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Chapter Text

Harry wandered back from Dumbledore’s office in a daze. He continued to question what he could possibly learn about how to defeat Voldemort by taking a trip down memory lane, as he had since these meetings had started, but now he felt added stirrings of discomfort. Like his skin was a size too small or he’d walked through an invisible spiderweb.

Voldemort, back when he’d been Tom Riddle, was… very much like Harry. Dumbledore could say that their choices defined them and made them different or whatever, and maybe he was right. But seeing how Riddle was talked about by the matron, how Dumbledore treated him in that first meeting – it made Harry realise how very easily he could have been the evil outcast, if anyone had listened to the Dursleys’ lies, or found out about his parseltongue abilities, or if he hadn’t already been lauded as some hero since he’d been a baby. As much as he didn’t like the fame and the wild mood swings of the magical population’s attitude towards him, Harry knew those expectations had guided his path and moulded who he was becoming.

Dumbledore’s actions were… well, unkind was possibly the nicest way to put it. He had instantly judged an eleven-year old as irredeemable, pretended to light all his worldly possessions on fire, and didn’t seem to find anything wrong with how he’d acted even sixty years later. Yes, Riddle hadn’t exactly helped his case with that talk of hurting things, but Harry had seen that desperation for connection, for belonging, that he’d once felt.

And then there was the added fact that he was being shown private moments from Riddle’s history. Harry knew how he’d feel if someone was shown his memories of life at the Dursleys. He still hadn’t told anyone about the cupboard under the stairs, and the rest his friends only guessed at.

Maybe he was reading too far into things, or projecting his own situation. Maybe Ron and Hermione were right and his saving-people-thing was showing. After all, hadn’t Riddle grown up to be a megalomaniac who led a hate group that murdered and tortured muggles and muggleborns? Maybe there should be limits to Harry’s empathy.

But Harry’s secret power was love, according to Dumbledore. If caring was what differentiated him from Voldemort – and especially since he couldn’t seem to stop it even when it left him gutted, cold and alone – then dammit, Harry was going to care.

So, Harry did what he did best (?) and leapt headfirst without looking.

Ducking into a dusty, moonlit classroom, he leaned against a desk, pulled out a bit of parchment and quill, and started to write.

Voldemort,

So, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed would you be

Hope you haven’t murdered anyone lately oh wait it’s you

Hey. I wanted you to know that Dumbledore showed me the memory of you receiving your Hogwarts letter. At the orphanage. With the whole fire wardrobe thing. 

I feel like I should apologise. It definitely seems like an invasion of privacy and I didn’t want to know, but now I do, and I’m sorry?

Is this weird? This is weird.

Anyway, I also saw the matron talking about you, but I know that sometimes people lie for stupid reasons , so here’s a one-time opportunity of me asking for your side of the story. If you want.

You probably don’t care.

– Harry (Potter)

Before Ron or Hermione found out or he could think better of it, Harry snuck up to the owlery and tied the letter to a nondescript school owl. (Hedwig was incensed that he would use another bird and pecked at his head a few times before flying off to the rafters to give him the cold shoulder, but there was no way he’d send his beloved owl off to Voldemort. Sorry, school bird.)

He returned to the Gryffindor common room as soon as the owl flew off, putting the letter as far from his mind as possible. After all, it wasn’t like he’d receive a response.

Chapter Text

Harry was actually quite successful in forgetting about his late night letter-writing – so much so that he was completely caught off guard by the explosion of pain behind his scar as he showered the next morning.

Thankfully, Voldemort’s rage was short-lived. After a few seconds of agony, biting harshly into his lip to contain a scream, Harry was able to pick himself up off the slick, wet tiles and return to bathing. Watching a thin trickle of blood from his scar and lip flow down the drain, he absently wondered if maybe, maybe, sending Voldemort a letter wasn’t his best idea.

Well. It was already done, so no use worrying about that now.

More pressing was how to hide his inflamed scar and abused lip from Ron and Hermione. Or it would’ve been, if the two weren’t still caught in whatever weird romantic tension thing they were blatantly ignoring. Honestly, Harry loved them both to bits, but if they didn’t sort out whether or not they wanted to date or snog or whatever soon, he was going to lose it.

School work, a suspicious Malfoy, murderous dark lords, and teenage drama – it was enough to make his head spin.

The acute pain in his scar in the morning masked a buzzing, unsettled feeling, which made itself known shortly after breakfast.

