hovering in the air just before his eyes. Harry grabbed it and ran his fingers through the soft fabric, almost in disbelief that it had actually worked.

Thank you…

But did that mean—

Was Harry the Master of Death now? He…didn’t know what that meant. He hadn’t put much thought into the otherworldly being that had crept upon him in the garden, besides the fact that he was terrified.

Can I call the wand too? Was Harry’s next immediate thought.

After all, he didn’t have a wand. If he was going to escape, he needed some way to get himself out and defend himself.

Harry jumped when a voice actually answered him.

No, Master. Not until you reclaim it for the first time. But have no fear. It will come when called.  

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine when he realized what was essentially left unsaid.

If he wanted the wand…he was going to have to call back Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort was patient. He had waited for what felt like an eternity for Harry Potter to return, and now, he waited for the boy to finish his memories. He would wait until the boy sought him out, and not the other way around. He would not intrude on the small amount of peace Harry Potter needed, and thus, had stayed away in Malfoy Manor for nearly a week and a half already.

So yes, Lord Voldemort was very patient indeed… but that did not stop his thoughts from racing around in circles, or pacing his rooms, or the near agitation he experienced on a now daily basis. His thoughts were a mess.

He must be done soon…

And what will I do once he is? How will I proceed?

It’s been over a week. He must be doing something…

He must have finished by now. He must.

And of course, the self-agonizing doubt.

Will he ever call for me? What if he never does?

Will he still hate me?

Of course, he will.

And what if he’s escaped?

Impossible. The wards would have let me know.

On and on it went, until the Dark Lord was nearly sick of his own mind.

It came very unexpectedly. The day he was not imagining any significant change, Lord Voldemort was sitting by the fire, trying to read, to distract his failing thoughts…and then…he heard, in the weeping sunset.   

Voldemort.

He stood, and apparated without a second thought, his mind swirling with possibilities. Perhaps, if he had, he would have been at least somewhat prepared.

Harry called for him in the garden. And Voldemort came like a shadow, a black shroud warping into existence just beyond his reach.

He swallowed against his dry throat. Seeing Voldemort again in person, and not just in a memory, recalled some of his old feelings back, no matter what he now knew about the man. His sense of fight or flight returned, his sense of danger whenever they met—perhaps, in part, because he was planning to escape with a wand he did not yet have. He was sure the elder wand was on Voldemort’s body, though. All he had to do was call for it.

Still.

Something stalled.

Whether it was the moment itself—seeing Voldemort once again, or Voldemort seeing him once again—neither of them moved. It was like a heavy blanket surrounded them, and they were immune to all other sounds.

Before, Harry would have said the look in Voldemort’s eye was anger. His eyes seemed alight, and there was a small amount of tension radiating from his body. Now, after the memories, Harry knew what it really looked like—want. Add to the fact that there was a creeping sensation of his every move being analyzed, Harry’s gaze drifted away with a small amount of embarrassment.

When Harry looked back up, there was a moment of understanding on Voldemort’s face, which was strange in itself, and the man’s desperate expression cleared. Harry could still see it—desire—hidden beneath the surface, but now his expression was much more controlled.

He must have realized he was making me uncomfortable….

So they stood, neither of them making a move or speaking. When, finally, Harry was unable to take it any longer, he spoke into the quiet sunset.

“You know I can’t. Not after everything you’ve done. I don’t know what else to say.”

Voldemort said nothing. When Harry looked up, the man was still staring at him, although this time, he looked at Harry as though he were a marvel of life.

Harry hated their connection, right at this moment, because it suddenly flared to life with Voldemort’s feelings. 

Fond. Fond. Fond.

His scar was making him shake with Voldemort’s usually secured and occluded mind. Never before had Harry felt so much…warmth…coming from his scar, so much emotion, that it was almost unbearable, given the circumstances. Didn’t he hear what Harry had said? He couldn’t reciprocate the man’s feelings! He couldn’t—

“Is it so hard to believe that I am merely overjoyed at your existence, Harry Potter?” Voldemort’s voice was soft, “I knew you could never return my feelings… even before I left you with those memories. Even before I returned you to the world… I knew, long ago, that you would never feel for me. I have hurt you beyond reconciliation. I have burned your closest friends and allies with barely a thought—and even now, I only grieve because it puts that much more distance between us…”

Voldemort took a careful step closer, and Harry took a step back.

“Harry Potter… the only question that begs us now, is where do we go from here?”

Harry stood entirely still while Voldemort spoke. He, too, didn’t know where their relationship would take them now. While Harry was still processing everything he had seen, Voldemort had years to live with it…had years to process his own changing thoughts towards him….

And would he hate Harry for leaving him, like he was about to do? Would he let him go?

“There’s only one solution, then. I have to—”

“No.” Voldemort’s voice cut him off in the chilling wind, and a sense of finality was upon them. The sun had truly set by now, and Voldemort’s eyes glowed in the coming darkness. Harry took another step backwards.

“I cannot allow you to leave. You must—”

Harry knew the time had come. He didn’t answer. Instead, he put his back against the wards, stretched out his hand, and summoned the deathly hallow in Voldemort’s pocket.

A tearing sound silenced them both, along with Voldemort’s stunned expression when the Elder wand came sailing into Harry’s outstretched hand from Voldemort’s inner pocket.

But there was no forthcoming retaliation. Harry’s heart thumped wildly in his chest when Voldemort merely stood there, staring at Harry as though seeing him for the first time.

Harry tore his gaze away when the feeling became too much. His scar was practically searing with Voldemort’s inner panic.

No, no, no!

With the Elder wand in hand, and all three hallows in his possession, Harry felt more powerful than he ever had before. With a wave of the wand, he tore a hole through the wards. And with the wards falling, even partially, it seemed to spur Voldemort into action.

He shot out a spell that hit Harry in the foot, slowing him down. Harry barely felt it, though. He was already twisting into apparation, only one location in mind in a world he didn’t yet know.

Harry’s last vision was of Voldemort’s desperation, the insurmountable anguish that bled through his scar, and his face crumpled in a pain Harry knew all too well.

The pain of losing someone important. The loss, the fear of a life without them.  

But it was more than that.

Voldemort’s face was the look of… resignation.

Lord Voldemort fell down when Harry Potter apparated away from him in a moment of flurry. His heart twisted in a way he was unused to, pounding with adrenaline he had not felt in a long time.

So, Harry Potter was the Master of the Elder wand. He should have known. The boy was so remarkable in every aspect, how was it not him?

But the how’s and why’s seemed so trivial now, in the wake of more important things.

Like following after the boy… making sure he came to no harm. The world had all but forgotten Harry Potter, yes, but that did not mean there were not…fanatics. Or those who remembered him purely for the fact that Lord Voldemort had sought after him with a frenzy no one could deny. Or his eldest Death Eaters. Surely, yes, there were those who would remember him.

But there was a feeling inside of him he couldn’t deny. Recalled with Malfoy’s words when Voldemort had asked him about love.

“M-maybe if…someone was feeling…unrequited love…the best cure would be to…separate themselves…from the person they love.”

Separation. Was that truly the answer?

He closed his eyes.

Because even if it was not…Lord Voldemort was sure of one thing only.

Harry Potter would bring him to his knees.  

Chapter Text

When his father looked at him over the rim of a strong glass of firewhiskey, Draco knew instinctively that this would be no ordinary conversation. His mother looked visibly sick, pale, and deathly afraid to speak.

Before any of them could begin, however, Draco felt a brief flare in the wards. He stood up suddenly, looking from his father to his mother for confirmation.

“The Dark Lord—I think…he’s left.”

“Then we have little time to talk.” Lucius intoned in a bleak voice, his face paling considerably despite the momentary relief Draco felt when he knew his Lord was gone, even for a moment.

“You will not speak of this to anyone. Understood?”

Draco nodded, understanding immediately the implications of speaking about their Lord, even in a quiet room when the Dark Lord was presumably away.

“I will not say what, exactly, I have seen.” Lucius began, swirling his firewhiskey around the glass, “It is not our place to…assume…to know what our Lord is thinking. That being said, I will acknowledge that… something…has shifted our Lord’s attention away from his duties. It is also not… presumptuous of me to be aware of the increasing rumours surrounding our Lord and his private activities. Only Salazar knows how long it has been since those stories started…”

Draco knew the rumours, of course. How could he not? That their Lord was preoccupied with the momentous task of finding a lost boy was just the start of them. But it had been going for so many years now, Draco no longer paid any attention to that sort of gossip, forever unknowing what was true and what was just hearsay.    

Now, however….

After a brief silence, Lucius looked at Narcissa and encouraged her with a slight nod of his head.

“I am… also not allowed to speak of it…” Narcissa spoke in a hushed voice, as though afraid the Dark Lord would swoop down on her in an instant for even mentioning the forbidden topic.

“I was asked to… heal someone… recently… I cannot say who. But I do know that something dangerous is starting and we must be prepared for— Draco!”

He had been listening to his mother when, all of a sudden, his mark had flared an angry black. He let out an involuntary scream. Draco had never been called so violently before.

“I—I’m sorry I have to—!”

Narcissa was on her feet in an instant, and so was Lucius.

“Do you think he knows? What we were saying…?” Narcissa fretted in a sudden, agonizing fear.

Lucius’s face was a hard line, and Draco didn’t have time to decipher it before he apparated out of Malfoy Manor and into the Dark Lord’s office. Draco was fearful that he would be killed for gossiping about his Lord. Could he know what they said? They had barely said anything at all, but it was surely enough.

When he arrived, what he saw did little to put him at ease. The Dark Lord sat in silence, staring at Draco almost as though he had forgotten he had just called for him. Draco, meanwhile, was shaking. He never felt so young, so exposed, and that was quite telling, seeing as Draco was in his fifties now.  

“M-My Lord? You called?”

After a minute of strained silence, the Dark Lord closed his eyes.

“Sit. I have…a task for you.”

Draco sat down immediately in the offered chair. He had a terrible feeling. He still hadn’t ruled out being caught in the midst of gossip, so with a trembling voice, Draco asked,

“W-What task, my Lord?”

The Dark Lord kept his eyes shut, looking…pained. As though he didn’t want to give Draco this task, but saw no other option. At last, the Lord opened his eyes, but said something so far removed from Draco’s immediate fears that he was left momentarily stunned.

“Harry…Potter.”

Harry didn’t think when he apparated into the unknown. He knew very few places of safety, but what caught him the most was the desperate need for information, and thus, he found himself in the one place he thought could provide him with evidence of a new, changed world: Diagon Alley.

If the resignation he had seen in Voldemort was any given sign, the man would not follow him. Harry prayed he would not follow— he didn’t want to imagine taking their fight to the streets.

He apparated into a small, dark alleyway just outside the Leaky Cauldron. It was night now, and while he didn’t know what the situation would be like, Harry was reluctant to admit that he was feeling… afraid. He was deathly scared of what he would find after nearly half a century gone in his absence.  

It was almost crushing, the adrenaline rushing through him, the fear. What would a world ruled by Voldemort look like?

It wouldn’t do to stand here forever, though. When he spied out of the dark alleyway, he could still see the small, dingy shop with its creaking sign swaying in the wind—at least that was still the same. It was quiet outside, and he walked out slowly, anticipating someone, something to stop him—anything—but nothing did. Nothing obstructed him at all as he creeped up to the door, pushed, and walked into the familiar setting of the Leaky Cauldron. Only—

“Hello, there. How may I help you?” A tall, dark man was watching him from behind the counter.

It wasn’t Tom the barman, that was for certain.

Harry took a hesitant step in, failing to hide his awe at the strangeness of the interior. The fireplace was still there—and the stairs where no doubt you could room for the night. But still…this was not the same, dirty old bar he had stepped into when he was eleven. There was new wood on the floors with dark rugs. There were new counters, and pictures on the walls. It didn’t seem muggle, though. The atmosphere still screamed of magic. Just…new. It had, evidently, undergone renovations. 

The barman squinted when Harry failed to provide a proper answer.

“What can I get for you?” the man tried again.

“Oh!” Harry turned to look at him. The new barman was a tall, middle-aged man with a beard. The rest of the Leaky Cauldron was empty except for an elderly witch drinking in the corner. She ignored him, thankfully.

“Uh… I’m just—”

Harry suddenly realized he had not a knut to his name. Would Gringotts still have his vault, or had it been confiscated by Voldemort after the war?

Harry also belatedly realized that he must look very odd. After all, he was wearing one of Voldemort’s old robes. He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of options either before he left.

“I’m just… heading to Diagon Alley…” Harry eventually decided on. That wasn’t too suspicious, was it?

With the barman still staring at him, Harry felt like he had made a mistake. But then the man grunted and waved him into the back.

“Don’t see too many visitors going through the old route, nowadays. Most just use the floo. You know how to get in, right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Harry hurried into the back, thankful to be out of the barman’s scrutinizing eye. Looking at the brick wall, Harry counted up to the right brick before stopping.

I need to disguise myself a little. What if someone recognizes me?

While it was somewhat doubtful anyone would immediately recognize him, Harry thought it couldn't hurt to be careful. He changed his hair to a pale blonde, reminiscent of Malfoy, and shortened the length a little. As an extra precaution, Harry pulled his hood over his head. Thinking that would do for now, Harry tapped the brick. The archway moved aside to reveal Diagon Alley. It was night, so he could hardly even see with the glaring lights of the few shops still open. However, from what he could see, he was almost laughing in disbelief.

During the war, Diagon Alley had been hit the hardest. People scurrying across the road, in a hurry to complete their shopping and then rushing home. People afraid. Fear, true fear, that they would be targeted and killed for daring to come out of their homes.  

But now…with the war over, and Voldemort the victor, Harry had rather thought this place would be dead. Perhaps some activity, sure, but he didn’t think it would be—

Alive. People talking animatedly in groups here and there. Not afraid, no, but…

Happy. They seem… happy.

Looks can be deceiving though, Harry thought as he moved from the archway and onto the street.

Harry noticed a few new shops as he walked, but otherwise, everything else was largely the same. It was surprising, but perhaps Voldemort didn’t want to change a place so integral to the wizarding world.  

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t even know what he should be doing.

What should he be doing?

He was free—or as free as he could be right now. He didn’t know if Voldemort would follow him, or perhaps, if not himself, send someone else to follow him. Harry did not like that possibility, and so he shut it out of his mind.

But really. What should he do? He was 40 years in the future, no money, no home. Harry’s entire mission and life had been set up to destroy Voldemort. But now that Harry had seen the man’s memories…now that he knew so much more than he ever wished to…he didn’t know what he should do with himself now that he was, officially, on his own.

Dumbledore would likely tell him to continue the mission. That Harry should find Nagini and kill her and then somehow find a way to kill the horcrux in himself too. To render Voldemort mortal once again.    

But somehow…Harry didn’t feel like doing this. Not anymore. Not after he had witnessed so many…emotions in Voldemort. Emotions Harry didn’t even think was possible in Voldemort. And besides, what was the point? What was he even trying to save, when the war was over for 40 years now?

When he looked around at the people shopping on the streets of Diagon Alley, everything seemed…normal. Almost. And who was he to start up a war again? For friends 40 years gone now?

He felt his eyes grow wet at the thought, and decided to hurry into a side street with fewer people to see him break down. He realized he was on the edge of Knockturn Alley, but by this point, he didn’t care. 

Instead, he leaned against the curving wall and sat down, tired all of a sudden. He instinctively pulled his knees to his chest and tried to stop the flow of tears.

He felt lost.

He was lost.  

And although it was surely ridiculous, Harry couldn’t help but think of Voldemort. What was he doing right now? Was he going mad because Harry had left?

Now both of us are lost…Harry thought, and somehow, that was more painful than he thought it would be.

Chapter Text

Harry knew he couldn’t stay sitting on edge of Knockturn alley forever—not only was it dangerous, but people were starting to stare. After what seemed like hours, Harry finally decided he needed somewhere to stay. The only place even remotely open at this hour would be the Leaky Cauldron, however, Harry currently had no money.

Perhaps… he could offer to work there for a time in exchange for a room. It was worth a shot.

With his hair still glamoured platinum blonde, Harry doubted anyone would recognize him. It helped too that Harry kept his scar covered. 

The walk back to the Leaky Cauldron was quiet, now; everyone had left for the evening as night settled in. By the time he headed back into the bar, he noted the old witch in the corner was gone, replaced by three young men sharing drinks at the center table. The barman noticed him approach, and Harry just decided to be out with it, embarrassment aside.

“I’m looking for a place to stay—”

“Oh, certainly, we have—”

“—But I don’t have any money right now. D-Do you have any work I could do…in replacement?”

Harry internally cringed at his awkward tone, but he hoped he looked decent enough to be allowed to work.

“How old are you? What’s your name?” The man asked skeptically, looking him up and down. Harry really couldn’t blame him. He knew he looked underage, even without his disguise.

“Seventeen, almost eighteen” Harry answered honestly, “And my name…”

Harry ran a blank, trying to come up with a decent name in the span of a few seconds. Why hadn’t he thought of this before walking up to the man?

“Harrison—”

A loud, roaring laughter from the table behind him. The barman looked annoyed, and sighed while Harry stalled.

“Those three just came in. If they get any louder, I swear I’ll cut them off. Bloody vampires.”

“Vampires?” Harry asked, turning to look, suddenly alarmed. Why were there vampires sitting in bar at the Leaky Cauldron? Admittingly, Harry didn’t know much about the species, but he definitely didn’t think they liked to hang around witches and wizards very much. And weren’t dark creatures banned—

Harry cut off his line of thinking. He felt strangely disoriented, remembering he was 40 years into the future. Right. Things…have probably changed.

“So d’you think I could…work for a bit for a room, sir?” Harry brought the conversation back on topic.

“Ah right. Well…” The barman paused, looking around the near empty establishment, then back to Harry.

“Oh, what the hell. I don’t have any guests here tonight, besides those three. I’ll tell you what. You can work the morning shift, which is usually busy, and I’ll let you stay the night. Room 3. How’s that?”

Harry smiled, grateful.

“That’s perfect. Thank you…uh…” Harry realized he didn’t know the man’s name.

“Will. Don’t worry… Harrison—I won’t press you for your name either.”

Harry turned red, embarrassed that the slip in his name had not been forgotten.

“Right. Thank you Will. What time should I…?”

“Seven. Come down by then and I’ll get you started.”

With that, Harry turned to go up the stairs. He didn’t turn around to notice the three pairs of eyes watching him go.  

Draco Malfoy hadn’t known what to think when his Lord had given him an unexpected mission—he was hardly accustomed to doing much of anything for his Lord, let alone this seemingly momentous task.

“Harry Potter…lives. Find him.”

That alone had been enough to shake Draco’s entire being. Harry Potter, the infamous boy-who-vanished, was actually alive? Was this the reason for the Dark Lord’s sudden stay at Malfoy Manor? But then his Lord spoke again, and Draco was left in another state of shock.

“Find him…and…make sure he is safe. Stay with him…but don’t force him to go anywhere. There are those who would do him harm…I entrust you with this, Draco, because there is no one else he would depend on or recognize in this world.”

Draco, of course, had questions. Many, many questions. But he didn’t ask a single one. Couldn’t. Because Draco remembered his previous conversation with the Dark Lord about—

Unrequited love.

Oh Salazar. This could not be happening.

Which was why, not even an hour after his Lord had dismissed him, Draco found himself struggling to stay composed. He didn’t know where Harry Potter might have run off to…he might have vanished entirely once again, if not for the tracking spell his Lord had, apparently, spelled on him just before he apparated. Harry Potter was in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry Potter needed someone to look after him. That was all Draco knew.

“Excuse me, Will, but did you happen to see anyone come in lately that seemed…out of place?”

Will Whitham was the current bartender of the little pub. Draco honestly didn’t know much about the man, only that he was a half-blood, thirty, and tended to cater more to those in need than those who were not. If Harry Potter was somewhere in the Leaky Cauldron, then it was highly likely he had passed by the bartender.

“Ah, Lord Malfoy. As a matter of fact… I did. A boy came in not too long ago—are you…related?”

The last question was posed very carefully. Draco knew very well that a half-blood would not want to start scandalizing rumours about the Malfoy family. It would be more than troublesome. Still, something about the phrase caught Draco off guard.

“Boy? And why would we be related? What did he look like?”

“Lord Malfoy, I apologize, I meant no harm... the boy came in not an hour ago, said he was seventeen, and had blonde hair, not so unlike your own. That’s the only reason I thought…. He had no means to pay, so he offered to work for a room. I gave him the morning shift. I can ring him down if you’d like…?”

Draco bit his lip, thinking. This…couldn’t be Potter. For one thing, he was seventeen. Potter was not. And also…bright blonde hair was not Potter’s usual black messy hair. This was likely not Potter. But….

He could be wearing a glamour. Possibly disguising his age too?

Before he could answer the question, Draco saw out of his periphery vision a slim figure darting up the stairs. He looked back, and saw two men sitting there with extra sharp teeth. Vampires. Tch.

“That won’t be necessary, Will. If you don’t mind, I’ll come back in the morning…”

Under the counter, however, Draco pulled his wand and cast,

“Confundo.”

He didn’t have the luxury of waiting for morning. The vampire that snuck up the stairs looked like it was hunting….

If whatever the Dark Lord had said tonight made any impression on Draco, it was that his Lord, for whatever inexplicable reason… actually cared for Potter. Draco didn’t understand the half of it, but on the off-chance that this person was Potter in disguise, Draco would be killed for not protecting him.

Whitham looked at him with confusion in his eyes as Draco slipped up the stairs. He didn’t know which room he was in, but he found out soon enough. There was a door slightly ajar, and some kind of scuffle in Room 3. He didn’t need to theorize what was happening inside, not with the two vampires waiting downstairs.

Wand at his side, Draco kicked open the door and…found himself at the end of another wand. In the hands of the teenager.

Draco choked.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Harry Potter asked.

It could not be anyone else. Draco knew the face of Harry Potter very well. Even with the bleach blonde hair. Even without the glasses.

But—

Looking around the room, he noted the vampire was already in bonds, hands behind his back and hissing up from the floor.

But—

“Finite!” Draco yelled, before Potter could even respond. For some reason, he was staring at Draco hard, squinting his eyes like he was trying to place him. Draco could not stand the sight of him so young, like it was only yesterday when he had gone missing. What a cruel joke.

Blonde hair suddenly turned black and messy. But that was it. Nothing else changed. What?

But—

No one could appear that young without some sort of revolutionary de-aging potion, which Draco knew for a fact only reversed up to at most a decade.  This… this was impossible.

“Finite!”

Nothing changed, and Potter was looking at him like he was crazy. What was going on?

But—

Why did the Dark Lord not mention this…this…whatever this was. It was like looking into his childhood all over again, but very, very real. It was staring at him like he was the stranger.   

“Lucius…? No…” Potter whispered, his eyes raking over Draco’s form. Draco was much taller than Potter now, whereas before they had been of similar height. Draco was also sporting a neat and sophisticated beard, and his hair, although greying at the sides, was much like his father’s was—long and tied in the back.

“I…I need to sit down.”

Draco stumbled over to a chair and collapsed in it, Potter letting him come in through the door, barely acknowledging him because he, too, was stunned into silence.

“Draco…?” Potter croaked, his voice giving out in the end as he turned around to stare at him. It seemed kind of silly to note, but Draco briefly noticed that Potter did not call him Malfoy. Probably because he had confused him with his father first. How strange.  

Perhaps he was simply too dazed in the end, because Draco felt his vision darkening by the second.

Because Harry Potter was alive. Harry Potter was still, somehow, young. Harry Potter looked not a day older than when he had first gone missing.

The Dark Lord wanted Draco to protect Harry Potter for a time. Suddenly, it was all making some twisted sort of sense.

Why would Draco need to protect a man as old as himself? But Potter had clearly stepped out of time, or else, in some other way, the Dark Lord had brought him back.

It was unnatural. Unheard of.

But when was anything concerning Potter and the Dark Lord ever normal?

“Draco!” Potter yelled, and Draco felt his consciousness slipping, much like his body, sideways.