The day passed quickly enough despite that, and considering his two best friends were determinedly not looking at each other while still trying to hold a conversation – and was Ron really looking at Lavender? Merlin. This wouldn’t go poorly at all. Thankfully, no one except Ginny asked how he’d hurt his lip. 

(Well, and Luna. Kind of. Luna made some cryptic comment about love bites or something when she saw him while staring at his mouth. Cryptic or nonsense – he could never tell in the moment, so Harry chose to believe Luna knew more than she let on and was possibly laughing at them all in her sweet, dippy way.)

Ginny accepted his excuse of slipping in the shower – practically the truth – and that was that. Maybe he’d get away with his epistolary escapade (thanks for the words, ‘Mione) without anyone the wiser.

And maybe he should’ve known better than to even think something like that, Harry thought as he stared at the post-bearing owl standing in the middle of his dinner that night.

Same owl, different letter.

Bollocks.

His scar pulsed, adding to the low-grade headache the buzzing had created.

The students around him were starting to stare, so Harry reached out to accept the letter from the owl, feeding it a piece of chicken from the remains of his dinner before it flew off.

“Who’s it from, mate?” Ron asked, taking a break from not-looking at Hermione.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s from Dumbledore–”

“-- Professor Dumbledore. Honestly, Harry,” Hermione chided.

“ Professor Dumbledore. It must be about something we discussed last night,” Harry lied.

“How do you know it’s from him? You haven’t even opened it,” Ron asked.

“I recognize the hand-writing,” Harry said. And he did recognize it; it just wasn’t Dumbledore’s. “I’ll read it later; it’s probably private.”

On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, he told Ron and Hermione about his meeting with the Headmaster the previous night.

“Merlin, it’s bloody weird to think of You-Know-Who as a kid,” Ron said, grimacing. 

“I’ve read that animal cruelty in children is an early warning sign for psychopathy,” Hermione mused. “Violent and aggressive behaviour, too.”

“Psycho-whatsit?” Ron said, befuddled.

“When did you have time to learn about psychology, ‘Mione?” Harry asked.

“We have two whole months in the summer and there’s a university library near my house,” Hermione answered exasperatedly. “Just because I go to Hogwarts doesn’t mean I can’t learn about muggle things, too.”

Harry tuned his friends out as Hermione decided to educate Ron on muggle theories on personality disorders, watching from the corner of his eye as regret soon glazed Ron’s eyes. Maybe Dumbledore was right and Riddle was bad from the start. Maybe he was being too soft and should just accept that Riddle had made his decisions and couldn’t be helped.

But then he thought back to the letter in his pocket – a response he really hadn’t expected to get at all, let alone so soon. He rubbed idly at his temple, certain he’d have been dealing with a headache by now even if his connection with Voldemort wasn’t agitated.

After entering the portrait, he quickly excused himself and ran up the stairs to the sixth-year dorm, crawling onto his bed and throwing the curtains closed. Casting a lumos to illuminate the dark space, Harry hesitantly opened the letter.

Harry Potter,

How magnanimous of you, to apologise for so egregiously invading my privacy. Did you think I would praise you? Absolve you of this sin?

And yet, I commend you for engaging in critical thought and not blindly trusting Dumbledore’s belief of my irredeemability since conception. I can imagine the old goat’s comments on that memory.

If you are truly sorry – and I will make you truly sorry, if you are not – you will tell me why Dumbledore showed you this memory.

As for the crux of your letter: I’m not in the habit of sharing information about myself, particularly from that much-despised period of my life, so I ask: what would you do with that knowledge if you were to have it?

Despite himself, Harry huffed out a laugh.

Cagey, self-important swot.

Chapter Text

Harry briefly considered writing his response the following day, but decided not to give himself the chance to think better of it. Or for Hermione to discover he was making questionable decisions.

Tapping his quill against his lips, he wondered where to start. But, since Voldemort had been so catty, he figured it was only fair to respond in kind.

Voldemort,

Wow. Your thesaurus must’ve gotten quite the workout with that letter. Or do you really talk like that? Pretty sure you haven’t when we’ve had our little get-togethers. What gives?

Your guess is as good as mine about Dumbledore showing me memories about you. Probably something about knowing your enemy. If you decide to ask him, let me know what he says.

And thanks? I think? Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a brain, y’know. It occasionally thinks – even independently, to the shock and horror of all around me.

As for what I would do with the information: nothing?? I was curious and wanted to know — that was about the extent of consideration that went into it. I know your minions are mainly Slytherins and they — and you — all have six cunning schemes in the works at all times, but not everything is that complex.

If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I just figured it might be nice to have your side of things heard, especially if what I think I saw younger-you felt was the truth.