Potter caught him before he truly hit his head.

Just before he passed out, Draco wondered at who was taking care of whom. Draco, after all, had been tasked with protecting Harry Potter.

Not… the other way around.

Lord Voldemort could readily admit a lot of things. For instance, he knew he was terrible, monstrous in every way, his humanity slipped from his grasp the moment he split his soul in two. Then four. Then seven—then….

But no matter.

He knew his mind was not always…there. For instance. His rage was, sometimes, insurmountable. His possession toxic and all-consuming. His obsessions…well, they spoke for themselves.

He also knew he was deeply, irrevocably, in love. He would not deny it.

It was what the centaurs had whispered to him that day, so many years ago. The one thing he had put out of his mind, until, too late, it had crept up on him and now—now…he understood.

When had his obsession bled into something so painfully raw that the Dark Lord now felt so hopelessly lost, gutted, torn, like he was sinking deeper and deeper into a ravine he would never get out of.

What to do now…?

Harry Potter had left him. Understandably so. No, justifiably so. He, Lord Voldemort, had taken precious things away from Harry Potter’s life. He had stepped on so many wrong stones, before he even knew they were wrong to begin with. He had taken, and taken, and he had taken so much that the boy would never forgive him. He understood this. He understood even when he had returned the boy to the waking world, from whatever death he had been trapped in. 

He understood.

It…didn’t make the loss any less heart wrenching.

What to do now…?

Lord Voldemort did not know.

He had assigned Draco Malfoy the task of keeping Harry safe. He knew Malfoy would not fail him.

It…didn’t stop the pangs of distress from assaulting him since he had seen Draco off.

What if—

Lord Voldemort would have followed himself if not for the fear that their fight would escalate…that, outside, people would be more inclined to recognize them. Both of them.

And he…didn’t want to complicate an already delicate matter.

He would have followed the boy… if not for the nagging voice in his head that told him separation was the key. That, given time, perhaps…even Lord Voldemort could overcome his sickness of the heart. If Draco Malfoy were to be believed, that is.

What to do now…?

Lord Voldemort did not know. He was standing in his office, the pensieve sitting on his desk, still on the last memory he had shared with Harry Potter.

His mind feebly noted that the cloak was gone from his inner robe. Harry Potter had found a way to take it back. How… was another question entirely.

The only possession of his he had left…was the broken snitch. He clutched it in his hand, the warmth of its wings fluttering around his pale fingers.

What do I….

He watched, as though from some vantage far above his own body, as he opened the window and carefully, slowly…released his fingers from around the golden ball.

It flew haphazardly into the wind, its little wings struggling to take flight.

Then, as it got its bearings, it soared into the cloudless night, up, down, sideways, then it was gone.

Lord Voldemort kept track of it for as long as he could. When he could not see it any longer, he turned from the window and over to the fireplace.

Salazar Slytherins portrait had been taken down long ago, when Lord Voldemort could no longer stand its criticisms and comments, but suddenly, the Dark Lord desired advice…and he remembered something else he had, hidden away too in the depths of his manor.

Without further thought, or quite possibly, what exactly he was stepping in to… he apparated into the basement. This was where he kept a number of his highly dangerous objects, but the portrait he was looking for was located at the very back, hidden behind a heavy black curtain.

Hogwarts naturally made a portrait of every Headmaster since the Founding.

Albus Dumbledore was here, hidden behind a curtain too. Perhaps he could spare the old man a word. He did have a few things to say.

But right next to it—and the one Lord Voldemort really wanted to see…the one he had taken but never opened since discovering his… treachery….

The heavily blanketed portrait of Hogwarts’ briefest Headmaster…the only portrait in existence of the man who could either ruin him entirely… or help him.

Severus Snape.

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort pulled the curtain off of Severus Snape’s portrait, letting it fall to the ground, dramatically waiting for the greasy haired man to say something snide to his previous Lord. Instead, all he was left with was a bleak, blank stare. Voldemort decided to begin the conversation after a minute of staring. He started with the truth.  

“You loved Lily Potter.” 

Lord Voldemort knew Severus well enough to know that this statement unnerved him. His face pulled into the smallest frown.  

“Yes.”

“You loved her…and I killed her.”

“Yes.” Severus said simply, his black eyes drilling into Voldemort’s own red ones.

“You protected Harry Potter until the very end. When you could do no more.”

“Yes.”

“But you detested Dumbledore… for his plan to kill the boy.”

“Yes. Why are you asking this of me now, when surely you know all the answers, my Lord?” Severus said the last part scathingly, pure venom ripped from his mouth.

Lord Voldemort, however much he would have taken offence in the past, now felt only hollow and empty at the thinly veiled threat. Severus Snape could do him no harm. Hurt him with words, yes. Ruin him emotionally, in a matter of speaking. But anything else…his memory was merely trapped in the portrait. That was all he was.

“You…loved… Lily Potter.” Lord Voldemort said the words softly, reverently, and Severus Snape finally snapped.

“What is the meaning of this meeting, my Lord? You have won. The world is at your feet. Despite whatever nonsense Albus believed, Potter failed—"

“Harry Potter did not fail.” Voldemort cut him off. However much Dark Lord was uncertain of how to proceed, however much he was uncertain of the future…and how, if ever, Severus Snape could help him, for some reason, this fact seemed monumentally important to correct. Harry Potter did not fail. Lord Voldemort may still be standing, physically alive. His horcrux in the boy may still be breathing. The world may indeed be at his feet.

But he—had never felt so utterly wretched as when Harry Potter had vanished under the crack of apparation.

Defeated.

Severus Snape stood still, for a moment, as if processing Voldemort’s words with more thought.

“Harry Potter did not fail.” Voldemort repeated solemnly, staring into the widened eyes of Severus Snape.  

“I…see.” Severus said at last, when Voldemort offered no more.

“I come to you, Severus, seeking advice.” The Dark Lord whispered, “You may stay silent. I only ask because you are, quite possibly, the only man who would understand my plight.”

“And… what plight is that?” The portrait seemed almost reluctant to ask.

A soft, sad smile played on Lord Voldemort’s lips. Severus Snape looked mildly alarmed. Perhaps, in part, because he had never seen this side of him before.  

“The same plight as yours, Severus,” Voldemort closed his eyes, unwilling to see the judgmental stare of his former spy.

 “I fell in love. And…they can never love me back.”

Harry stared at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy, having moved him to the bed after fainting on the floor. The vampire was still hissing from where Harry had left him, tied up with a gag in his mouth. It was only a matter of time before the other vampires took notice of their missing friend. 

He sighed once again, visibly tired. Could the world not just leave him alone for once? Not even a day had passed since his escape from Voldemort and already he had been attacked by a vampire and Draco bloody Malfoy had burst into his room unannounced. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Did Voldemort send him? It seemed far too likely to be anything else.

And still…he didn’t know what to feel.

Draco was undeniably older. As in…Lucius Malfoy’s age, from Harry’s time. It was disconcerting, to say the least. It made Harry feel so infinitely small. It made the reality of his situation much clearer, in a way that hadn’t truly struck him until now.

Harry was still young while everyone else around him had grown up. They had lived entire lives while Harry was simply…gone.  

But he didn’t want to think about that. Because whenever he so much as thought about where he had been…what had happened to him…a piercing headache would erupt in his mind. He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts.

He would pursue that topic another day…for now—

Without further introspection, Harry levitated the vampire out of the room and into the hallway, and with a fair warning not to trespass again, he warded the door against anyone seeking to harm him. The only reason the vampire had gotten inside in the first place was because Harry had initially forgotten to ward the door. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

There was only one bed, so Harry took a small couch in the corner and curled up. He would wait for Draco to wake up naturally. The man likely had a thousand questions, if going by his initial reaction to seeing him, and he didn’t want to bother with those questions right now. Besides—

Harry felt like he hadn’t slept in ages.

Love.

Once upon a time, Lord Voldemort had detested the word. He had thought it pathetic, how utterly corruptible people became when they fell in love. How utterly useless they were when they loved someone, and were loved in return. How weak they became when they pined over someone they could never have.

But after so many years of doing just that…he understood the term more intimately than he had ever thought he would. He had tasted that forbidden taste and now…he could not go back. Was he weak?

No.

But…

Severus Snape had been reluctant to give him any advice at all, given that the object of his affection was, in fact, Harry Potter himself.

But after asking a rather simple question, the man seemed satisfied enough.

“Would you die for him?”

And Lord Voldemort immediately knew the answer, as shocking as it was—there was simply no other way for him to answer. And in that moment, he knew—Lord Voldemort had been absolutely ruined by Harry Potter. 

“Yes.”

“Good. Then…”

From there, Severus gave him his advice in three parts.

Letting the boy go. Acceptance. And finally…repentance.  

“Will you, my Lord, be able to repent for all you have wronged? Who knows. Once, I believed you incapable of understanding the very concept of love. Now…I simply… do not know.”

Lord Voldemort had left the portrait after that. As he apparated back to his rooms, he pondered on what Severus had said. He had already let the boy go. Acceptance of it was much harder. Repentance, however—

“Master…” Nagini slithered out from beneath the bed. She wrapped herself around his body, offering comfort with the shard of his soul she held inside her.

“Nagini. What have you been up to?”

He had not seen his pet for quite some days. He had ordered her to stay away while he took care of Harry Potter, not wanting to scare the boy, but he had not seen her since. It seemed, now that the boy was no longer here, she had come back.

“Hunting in the forest, Master. I smelled the boy was gone…is that your doing?”

“No…he—left…”

“Master…”

As Lord Voldemort sat down in the armchair by the hearth, Nagini slid down to the rug to surround herself in warmth.

Repentance. Lord Voldemort already regretted what he had done, because it hurt the boy the most, in the end. But repentance required…much more than sorrow…much more than regret. Remorse. Did he feel remorse for killing Harry Potter’s friends? Yes. If he could take it back, he would. But the feeling…the emotion behind it…was simply because he had caused Harry Potter harm. Not because he felt anything for the fallen friends. Not because he believed that killing itself was wrong.

He truly was a terrible person. He would not deny it. He had done too much to stop at this point.

Repentance. It required one to feel remorse. 

He did. But only for the boy. For Harry Potter.

But was that good enough, though? Would that kind of remorse be enough to bring Harry Potter back?

Likely…

Not.

Harry woke up sweating on the couch in the early morning light. He jumped up, unsure of where he was for a moment. Draco was lying asleep on the bed, and—

He had dreamt of Voldemort. His scar, however odd, tingled pleasantly.

The man had…talked to the portrait of Snape. Snape had given him advice. And…

Repentance. Voldemort was wondering on how to repent for his crimes. It was…

Absurd. Illogical. Against everything he had ever known about the man.

Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, wondering what on earth had become of Voldemort in the last 40 years. He knew, of course. He had seen the man’s memories. But still…it seemed…difficult to comprehend.  

Surely, he couldn’t—surely, he couldn’t actually feel…remorse.

But then, Voldemort felt love, Harry now knew, so why not remorse? He could still feel the lingering emotion on the edge of his dream, from Voldemort’s perspective. It was there. Actual...remorse. 

But it was for Harry alone… for the hurt he had caused him...it was the only kind of remorse that Voldemort could feel. It was strange. It made Harry feel at odds with himself.... 

Shaking the dream from his mind, Harry decided on a whim to order a breakfast. He still remembered his promise to the bartender Will downstairs, but there was still time before he was actually required to work. He’d eat up here while he waited for Draco to explain himself. The man was still out cold.     

If Voldemort did send him to Harry…then Harry wanted answers too. Answers about what the world was really like. If anyone would know, it would be Draco.

He looked over at the man on the bed. He hardly resembled Draco, with his neat blonde beard and long hair, and yet Harry could still see the traces of the boy he had once known.

Clang!

A sound outside the window had Harry looking. At first, he thought it was an owl looking to get inside. Instead, he saw something he thought he’d never see again.

The broken snitch came racing inside the room the moment Harry opened the window. Its wings were damaged, and it flew lopsided at times. Still, it fluttered around him, as though seeking in the comfort of a familiar, long-lost friend.

“Hello. It’s been a while, yeah?”

Harry held out a hand, and the snitch fell comfortably into his palm.

I open at the close

Harry knew that Voldemort last had the snitch. Perhaps…he had let the snitch go... just like… Harry….

“I guess…I’ll keep you for a little while longer…” Harry said softly, tucking the snitch into his pocket.

It would be his reminder. Of the moment he had disappeared, and failed Dumbledore’s mission. It would remind him of what it means to be alive, and the price he had paid.   

Yes.

It would be his reminder…to keep on going.

To live.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy woke up with a pain in his neck. It was likely cramped, but that didn’t explain the rather plain white bed he was laying on, or the grimy windows, or the rickety table in the middle of the room.

Where was he again?

Then it hit him. In the most painful way possible.

The Dark Lord had happened. Harry Potter had happened. He had a mission to complete—and where the hell was Potter now? Did he run off while Draco had—

He blanched. He remembered now, clearly. He had fainted upon realizing that the boy—boy! —was his exact same self as when he’d gone missing. When Draco had been expecting an older man much like himself, he was met instead with an eighteen-year-old. 

Of course, the shock would be too much. But if the small traces of sunlight filtering in through the window was any indication… Draco must have slept through the entire night.

He groaned against his pillow. He had never before felt so unsettled.

What was he to do? What did his Lord expect of him? And had Draco already failed protecting Potter? Where was he?

He got up, cursing his neck pain, and looked over the room.

There was no sign of Potter or his belongings. But then, if Draco remembered the night correctly, the boy hadn’t had a lot of possessions to begin with.

Just as he had the thought to ask the bartender downstairs, the door creaked open. Potter stood there with a dumbfounded expression on his face. He was wearing his glamour again, the one with pale blonde hair and different colored eyes. 

“Oh. You’re awake.”

And that, apparently, was the beginnings of Draco Malfoy’s troubles.

Harry had a very surreal morning. After failing to wake up Draco, Harry headed down to the bar, to see what he had to do for the morning shift. Will had seemed mildly confused by Harry’s presence, which Harry belatedly realized may have had something to do with Draco Malfoy sleeping upstairs. But a job was a job, and Will seemed more than happy to accommodate Harry’s offer for letting him sleep in a room last night. And while the Leaky Cauldron wasn’t exactly a job Harry had ever envisioned for himself, it was actually quite relaxing. Will had Harry stay mostly in the kitchen, washing dishes, and whenever he needed help, Harry would take breakfast out to the dining customers.

There were little customers to begin with, but whenever Harry happened to overhear a conversation about anything, gossip or otherwise, he still felt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of…passivity…in a world ruled by Voldemort.

When the war was going on, fear and mind-numbing terror was all anyone could think about. People were being killed daily…attacks on muggles and muggleborns…so what on earth had happened to the wizarding world in the meantime? Had people truly grown that compliant, letting Voldemort run the show for 40 years?

Maybe it’s not compliancy…but rather people being indoctrinated for nearly half a century…

He simply didn’t know.

On more than one occasion, whenever Harry was free and Will was not doing too much, Harry asked whatever subtle questions he could think of. If Will raised his eyebrows just a little too much, well, no one needed to know.

“What’s the date again? And…year?” 

September 25^th. 2038. Did you get hit with a confundus charm?

“Didn’t this place used to be run by someone else? Whatever happened to him?”   

Oh, you must be talking about Tom, the old owner of this establishment… before the war. He’s passed away a long time ago now. In fact, I didn’t think anyone remembered him.

“I’m thinking of going back to school for seventh year. I missed it. Is Hogwarts good?”

Of course, Hogwarts is good! Where else would you go? And how did you miss a year? Last I heard, every witch and wizard must complete seven years of schooling. It’s standard policy.   

It was only when Harry asked directly about Voldemort did the man shut him down, casting a nervous glance around the pub.

We don’t talk about the Dark Lord here. Now off you get!

It was eleven-thirty, but by the time Harry was finished in the kitchen, most of the morning crowd had already left, and Will said Harry was free to go. And so, walking up the stairs two at a time, Harry made it back to his temporary room.

And just in time too.

Draco was finally awake.

When Potter walked back into the room, Draco’s mouth went dry as unwanted thoughts started rampaging in his head.

What’s he going to say?

Is this even real?

What happens now?

All Potter did was walk in and take a seat on a small armchair while taking off his glamour, but Draco felt like he was being examined. Up close, Draco too was examining his former classmate. Silence reigned for a few moments, before Potter broke it off with a sigh.

“I don’t know if he sent you…but I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not now, at least. But I need to ask something from you. And I need you to answer me. Right now. In honesty.”

Draco stared at the boy in front of him—he looked so damnably young that it was almost impossible to take him seriously. But Draco did. Because if anything, he knew Potter. And Potter would hate if he treated him like just a boy.

A boy who should be dead.

But that was in the past. Because Potter was certainly not dead. Not if he was, in fact, sitting across from him and staring at him so intently.

 He sat up a little straighter on the bed.

“Alright. Ask away.”

Potter looked a little startled by Draco’s casualness, but then the boy’s eyes steeled and he asked a question which caught Draco completely off-guard.

“Is this world… better? Are people…happy? Safe? Or is it like—you know….” Potter trailed off, seeming uncertain.

Draco sat there with an open mouth before realizing Potter was actually serious. Did Harry Potter know nothing, then? How?

Was this his Lord’s doing? He didn’t see how that could be. The man had been sick with obsession for the past four decades searching for him.

Oh Salazar…why was there always something with Harry Potter?

Draco sat there for a moment, thinking of an appropriate answer. Because while the world was better in some ways, he didn’t think Potter would wholeheartedly agree with him either. Not without actually seeing it firsthand.

He sighed. It looks like this mission would take much longer than Draco had originally anticipated.

“Well…I can’t really say—”

“If you aren’t going to tell me, then just—” Potter hissed angrily, probably already deciding that Draco was resigned to keeping him in the dark. As though Draco was being purposefully antagonistic.

Draco cut him off.

“—but I can show you what it's like. Of course, only if you’re up to it.”

Potter was staring at him like he’d grown two heads. But Draco Malfoy was hardly seventeen any more. Their old school rivalry was something of a distant memory, and Draco was an adult. Had been for a long time now.

“I think…you know, if you want to know what the world's really like...there might be some people you’d very much like to meet. They survived the war. I can’t really locate them right now, but if we do some searching, I’m sure they’re still around. And we can go to Hogwarts. The Ministry of Magic. We can visit any place you’d like. Really, just say it and I’ll take you there. I’m—on duty so…”

Potter had the sense to look apologetic for his outburst. Looking down, the boy quietly wiped his eyes on his sleeve while Draco watched.  

“Thank you... I… just want to know what’s been going on. But you really... don’t mind? You don’t have…you know, other obligations or anything?”

“I do, like my wife and son. But Astoria can manage for a while on her own, and Scorpius is at Hogwarts until the holidays.”

“And Voldemort…he sent you…to watch over me?”

Draco saw no point in lying.

He also couldn’t help the small flinch at the Dark Lord’s name being spoken so openly, like Potter was used to doing in the past.

“Yes and no.” He looked at Potter meaningfully, “He wants me to protect you and make sure you’re okay, but he also made it a point not to force you to go anywhere you don’t want to.”

Potter looked a little lost at that, his eyes glazed over in thought. Then he shook his head with a small, sad smile.

“Thank you.”

And then, on the spur of the moment, Draco did something he had not done since that moment on the train, when he was but an eleven-year-old child.

He held out his hand.

And even though the boy was initially confused, Potter eventually took it with a laugh. He remembered.

It was absurd.

But not… entirely unwelcoming either. 

Chapter Text

Six months later....

Harry sighed once again, wondering what was taking Draco so long to come back. He was currently sitting in the small cottage kitchen, nursing a cup of hot tea while reading the Daily Prophet and waiting for Draco to come back with even more news.

It wasn’t like there was much else to do.

And the news he was currently reading wasn’t all that promising either. At least this time the title wasn’t just the usual propaganda, but an actual worry.

Where is the Dark Lord? Why Our Lord Hasn’t Been Seen in Over a Year

To be fair, though, the title was wrong. It seemed as though Voldemort had been missing since the time of Harry’s departure, which was six months ago, not a year. It was year, however, since Voldemort was last seen outside in public, and people had begun to speculate.

According to Draco, this wasn’t the first time the Dark Lord had gone missing from his own agenda—there were the times when he was frantically searching for memories of Harry, only to disappear for months when he had found something of significance. This time, however, Voldemort had gone completely off the radar. The man’s entire inner circle was frantically asking who had last seen the Dark Lord and spoken to him. A fact that, inadvertently or not, fell to Draco. He had indeed been the last person to see or speak to the Dark Lord.

And Harry…wasn’t sure how he felt about it all.

Where was Voldemort? And if he wasn’t following Harry around, then what was he up to?

Harry shifted somewhat uncomfortably at that thought, because he knew, at least in part, the answer to that question. But it wasn’t like he was…intentionally dreaming of Voldemort. Rather, it was the horcrux connection, and Harry couldn’t help but fall into Voldemort’s mind when the man’s barriers were down. Which, lately, seemed almost every night.

They didn’t speak in their dreams. Harry wasn’t even sure if Voldemort knew his human horcrux was watching. It was like his old dreams of Voldemort, where Harry would look through Voldemort’s eyes and think and feel as the man.  

So yes, Harry knew exactly where Voldemort was, and somewhat of what he was up to. Unlike the Prophet, however, Harry was unsure if that thought made him more uneasy or… less.

As for Harry himself, for the last six months, besides dreaming of Voldemort, he had been exploring the world with Draco—who had, in Harry’s opinion, become something of a friend.

It was still weird. Harry felt immensely young compared to an older, more sophisticated Malfoy Lord. And sometimes Draco still treated him like a child. Although Harry was technically eighteen, and could technically make decisions by himself, he knew next to nothing about the world he lived in. And if that made him somewhat useless, well, it was no wonder Draco felt as if he had to take care of him.

In the initial days, after agreeing to Draco’s proposal, Harry had decided to go to Gringotts as his first destination in the new world. Because, first and foremost, he had wanted to know if his vault was still accessible, if he had any money at all, or if Voldemort had confiscated everything during the war.

To find out that everything was still intact had been a huge relief. And…not the only surprise.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Potter.” The Head Goblin sat in front of Harry. Draco had stayed behind in the waiting area, and Harry was left alone with the Head of Gringotts. After confirming his identity, even under a heavy glamour, Harry was taken to the back room to…discuss.

He had not thought beforehand what this meeting would look like, if there would even be a meeting…and he suddenly remembered his…rather dramatic escape the last time he had been here. Stealing from the Lestrange vault. And riding off on the back of a dragon.

When the atmosphere turned awkward, and the Head Goblin simply stared at him, Harry coughed into the quiet.

“Sorry about the—um…”

“What’s done is done. Security measures have long since been increased, Mr. Potter. I suspect you would not succeed if you tried it again. But nevertheless, we goblins have been most anxious for your return.”

“What—what do you mean? You were…expecting me?” Harry was floored. Had the goblins known where Harry was all along? And also…

“Why didn’t you say anything to Voldemort?”

“I think you are misunderstanding me, Mr. Potter. We were most anxious for your return not because we knew where you were—alive or otherwise—but rather in the fact that your vault status had remained unaffected by your supposed ‘death’. If a witch or wizard dies, their vault automatically closes and transfers to the main family vault, unless written in a will to do otherwise. Since client information is highly restricted to only the individual client and client’s family, since you had no one but yourself as the remaining Potter heir, your vault remained intact and whole—therefore concluding you were still alive, in some form or another. And that information was not released to the public. Nor to the Dark Lord. Thus, only we goblins knew the truth, and therefore, have been waiting for your return ever since.”

Harry sat for a moment to think. So, the goblins knew his vault status hadn’t changed, and therefore, Harry had not technically ‘died’ to them. He had simply vanished.

Harry remembered Voldemort's memory of bringing him back from the pool of death.... 

Where had he been? And why couldn’t he remember anything?

Putting those questions aside, for the moment, and after confirming he still money to live by, Harry had wanted to secure a place to live, wherever he may go in the future. He wanted a place to call…home. A place to come back to.

Draco had been very helpful in this regard. When Harry voiced his concerns, back then, Draco took Harry straight back to Gringotts and had them look at any available old Potter residences that were available. While Godrick’s Hollow was out of the question, and while it was true Sirius had left him in his will as the Black heir, he didn’t quite feel like going back to Grimmauld Place would be exactly safe.

Besides that, the older manors available were a little too…stuffy…for Harry’s tastes. There was a small family cottage in the countryside, although it was desperately in need of repairs. Apparently, no one had used it since Harry’s great grandparents had lived there.  

But when Harry first laid eyes on the little house, surrounded by beautiful hills and a small white fence, he knew immediately that this was his home. Or as close to it as possible. It wasn’t Hogwarts, it never would be, but it had a special quaintness to it that Harry immediately loved. He could imagine his great grandparents living here, sitting by the windows or cooking dinner over the fire. He could also imagine the Dursley’s utter contempt at the state of its garden.

After those first days, after Harry had somewhat settled into the home with Draco’s help, he had wanted immediately to go to Hogwarts…to see what had become of his beloved castle after the war. However, Draco had warned him that classes were just starting, and Harry would have wait until the end of the year in June to be allowed on-site for visiting purposes.

It was a tough pill to swallow. Harry hated that he had to wait so long.  

Thus, for the last six months, while waiting for summer to visit Hogwarts, Harry kept up with the news (as best he could), travelled frequently to Hogsmeade (staring longingly at the castle), while Draco dropped in and out just as often to check in.

Which was why Harry was currently waiting for Draco to come back once again. It was about time the older man checked in with more news about what was happening outside. While Harry had yet to visit the Ministry of Magic, he knew he was just putting off the inevitable. But with Draco, the older man kept bringing him up to speed on what the political landscape was like, and Harry felt less and less inclined to go visit the Ministry without some significant reason. The Ministry, even without Voldemort, hadn't exactly been kind to Harry Potter in all his years of living. 

Besides all that, Draco promised to help him find out who had survived the war. Draco was currently investigating any possible leads into last remaining families of his friends. Or anyone else who had survived. Harry wasn’t expecting the man to have any information so soon, and thus was pleasantly surprised when Draco came back that very evening, announcing the most significant thing to happen in the last six months.  

“I found them. Bill and Fleur. I told you before, didn’t I? They survived the war, and were spared by going into hiding just after you disappeared.”

“How did you find them so fast? I thought—”

“It was difficult, I’ll admit. If I wasn’t actually putting in effort, I might have just given up. They’ve kept in hiding all these years because they don’t associate themselves with the Weasley family anymore. But—”

“When can we go see them? Where do they live?” Harry was excited. Possibly for the first time since he was told he had to wait to see Hogwarts again. But that excitement soon faded, as Draco continued in a more solemn tone.

“Hold on, I was getting there. The thing is…” And here Draco stumbled, collapsing into a seat and frowning, making Harry uneasy.

“What—What is it?”

Draco sighed.

“I don’t know if they’re… ready to see you. The thing is…I poked around after finding them, asking them…discreetly, of course, about you. Well, they were very hesitant to say anything at all. It could be that they didn’t want to open up to a Death Eater like me, but I also got the feeling that’s how they’ve survived up until now. I’m not sure if…if going there… as you are… would be in their best interests.”

Harry sat for a moment, stunned, but not overly shocked that Bill and Fleur might be hesitant to see him. Why would anyone want to see him, for that matter, if he had been ‘dead’ for so long regardless? But—

“But why tell me? If we can’t go meet them? Why—”

“Because, you fool, I thought of a way. Maybe. If you’re… up for pretending to be a distant relative, that is. I think… this way will have a little less…shock on them. In the end.”

And so it was, a week later, Draco had scheduled a meeting with Bill and Fleur Delacour under the pretense of a security check on a family with a history of rebellion. Draco had used his Death Eater status to convince them that, after so many years and avoiding the law, it was in their best option for Draco to personally oversee that the family was not involved in anything rebellious. Especially with the Dark Lord vanishing and tensions higher than normal.

Harry hated that Draco had essentially scared Bill and Fleur into thinking they were getting a security check. After hiding for so many years, he could only imagine the turmoil it would put their family into. Draco himself admitted that, while he wasn’t part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, having the current Malfoy Lord take a personal visit to the family would be enough to make them nervous. But Draco assured Harry there would be no actual security check. It was a gamble, yes, but Harry would take what he could if it meant he could see Bill and Fleur once again.

Even if they didn’t know who he actually was.

“Draco…I’m not sure—”

Harry couldn’t believe he was actually getting cold feet. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them. He was just…unsure of his plan. What if it backfired? What if they cursed Harry out the door? Would he be able to take another heartbreak, if the last remaining Weasley’s hated him?

“You’ll be fine. You look…Malfoy enough that they won’t ask any questions.”

That wasn’t the problem. The problem was, that for the life of him, Harry wanted to reveal himself. He didn’t want to pretend to be Malfoy’s distant cousin in training. It was against everything Harry stood for, and he wanted to be loyal to his friends and the last of their families. So…Harry planned on revealing himself sometime during the meeting. He just didn’t know when. Or how.  

Draco didn’t know this, though. He wouldn’t agree, for one thing, and secondly, Draco would probably hex him if he knew. 

“Okay. Okay I’m ready now.” Harry stumbled and took Draco’s arm. He was apparating them to the Delacour’s house. Harry didn’t know the location, so he had to side-along with Draco.

“On three. One. Two—”

With a sharp twist in his navel, and the feeling of being squeezed through a small tube, Harry and Draco were gone and landed, not a second later, in front of—

Harry had a sharp intake of breath, but otherwise kept his expression blank. The ocean was not far from where he stood, and Harry could hear the waves crashing against the rocks.

“The Burrow burnt down not long after you vanished. With everyone gone, there was nothing to return to. I assume they've been living here since the war.”

It was the Shell Cottage. The place where he had buried Dobby. Bill and Fleur still lived here, then? It was remarkable. But then again, wasn’t the cottage hidden under the Fidelius charm? Harry wondered how Draco had managed to locate the family and get them to open the wards up for their ‘inspection’.

He was just about to ask when the front door opened, and an older woman stepped outside. Harry didn’t recognize her. She looked around with her wand, undoubtedly scanning the area for anyone else. When it revealed just Harry and Draco’s presence, she put the wand away and directed them inside.

“H-how long will this inspection be, Lord Malfoy?” The woman asked nervously. Harry felt immediately guilty. Draco, however, went forth with their original plan.

“Not long, I suspect roughly an hour. We will begin with a casual conversation and then move around to inspect the house.”

“R-Right, of course. My father’s just over here—”

Harry did a double take when she said this. She looked a lot older than him, but with sleek blonde hair and blue eyes. Harry wasn’t thinking much beyond what he’d do when he saw Bill and Fleur, the only people he relatively knew, but if this was Bill’s daughter—and she looked so much like Fleur, now that he noticed—

They entered the kitchen area…and Harry knew immediately that this was a bad idea. To pretend. Even Draco beside him looked hesitant under the stiff glare of Bill Weasley. Fleur was nowhere in sight.

“Malfoy.” Bill growled, and Harry had to wonder what exactly Draco had told them when he’d said they needed to do an inspection. Bill’s eyes narrowed towards Harry, while Harry was simply staring unabashedly at the changes in Bill Weasley over time.

Still with his long, flaming red hair of a Weasley, though now with lots of grey. His fang earring was gone, and his face was still scarred from the last time Harry had seen him. He had a slight amount of wrinkles on his face from age, but otherwise—

Without meaning to, tears welled up in Harry’s eyes as he kept looking over the small but notable changes in his friend’s brother. Bill, for obvious reasons, wasn’t expecting it, and his hard eyes gradually cooled into something less harsh.

“Who’s this?” Bill asked Draco.

Draco was still trying to save their cover story with a quick explanation as to Harry’s tears, but Harry decided, right then and there, that he couldn’t do it. Even for a minute. He couldn’t pretend to be someone else in this man’s presence… in the face of his best friend’s brother. Draco seemed to sense Harry’s change in mood and groaned when Harry dropped the glamour.

“Well, so much for that.” Draco sat down at the table heavily, sighing.

Harry managed a weak, watery smile to Bill’s overblown eyes.

There was a moment of silence. A strained kind of quiet that had Bill’s daughter shooting both Harry, Draco, and Bill strange looks.

“Dad? Who’s—”

It happened in a matter of seconds. One moment, Harry had revealed himself to Bill. And the next…hell broke loose.

In the form of Fleur.

Chapter Text

It could never be said that Fleur Delacour did not love Harry Potter. At first, their relationship had been distant, and at best, a relationship based solely upon the fact that Harry himself had been a competitor in the very same school tournament. A rival. Someone to compete against. Someone to pity.    

But after saving the woman’s sister during the second task, Harry had known that Fleur had come to love him and accept him as part of her own family. It was the way she treated him like Mrs. Weasley, with warmth and affection. It was the way she and Bill had offered them shelter during the war, when hope was low and Harry had just lost Dobby.

And now, as Harry revealed himself to Bill, he quickly came to an understanding that, despite forty years of being gone, despite the war being lost, despite Voldemort winning and their family still somewhat in hiding….

Fleur materialized from where she had been hiding in the kitchen, evidently under a disillusionment charm. Harry didn’t have time to react, not even to draw his wand, when the older woman screamed and ran into him and—

Oh.

Oh.

Harry felt like he was being crushed by the hug Fleur was giving him. He didn’t know how to respond, but eventually, Harry felt Fleur shaking and tears spill on his shoulder as she held him in her arms. Harry slowly hugged her back, his own tears welling in his eyes.

“I told you Bill…I told you… he was alive…” Fleur whispered. And while Harry was clutched in Fleur’s arms, there was commotion around the kitchen as Bill was shouting with his wand out and pointed, to Harry’s dismay, at him.

Before Harry could respond, however, Draco, thankfully, took control of the situation before it got out of hand.

“It’s him, Weasley, put your wand down. I know he looks…but it’s him. Really, truly. He…wanted to see you. This was the only way I could think of without arousing suspicion.”

“But h-how…? Why…” Bill asked faintly while lowering his wand, looking from Fleur to Draco and then back to Harry.

Fleur, at this point, pulled Harry to arms length and looked him in the eyes. As though she knew, just by looking, that he was who he said he was. Fleur herself was still stunningly beautiful for an older, part-veela woman. She barely had any grey hair despite her age. But her eyes were lined with worry. And no small amount of fear as she regarded him.

“Harry…?”

And that was the moment Harry broke, crumbling in Fleur’s arms.

For how could he possibly explain himself when he hadn’t been there? When they needed him most? When the Weasley family had been torn apart and so many people had died?  

Harry had not expected the guilt to come back so strongly, so fiercely, just then. Had not properly prepared for the wave of emotion to overcome him when asked such a simple question.

How?

Why?

Fleur caught him before he fell to the floor and led him over to the table.

“Harry…”

“I-I don’t understand. How are you—” Bill began again, but stopped when Fleur shook her head.

Harry sat down at the kitchen table, shaking and leaning into Fleur’s touch as if she could take all his pain away with a few softly hushed words—pain he didn’t even realize he was still holding onto….

After some time of silence, Harry realized Draco and the other woman had left the room, and now only Bill and Fleur were in the kitchen. Harry was still leaning against Fleur, and there was tea set out on the table.

When Harry moved to pull away, Fleur only let him when he assured her that he was fine now. Or as fine as he was ever going to be.

Bill regarded him with worry, obviously struggling to refrain from asking him his burning questions.

Fleur took a moment, and then, very carefully, spoke with a coldness that did not match the warmth she had just shown.

“Is this…his doing?”

Harry breathed in and out, not sure what to say. It was Voldemort’s fault that he was, technically, here, but in the opposite way one might expect. Voldemort had…saved him from that pool of death. He had pulled him out, taken him in, and then Harry had—

Run away.

All the while, Harry had remained unchanged from time. He still looked like the boy who had gone missing forty years ago. So many things had happened in the meantime, and… well, it was too much to say all at once, so Harry simply said the truth.

“No…not completely….”

Fleur took a moment to soak that in while Harry continued.

“It’s…more complicated. I—I’m sorry I wasn’t here—"

Fleur pressed a finger to his lips, though, stopping him before he could apologize.

“Do not apologize for something out of your control, Harry. We too are not perfect. When…”

“Fleur—” Bill started, when Fleur was visibly overcome with emotion.

“When…he…came. We gave him everything…everything he asked for. We did not want our family ruined. We…were not as strong as you. We couldn’t fight him.”

Harry stayed silent for a moment. He had already known Bill and Fleur had given over their memories of him. He had seen the moments involving him and Fleur after the second task, up close and personal. No one else could have done it. No one else had those particular experiences.

But they didn’t want to be tortured or killed. It was only natural to protect one’s family.

Harry couldn’t blame them. But still. It must have been…traumatic for Bill and Fleur having their memories taken from their minds.

Bill was looking at Harry awkwardly, avoiding direct eye-contact, like he didn’t know how to proceed. Harry couldn’t blame him for that, either.

Harry too did not know how to proceed. With this conversation…or with his life in general. Was he interfering with their family by visiting all these years later? Probably. But he couldn’t have not come either. He needed to see them, at least once.  

 “So…you have a family now. That’s great.” Harry said into the silence, slightly cringing at his own awkwardness.

Fleur, however, took to the topic change with a hastiness that betrayed the need to talk about something else. Anything other than the glaringly obvious questions about why he still looked young, or where he was all this time, or how—

“We had our first child just after the war ended… Victorie…you saw her just now. She lives with us and her husband and child. The rest of our children, Dominique and Louis, have their own families too. They live elsewhere.”

And Harry sat and listened as Fleur talked about her family and the years that had passed. Bill too listened quietly as he watched his wife speak with soft eyes.

An hour quickly passed, then two. Fleur brought Harry more tea and a small snack. Draco was still out of the room, and Harry silently wondered if he had left and was waiting for him back at Harry’s own cottage.  

When evening came, and the sun was fully gone, Harry felt it was time to go. At least, for now.

“Harry…” Bill looked at him properly for perhaps the first time since he had revealed himself. The man had said little during their meeting, with Fleur doing most of the talking while Harry listened and responded.

But now that Harry was actually going to leave, Bill seemed reluctant to just let him go.

He pulled Harry into a strong hug.

“Don’t disappear again, Harry,” He whispered into Harry’s ear, then stepped back and looked at him. Fleur was still in the kitchen, while Harry and Bill stood by the front door.

“Fleur forgot to mention it, but I remembered. You recall…Teddy Lupin, right?”

Harry’s heart beat wildly when Bill said the name. Of course he remembered. Remus had made him the child’s godfather before he died. Harry had not wanted to hope that he was still alive but now—

“Well, he’s…he’s Victorie’s husband. They live here. They had a child together, Harry. I don’t know if you…you know, want to meet them…but you can decide—”

 “Of course I do! I mean, I’d very much like to meet him.” Harry said, trying to calm his excitement that Teddy was still alive, and apparently thriving. Bill beamed and then clapped him on the back.

“Good. He’d want to meet you too, Harry. He’s a good man.”

Fleur took that moment to appear. She handed him something in a small box.

“Just a small collection of photos from our family. I thought you might enjoy them. I can give you more later, if you’d like.”

“T-thank you…” Harry accepted the box with an emotion he didn’t quite know what to call. Relief, maybe, for the possibility to visit them once again. Guilt too, for not being around when their children grew up. And maybe a little bit of happiness…that they had accepted him back so strongly, so welcoming, as a part of their family once again.

When Harry apparated back to his home, finally saying his goodbyes, he found Draco sleeping on the couch. He sighed, setting the box of pictures down nearby and heading off to bed himself.

Sleep did not come easily, however. Thoughts resurged in his mind like usual. About how the war ended, what his life would’ve been like had he not disappeared—it was a repeating subject in his mind. What could have been. What the world would be like had he not vanished in the midst of battle.   

He thought of the family he could have had. Of Ginny. Of their struggling relationship because of the war….

He wondered what Teddy looked like now, and whether he was anything like his father….

Then, as naturally as breathing, his thoughts drifted to that place where it shouldn’t. To the one topic he desperately tried to avoid, but like always, Harry succumbed to the temptation. The one thought he dwelled on every other night.

Voldemort.

What was he doing?

Harry had seen enough through his dreams to know that he was travelling. But not just any travelling, no. He was visiting places Harry would rather forget even existed. Like Privet Drive. Or the building where Wool’s Orphanage once stood. Or… the graveyard in Little Hangleton. Personal places…to both Harry and Voldemort.

Some time was spent in-between these…personal visits, to little towns and remote magical villages throughout the country. There, Voldemort used a glamour to disguise his features, wandering the streets and watching the public with little interest.

Their connection seemed harder to resist at night, the time when Voldemort was most active. At first, Harry had willed his barriers to be stronger, tougher to crack, so he wouldn’t slip into Voldemort’s mind like he used to. But that will soon dwindled down when he realized it was essentially pointless—their connection was stronger than ever with fewer horcruxes around, and Harry had always been… abysmal at Occlumency.

Besides, Harry was… immensely curious. He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t even be wondering about what Voldemort was doing. 

He should move on. Forget. Live the rest of this life without having to deal with the man, so long as he left him alone too. It was for the best…for both of them.  

But.

Harry was playing with fire. 

Harry fell asleep, and soon, his mind drifted into Voldemort’s.

Harry knew immediately it was another intimate dream. Voldemort was once again visiting somewhere personal.

Only this time, Voldemort was visiting the place where everything had ended.

Or, Harry supposed, the place where everything had… begun.   

The forest was sleeping, but Lord Voldemort was wide awake.

He stepped through the trees of the forbidden forest, noticing, but not concerning himself, with the sleeping beings of the woods. Tonight, not even the centaurs bothered him. 

For the last six months, since the day Harry Potter had left him, Lord Voldemort had too left the wizarding world. He had travelled to many different places by now…places that both reminded, yet repulsed him… of what he once was… and what he was now.  

Now, the Dark Lord stood in that ancient clearing once again, where once a fire burned and a half-giant was trapped against a tree. Where his followers had once gathered around him, waited, and then jeered when the boy-who-lived would not come, would not face him…would not be found.

Lord Voldemort remembered the immediate days after. When his followers had all laughed that Harry Potter had run rather than face his defeat. That he had abandoned his friends. That he had left them all to die.

Voldemort had been…anxious, during those first of days. Anxious for the boy’s death. Anxious for what his continued survival could mean, of the prophecy connecting them. 

Then began the interrogations of Harry Potter’s friends. The restlessness that followed. Their deaths, startlingly quick, when information was not to be found.

And he had been…angry. So very angry, he recalled, when nothing was found. When Harry Potter had escaped his grasp yet again.

Around the clearing, the Dark Lord strode from tree to tree.

This was the place, too, where he had brought the boy... back. 

Not nearly as much time had passed since then. Since the Dark Lord had defied death and brought Harry Potter back through their connection.

He remembered…the helplessness. The weakness of his desire. The feeling of drowning, as though he were in that small pool of death, and not Harry.

How he thought he had finally won when he pulled Harry Potter out, and that the world was right again. How he thought he could finally breathe again.

How utterly foolish. Because now all he felt was… hollow. Empty. Defeated.

He could feel Harry now on the edge of his mind, no doubt being pulled into their connection during sleep. Watching. Waiting. He knew the boy was…curious, as to his whereabouts. He could feel the boy’s confusion and bewilderment at his actions.

Lord Voldemort had visited many places by this point in time. Places that belonged to both him and Harry. Places where he had done terrible things—Godric’s hollow, Wool’s orphanage, the graveyard, Riddle Manor…Privet Drive…

…this clearing in the woods.

Places where they experienced… trauma. 

He visited these places because he wanted to feel something. Wanted to understand his own emotional capacity.

Because he wanted to feel something other than this.  

Because this…this emptiness, this void of himself was…

…crushing.

Chapter Text

The muggle world was fully and completely separated from Magical Britain. It was one of Voldemort’s first priorities as ruler, Harry later learned, once he had succeeded in winning the war. A witch or wizard could not go into the muggle world freely anymore, and any magical person wanting to go would need to register and state their reasons—and, in more cases than not, were simply denied.

Muggleborns were also restricted in many areas and torn away from their families at a young age, which, altogether, didn’t surprise Harry. What did surprise him was that Voldemort wasn’t technically the one to do this—it was Lucius Malfoy who had fully implemented the restrictions and started the magical orphanages after the war. It was Lucius Malfoy who had taken over the reigns when, according to Draco, Voldemort had gone…off the radar, so to speak. Oh, Harry was under no delusion that this was Voldemort’s original intention for muggleborns. Voldemort had a plan in mind, and Lucius was simply fulfilling the design Voldemort had dreamed of when he had first promised the purebloods a world based solely off of blood.

It was just…hard to accept. That people like Hermione would be restricted from magic… would be torn away from their families simply because of their blood status. It wasn’t fair. But then…nothing in this new world was fair.

Since the dream in the forest, Harry had tried his best to stay away from Voldemort’s mind during the night. It wasn’t that the dream was awkward, but rather, the intensity of Voldemort’s feelings was… strong. He had felt all of it. The suffocating, crushing emptiness that Voldemort was feeling everyday since Harry had left him. And Harry…didn’t know what to feel. It wasn’t as though he felt guilty or anything for leaving…Harry had every right to leave. But still. He didn’t exactly feel good about it either. But it was maddening to dwell on the topic, so most of the time, Harry simply didn’t. 

Instead, he occupied himself with other things...like looking through Fleur’s pictures she had given him. He saw Teddy as a baby in those pictures—he also saw Bill and Fleur and their children growing up. He wanted to frame some of the pictures but didn’t know if Fleur wanted them back at some point. He’d have to ask.

A week after his meeting with Bill and Fleur, he saw something else that sparked his attention—a gathering was happening outside of Gringotts, and while many Death Eaters were going to be there as extra security, it was something else, a small side note to the main article, someone of note who was attending as well:

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry didn’t like to think about Bellatrix at all most days. But seeing her name again, and when he remembered she was still alive in this world, breathing, he settled into a quiet rage. She had hunted down his friends during the end of the war—all in the name of her beloved Dark Lord. She had killed Sirius. Dobby. She had killed so many of his allies …Harry didn’t know the exact details… but he knew she had likely tortured many of his friends before finishing them off or dragging them to their deaths. Harry had seen her glee and malicious intent in Voldemort’s memories—had seen her desire to hunt Harry down with her last breath.

After carefully structuring his question to not arouse any suspicion, Draco had reluctantly informed him of his now estranged aunt. Her attending the event didn’t mean much, he assured Harry, but it was an open secret within the Death Eaters that she wasn’t the same person that she used to be.

Draco called her empty. She barely spoke to anyone anymore, and, for the past few years, wandered off from her duties and mumbled like her mind was going—without Voldemort’s frequent absences himself, Draco said the man would likely demote her from the inner circle due to her many failures.

The news might have shocked Harry…if not for what he had seen in Voldemort’s pensieve. Even now, Harry could still see her begging at Voldemort’s feet, begging for him to focus on something more than the lost boy-who-lived. He had seen how Voldemort had sneered at her open display of feelings—had seen how her heart crushed under Voldemort’s cold rejection.

How ironic. That now Voldemort was feeling the same cool sting of rejection.

It was no wonder the woman was empty and defeated. Purposeless in a world where the Dark Lord had won, yet her feelings had been refused and scorned at.

Harry should have put Bellatrix aside. He should have heeded Draco’s warning of not to involve himself with her, and move on with his life. He fully intended to. Just… he should have told Draco what he was doing before they apparated to Diagon Alley the following day, disguising himself with a glamour and moving through the thick crowd. He should have done all of these things…but he didn’t.

Harry wanted to see her with his own eyes. He wanted to hurt her. Ever since he saw her bloodlust in the pensieve, he wanted her to see him now, alive, in the flesh. Draco tried to reach out for his arm, but Harry was already moving fast enough to slip away.

He passed witches and wizards and moved with the crowd towards Gringotts. Some were shouting. Harry didn’t fully understand what the gathering was about, nor did he care right now. Here and there, Harry spotted the dark black outfits of the Death Eaters patrolling the crowd. None wore masks now, and so he searched their faces openly, but thus far, no one looked old enough to be a veteran Death Eater.

He turned down a side path leading away from Gringotts. Draco was probably frantically searching for him. By now, he must have realized Harry’s true intentions.

If she was here, where would she go? He briefly considered Knockturn Alley, but why go down there when the gathering was happening up in Diagon?

No other way around it, then. Keeping the elder wand securely in his hand, Harry approached a random Death Eater who was leaning against the wall.

“Excuse me…” Harry asked, and the Death Eater turned toward him with narrowed eyes.

“Yes?”

“Would you happen to know where Bellatrix Lestrange is? I heard she would be attending.”

At this, the Death Eater scoffed. He looked Harry up and down before coolly dismissing him.

“She’s over there.” He pointed to a semi-deserted alleyway beside Gringotts bank. “She’s been staring at the wall for over half and hour, or so my colleagues report. I used to think of her as terrifying, someone to look up to. Now I just feel like…her time’s run out.”

Harry turned towards the alleyway, leaving the Death Eater behind before he could say anything more. He pushed his way through the crowd, earning some scowls, but otherwise, Harry was virtually unopposed as he made his way over.

He saw her before he reached her. Her black curly hair was nearly all grey, and she had the barest amount of wrinkles lined on her face. She was dressed in typical Death Eater fashion, rather than her usual flamboyant, provocative dressing habits of the past.

And, just like the Death Eater had informed, she was staring straight ahead at the wall, a vacant look in her eyes.

Harry had just enough time to settle into that quiet rage again, feeling his hatred for her, readying his spells, when he felt someone tug on his arm. Draco was there, panting, trying to stop him.

“She hunted down everyone, Draco. She tortured my friends. She deserves to feel what I feel.” He pulled his arm harshly out of his grasp, walking steadily towards Bellatrix.  

Holding his wand, the most powerful wand, he felt almost dizzy with the amount of destruction he knew he could cause. Draco trailed after him, and while Harry knew the older man wanted to stop him, he was also being cautious.

“Bellatrix!” Harry yelled as soon as he was near. She still didn’t look, although a few strangers standing next to him moved out of the way. Harry wanted a fight, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop if the people nearby were in his way.

Draco sighed from behind him. Harry didn’t listen. He shot a burning hex near her face. She barely reacted, which, somehow, only made Harry’s anger spike.

“Is this how the great Bellatrix Lestrange goes down?” Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm and anger, “Do you remember? How you killed Sirius? How you tortured my friends before their deaths?”

This, miraculously, seemed to have triggered something in the witch. She turned towards him vaguely, looking him up and down, spotted Draco behind him, and then turned away again. Harry barely registered that he was still wearing a glamour, so intent on the woman before him.

Harry’s anger had reached a peak though. He spat.

“Oh, right. How could I forget? Voldemort rejected your feelings. Your precious Dark Lord would rather chase a ghost than be with you. And you, pathetically, couldn’t handle the news. Even the idea disgusted you, didn’t it? That the Dark Lord would want someone else…someone unworthy. Well, guess what? He still doesn’t want you, Bellatrix. He wants—”

What Harry had been about to say—me—was stolen from his lips as Bellatrix finally roused from whatever slumber she had been sleeping in. The ground shook and Harry stumbled back just far enough to see Bellatrix seething from the mouth.

Good.

The crowd parted as people scrambled out of Bellatrix’s way.

“Where did you hear that, boy? Did he tell you—did he tell you—!” She screamed in pure insanity.

Harry let his glamour drop. Against all of his intentions, good or otherwise, Harry didn’t care if Bellatrix knew he was still alive. He could practically hear Draco groan from where he stood at the edge of the crowd.

Bellatrix’s eyes couldn’t have gone wider. Her face paled, and her lips trembled where she stood.

“Impossible. B-But how—”

“It doesn’t matter how, Bellatrix.” Harry growled, “Now stand up and fight me. Don’t be pathetic just because your Master doesn’t want you. Fight me!”

But Bellatrix was far from standing in a fighting position. She looked deranged as she stared at him, her eyes almost crossing as she took in his form. She shook her head as if to clear some unwanted thought, her eyes raking up to his forehead, searching for a truth that was just as elusive, searching for any hint of falsehood.

“How… how…I don’t understand—he couldn’t have—” She breathed, tears leaking down her cheeks, and then, just as suddenly, her face relaxed into something like a swift coldness. Her eye twitched, and just before Harry could shoot another curse at her, to make her fight him, however unwillingly, she twisted on her heel and vanished with a loud crack of apparation. Harry had only blinked once before he screamed. Draco quickly grabbed his arm away from the yelling crowd and then he too was taken back to the cottage with a twist in his gut. 

Harry pulled away from him when they landed, his heart hammering in his chest.

Draco sighed in relief.

“That was close. She almost—” But Draco stopped at the look of hatred on Harry’s face.

“Don’t.” He seethed, then stormed into the cottage. Draco had the foresight to not come after him, which was good, because Harry didn’t want to talk to anyone at that moment.

 His revenge had been taken away by Bellatrix’s whim to flee rather than fight. It was… unlike her. The Bellatrix he knew would have stayed, fought, tortured him for information, and then brought him to Voldemort for questioning. It’s what she had done to his friends.

Although Harry knew the main reason for her drastic change in personality, it still bothered him. He couldn’t predict her next move either. Maybe she’d simply sulk around. Maybe she’d contact Voldemort. Either way, he didn’t care…he didn’t care…not anymore.

After a few hot cups of strong tea, and a calming draught, Harry could see that, in hindsight, his plan had not been good. He had planned on confronting Bellatrix, maybe even taking her life if given the chance. But he had attacked her in a very public area. Even if Voldemort wouldn’t harm him now, there was no telling what anyone else would do. No, Harry’s plan had been foolishly driven by seeing Bellatrix’s name in the paper.

He wanted—so badly—to get some sort of revenge for what had happened.

But with Voldemort out of the picture, and Bellatrix’s lackluster behavior, it dampened the mood. Harry wanted a fight, something, anything, and Bellatrix was… simply unwilling to give him that.

That night, Harry curled under his bed, thinking.

Bellatrix was not forgotten, but Harry vowed to stay out of her path from now on. Because if he saw her again…he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Closing his eyes, Harry succumbed to the darkness of sleep.

He didn’t dream.

Neither did Voldemort.

Chapter Text

When Draco came back to the cottage the very next day, the day after his confrontation with Bellatrix, Harry was expecting a huge lecture—about how reckless he had been, how irresponsible and foolish he was, how he had acted like a stereotypical Gryffindor, acting only on his feelings and never planning things out.

And Harry could honestly say he was expecting it…was waiting for it, in fact. But while he was anticipating a light scolding…nothing more than a small reprimand, really…when Draco Malfoy slammed open the door in the early morning hours and threw the Daily Prophet on top of the kitchen table….

Harry knew he had miscalculated. Badly.

Harry winced when he saw the front page headline.

Harry Potter…alive? Why Some are Claiming to Have Spotted the Infamous Boy-Who-Vanished

There was a photo of Harry and Bellatrix from the Alley, but seeing Draco’s fuming face, Harry could only shake his head.  

“I…” Harry said, not knowing what to say to the calm the tense atmosphere coming from the older man.

Draco sighed angrily, sitting down at the kitchen table, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Honestly, Potter. It’s like you don’t know the meaning of being subtle.”

Harry couldn’t exactly argue there, so he poured Draco a cup of hot tea.

“The good news…” Draco muttered, sounding in disbelief that there could be any good news here, “is that most people seem generally confused. No one really knows or remembers you, especially the younger generation—but the bad news…for those who do remember…they’ve already started spreading stories. And it’s going to be tricky now. I can’t exactly go escorting you around anymore without a disguise myself. People have seen me with you… and…there’s going to be a lot of people searching for you now, so…”

Harry hadn’t thought of all this when he’d decided to drop his glamour in front of all those people. He’d thought—perhaps a little naively—that no one would recognize him but Bellatrix. Well. That clearly wasn’t the case…or not anymore, it seemed.

“What about Hogwarts?” Harry bit his lip nervously. He and Draco had been planning on visiting the castle during the summer months. While it was almost summer now, going to Hogwarts was likely the last thing he should be doing right now…considering the article.

“Getting into Hogwarts…will be tough.” Draco rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I can’t use my identity as a Death Eater to enter the premise…not with all this going on. Perhaps we’ll need…something else? Something, someone to… cool the oncoming waves?”

Draco looked meaningfully at Harry. Harry just stared blankly back.

The older man sighed, muttering something about ‘Gryffindor's’, before he raised a brow.

“Of course, we can get permission to visit Hogwarts. Perhaps more if needed. Get the public off our backs. We only need to ask—”

Harry stilled. He understood what Draco was implying, and even recognized the necessity of it…but—

“No.”

Draco looked genuinely confused, and maybe even a little irritated.

“But we need—the Dark Lord would, I’m sure he would …after everything he asked of me…” Draco muttered, but stopped when he saw Harry’s stony face. 

“No.” Harry whispered, his eyes set on firmly the tea in front of him.

He didn’t want to ask.

It was as simple as that.

When he heard Draco sigh in defeat a few moments later, Harry released the tension in his shoulders he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Because despite his initial denial, Harry couldn’t help but see what Draco was saying.

It would be easy to ask Voldemort for help. He could probably dissolve the entire situation with just a few words to his followers. He could help Harry live a free life without having to look over his shoulder, without having to use a glamour to hide his appearance everywhere he went. And the man would help him, Harry was sure. But—

No.

I don’t want to rely on him for everything. He already sent Draco here…

… I don’t need anything else.

Narcissa Malfoy prided herself on always being aware of her surroundings. In Malfoy Manor, her home no less, was a perfect example. She always knew what was happening in the house, what the house-elves were working on, and what guests were said to arrive at what time. Lately there had been only a few house guests, friends mostly, but with her retirement, and Lucius still occasionally working for her Lord and managing the affairs at the Ministry, there was little else to do.

When her Lord was staying in her home for that short time... it had been…nerve-wracking, to have him gliding through the halls. But he was gone now. Narcissa had not seen or heard from him for months and, if the reports were accurate, no one else had either.

Therefore, it was quite the shocking surprise when, in the early morning hours, she was walking by the garden windows when a voice called her not far down the hall.

Naturally, she jumped.

And when she turned, she was greeted with the sinister smile of her sister.

“Bella! You—” She had no words. How had she entered the premise so silently…well, she did have access as her blood relation, but still…Narcissa had not seen her sister in years. And she looked—

Unhinged. Her hair was frazzled and her eyes widened—like she’d seen a ghost. But…saner than she’d seen her in a long time.

“Cissy. A word?”

Narcissa wasn’t one to deny her volatile sister much. If she wanted a place to talk, then Narcissa would offer her it.

She inclined her head, nodding to the gardens just outside the door.

“We can have a walk, if you’d like?”

Bella nodded and moved past her into the gardens. Narcissa followed warily behind.

The flowers were in full bloom at this time of year, but Bellatrix hardly looked at them as she walked briskly down the garden path.

She stopped at the roses and turned sharply around.

“Tell me Cissy. Has anything…unusual happened lately?”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes, wondering what her sister was up to now.

“Anything with our Lord, perhaps?” Bella clarified. Narcissa swallowed unconsciously. Was this, perhaps, about the forbidden topic? The one she, Lucius, and Draco had sworn not to say out loud ever again? About the…boy…she had healed…? About the topic of unrequited love?

Draco was on a classified mission, since the time the Dark Lord had left their manor, and while Narcissa knew better than to pry, she also deeply understood that this was all, somehow, related.

But did Bella need to know this? What had provoked this sudden interrogation?

When Bella took out her wand, Narcissa stepped back.

“I would advise you, dear sister, to be honest. Tell me. Did you see the papers this morning?”

No. No she had not, in fact. Not yet anyway. Wordlessly, Bella summoned the morning news and tossed it at Narcissa’s feet.

But when she saw the bolded headline, Narcissa visibly trembled. The very topic she had feared would come out—

Bellatrix’s eyes lingered on Narcissa’s terrified expression, a smile creeping up her face—silence spoke louder than any words, it seemed.

“You see, dear sister. I met Potter yesterday. I could tell instantly…this was no illusion. This one was real.” She smiled, and it was a rather feral smile, Narcissa thought.

Bella took another step towards her, and Narcissa knew. Her sister’s mind, while typically unbalanced, had now taken a sharper turn. Narcissa had seen Bella waste away to practically nothing over the years. Now, it was like she was back to her old fiery self.   

“I’ve started to talk to a few people. Since the moment I knew. But tell me, sister. Tell me what you know…or did you already know?”

Bella was implying that Narcissa was keeping secrets. It wasn’t untrue. She was keeping many secrets. Many that weren’t hers to tell. Narcissa straightened her spine. She wasn’t fifteen anymore, used to Bella’s bullying and cowering from her temper. She too was a capable witch.

She drew her wand, but Bella only laughed.

Unhinged. Narcissa thought again.

“I’m not here to fight, Cissy. I’m here to get information. If you’re unwilling to give it to me, then it seems I have no choice.”

Narcissa raised her wand, but she was just a hairsbreadth too slow.

“Legilimens!”

Memories floated by her. She felt her mind bending to her sisters, searching for any trace of knowledge or secrets. For the Dark Lord. For—

Lucius’s was coming home after a night at the Dark Lord’s manor. The fear in his eyes, the drinking.

“I was wondering…” Draco was saying, “Well, not that it matters, but I was wondering…have you two noticed anything…strange… about our Lord? I just—he talked with me about unrequited love, of all things—and I just—”

No.

“Narcissa. I understand that you are quite an accomplished healer, is that so?” The Dark Lord asked. Lucius looked afraid.

No.

Her eyes drifted to a figure on the bed… from this distance, she only saw a head of messy black locks, and a thin frame. She didn’t know who it was, but something about this person struck her as familiar.

Narcissa noticed a strange look crossing her Lord’s face when he gazed at this person, and with a slightly hesitant bow she asked,

“My Lord, what do you require me to…?”

Not even turning to face her, he said, “Heal him. Whatever you can find. He is under a sleeping charm right now; it is best not to wake him. And remember, not a word leaves this room.”

Perhaps it was the memory of her Lord which finally stopped her, but Bella finally withdrew from her mind.

Narcissa barely realized she was on her knees, panting. And Bella—

Bellatrix merely looked at her before apparating away.

To where, Narcissa only hoped it was far, far away.

The whispers became too much. At some point, not even Lord Voldemort could withstand hearing them.  

He heard his name, whispered on the streets of wizarding villages. His face, plastered on the front pages of every wizarding newsprint.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Not really. He knew he could not keep Harry Potter’s return a secret for very long. The boy had a way about him that screamed attention. And if the boy was not contained or hidden away, then it was bound to happen at some point.  

Still.

The Dark Lord looked at the picture in closer detail. Harry had confronted Bellatrix in Diagon. It was not…in a way he had ever envisioned it to happen. Bellatrix had fled, naturally, but Lord Voldemort was worried over what she would do now that Harry Potter lived. Bella was always the erratic one; not even he could predict what she would do. And of course, Harry was looking for revenge. Voldemort had, after all, shown him his memories. Memories of his friends…being tortured by Bellatrix…who had also killed his godfather. The hatred he must feel for her…for him.

Lord Voldemort could already see how this situation was developing….

He clenched his fists.

It wasn’t the first time he had thought of going back. Back to his duties. Back to his followers, Nagini, his regime he was slowly and meticulously building after… years of neglect.

Some things, it seemed, could never escape him. 

Perhaps it was finally time… for Lord Voldemort to return.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy couldn’t breathe. His Mark was burning for perhaps the first time in many years. He staggered into the wall, breathing deeply. It wasn’t burning too harshly, meaning his Lord was merely calling a meeting; Lucius could tell, too, that his Lord was not raging mad either…all good signs. However, it was the sheer shock of it all that had startled him out of his day and, well, Lucius was no longer a wizard in his prime. A little burn nowadays was more like a very hot flame pressing directly against his skin.

His Lord might not be mad, but if Lucius hesitated any longer, he will be.

He knew his son, Draco, had been called directly by his Lord, just before the man up and vanished. Draco had never risen very high within the Death Eater ranks, and had ultimately disappointed Lucius as the Lord of their family— thus, it was somewhat of a surprise for the Dark Lord to call upon Draco to fulfil a task, of all things. Lucius might have been proud, once upon a time, yet as Draco came and went about his duties within the manor, all very mysterious, Lucius had not one thought about it up until the Daily Prophet yesterday morning.

Well.

Lucius would never dare question his Lord. Yet…there was no doubt in his mind that Harry Potter in Diagon Alley was the reason for his Lord’s return.

Maybe even the reason he left.  

Lucius had seen various things over the years, serving his Master. Things he would rather forget. Things that did not...need repeating out loud.

“Dear,” Narcissa’s soft voice called further down the hall, “What’s wrong?”

She evidently noticed him leaning against the wall. She rushed over, but he waved her away.

“I must go. Our Lord is calling. I will be back soon.” Lucius cut short her reply as he directly apparated out of the manor and landed swiftly in the Dark Lord’s gathering room.

It was dark, and the air was a little cold despite the glowing hearth. A sleeping serpent lay sprawled on a cozy looking rug in front of the fire, while at the head of the table—

Lucius had not seen his Lord properly in a long while. And since changing his appearance nearly a decade ago, Lucius, for some inexplicable reason, found his new look…even more disconcerting than the last. Oh, the masses loved him. He looked every bit regal and refined with dark hair and pale, unblemished skin. Still.

It’s the eyes…Lucius thought. They were still red.

When Lucius arrived, the table was nearly all full of the Dark Lord’s inner circle. No one wore their masks anymore. All faces were bare amidst the Dark Lord’s victory. Most of the old crowd was gathering too, it seemed— Lucius noted none of the younger generation were present. 

Their Lord did not speak. Instead, he waited with his head bowed for the rest of them to arrive.

So, Lucius waited as well. He did not speak as he quietly surveyed who had arrived thus far… and who was still missing.

Rabastian arrived in a flurry of robes alongside his brother Rodolphus. After a while, it became clear that one person was… conspicuously missing.

Lucius didn’t dare breathe as the entire room now waited for the last person to arrive. The last empty seat. 

Bellatrix.

A few minutes…turned into half-an-hour…which turned into an entire hour before the Dark Lord, at last, lifted his head in finality. His red eyes easily slid over to Rodolphus.

“Where is your wife?” The Dark Lord addressed the man, his red eyes narrowing.

Roldolphus, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

“I saw her a few hours ago, my Lord. I thought she’d be the first one… here, at your…summons.”

“Then go back. Find her. And bring her here.” The Dark Lord snapped.

And so Rodolphus left the room, in order to find his wife.  

It was a scant ten minutes later before Roldolphus returned…harried and flustered... by himself.

He kneeled.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. She’s not—”

“Legilimens.”

Lucius did not look at Rodolphus Lestrange, kneeling on the floor, getting his mind torn open to find an errant woman. It seemed obvious now, or at least to him, that Bellatrix was avoiding her Lord. His mind strayed to the most recent news. Harry Potter...alive. Bellatrix's confrontation with Harry Potter in Diagon. 

It was all undoubtedly connected.

After a few more seconds, the Dark Lord retreated from Rodolphus’s mind. The man collapsed to the floor.

Their Lord surveyed those who had come. Without preamble, he issued a new order. One Lucius was expecting, but could not fathom the consequences.

“Find and bring me Bellatrix Lestrange.” He commanded his followers.

He did not know it, then, but it would take more than a week before even Lucius started to lose faith in ever fulfilling the task.

Because Bellatrix Lestrange, no matter how absurd, was suddenly very hard to find. 

When it became apparent that his followers could not find Bella, Lord Voldemort let her mark burn over the course of the week. Until she returned. If ever. He was letting her know that his irritation at her behavior was not to be accepted.

Still, she didn't come. She was avoiding him. 

And Lord Voldemort knew why she was avoiding him. It made sense, after all, when finding out Harry Potter still lived—her confrontation with him in Diagon Alley was likely the cause. But it didn’t make her absence any less scathing—if anything, the Dark Lord was fully anticipating an attack of sorts. On himself, perhaps. On Harry…perhaps more realistically.

Draco should be forewarned....

He had seen, however briefly, in Rodolphus’s mind, Bella saying some very peculiar things… knowing that her Lord would later read the mind of her husband—Bella was truly a smart witch. She knew he would find the memory. 

However, there was a limit to what he would accept. He had rejected her years ago. The hurt had obviously tainted her image of him, but still—she had always served him loyally. For decades, in fact, despite that her mind had all but withered under his cool regard.

But now, Lord Voldemort knew this may not be the case…now that…he was involved. But Voldemort was curious too…what did she find out about Harry Potter? Was she plotting, even now, knowing that hurting the boy would surely incite his wrath? Because surely, she must know. If she refused his summons. 

“Nagini….” He hissed, and Nagini came at once, slithering up the arms of his chair.

Now, Nagini was loyal. She would never betray him.

“Yes, Master?”

“I saw something in the mind of my follower…Bellatrix may or may not be there. It may even be a trap. But I want you to go there…and tell me what you find…”

“Where, Master? Where must Nagini go?”

“Beyond Hogsmeade, there is a forest. Bella may be waiting there. Go and scout. But do not let her see…”

Bella had said, in her husband’s memory, that Hogsmeade was beautiful this time of year. It was, perhaps, a not-so-subtle hint. His followers had already searched Hogsmeade up and down on his orders—continued to do so, in fact—but not within the forest. He had waited this long because he wanted to see if she would come to him. Like she always did.

But it appeared…not so.

At least, not this time.

“Nagini will go…Nagini will find the wicked witch…”

“Be silent. If she sees you, do not approach. Come back to me at once…”

With one last, final warning, Nagini climbed off the chair and slithered beyond the door, hissing in pleasure at the possibility of a hunt.

Lord Voldemort could always check-in through her eyes, if needed. He would wait, however, until she neared her prey.

Bellatrix was a dangerous enemy to have. She was a ruthless witch. Lord Voldemort almost regretted that her fury was aimed at the wrong person this time—he would have liked to see her fighting spirit once again, aimed at better targets. 

Yet…while his dear Bella was indeed fearsome…

Lord Voldemort knew…when crossed… he could be just as terrifying.

“I want to go. To Hogwarts.” Harry announced to Draco one evening, a week or more after the disaster that was Bellatrix Lestrange. The Daily Prophet had, thankfully, let up a little, however, there was still the occasional ‘eye-witness’ who claimed to have spotted him, and so on. But the media was dying without any concrete evidence, and Harry was all too happy to let it die. He needed the anonymity, if he wanted to visit the only place he had ever truly called a home.

Draco looked up from the newspaper.

“N-Now?” Draco spluttered, “But we don’t—it’s not quite summer yet, and the students are still—

“I don’t care. Let’s go tomorrow. We’ll sneak in if we have to.”

He couldn’t wait any longer. It was at least another few months until the end of the year for Hogwarts students—but Harry needed to go. Now. He didn’t know why, but after Bellatrix, he felt the need to see the castle again…with his own eyes.

Draco took one look at Harry’s determined face, and sighed. 

“Alright. I’ll see what we can do…tomorrow.” The older man muttered, running a weary hand down his face. Draco was likely already imagining everything that could and would go wrong tomorrow. 

Harry supposed it came with the package of being associated with Harry bloody Potter. Wherever he went, trouble was sure to arise.

But he needed this— he knew it even when he went to sleep that night, long after Draco had said goodbye—he needed to go back to the battle… where he had disappeared…to heal some part of him that was still missing since he’d first woken up and discovered the entire world was wrong, wrong wrong….

Because it was. Very much so.

Still so very...

Wrong.