And then Harry had a thought. A ‘poke the bear’ kind of thought. He thought about it, considered what a bad idea it was and the headache it was sure to cause, and then wrote it anyway.

Reckless self-endangerment was kind of his thing, after all, he thought wryly.

So, how long did it take to get rid of that Cockney twang? It’s too bad, it was pretty cute.

— Harry

By the time he’d finished, most of his dorm mates were getting ready for bed, so Harry waited until everything was quiet before slipping out to the owlery under the cover of his cloak.

As he watched the owl fly away with his letter, he realised he was smiling.

Because of Voldemort.

Well, technically because he was teasing Voldemort, which wasn’t much better. Hedwig forgot to give him the cold shoulder long enough to hoot in concern as he gently knocked his head against the tower wall repeatedly.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke in the wee hours of the morning, sun just about to breach the horizon, to what felt like someone shoving a molten metal spike into his scar.

As Ron helped him back into his bed following his unceremonious tumble to the floor, he grinned shakily to himself.

Good to know his letter was appreciated.

Harry and Ron made it groggily through the day, though Ron was a real mate about it and didn’t resent Harry for the rude awakening. (Unlike Seamus, the git, who kept giving Harry the stink-eye. Like Harry had any control over Voldemort’s temper.

…Wait. Okay, maybe this one was on him.)

Hermione and Ron both wanted to know whether there was a vision attached to the pain, but Harry could tell them honestly that it was just the Dark Lord throwing a tantrum. This didn’t calm them down all that much. They eventually stopped asking Harry about it, but he caught them sending worried glances over his head all day.

But all of that had to take a back seat to the real issue at hand: quidditch. The first match of the season was just days away and Harry was struggling to whip his team into shape. Ron’s performance anxiety was going to be the death of him and Harry both. So when he received another letter from Voldemort, he shoved it into his bookbag and put it out of his thoughts. The snakey git could wait for a reply.

Ron’s worries over quidditch and Hermione’s tutting about Harry’s potions textbook (and the two continuing to be oblivious dopes about each other) meant avoiding the common room when not at practice became the activity of choice. He spent several hours over the next few days observing Draco Malfoy being a weird, twitchy creep, skulking around darkened corridors and acting on edge. 

When Malfoy was in class or the Slytherin common room, Harry decided to get out of his head a bit by wandering the grounds with Luna and Ginny. The two were an odd study in contrasts, but their company was a great distraction. And Luna gave him some weird fungi that he was supposed to put under his pillow to keep …something away. He wasn’t really sure, but he was touched that she cared.

Harry’s plan to ignore Voldemort was strained by the arrival of a second letter on Friday night, which burned his fingers when he took it from the owl. He’d spent the day with another low-grade headache, so really, he should’ve expected something like this. Voldemort didn’t exactly exude patience and understanding.

Well, tough. He’d have to wait a little longer.

Saturday was a whirlwind.

Pretending to drug Ron, playing and winning the game, telling Ron he wasn't drugged but in fact had the magic inside himself all along, celebrating the win and watching Ron be an idiot and snog Lavender Brown in front of the whole common room — including a crushed Hermione. If this was what being a normal teenager was like, Merlin, count Harry out. 

He followed Hermione out of the tower when she left in angry tears, dragging her to the kitchens to let her vent. Harry didn’t want to really get caught between his two friends, so he didn’t really say much, but Hermione seemed content to talk herself out. He couldn’t help but be a little relieved.

Since she didn’t want the house elves to wait on them, Harry taught her how to bake chocolate biscuits — which he’d had a great deal of practice at thanks to Dudder’s sweet tooth. Creaming together the butter and sugar could be remarkably cathartic, and if Hermione looked like she might be picturing beating something other than ingredients, Harry didn’t comment. The house elves were inconsolably happy to be given most of the batch.

They snuck back into the common room riding a sugar high to find the party had ended. Harry patted Hermione awkwardly on the shoulder, flinching when she hugged him violently in return before darting up the staircase to her dorm.

Not wanting to head up to his own dorm just yet, in case Ron and the others were still awake, Harry decided it was time to finally deal with Voldemort’s letters.

Tucking himself into the window seat where no one could sneak up on him, Harry pulled out the two letters, trying to figure out which order to read them in. As he opened one of the letters, the parchment seemed to bite at him.

Well. That was probably the one from Friday.

Opening the other, he started to read, chuckling to himself at Voldemort’s snippiness.

Potter,

You dare to call the great Lord Voldemort “cute?” I’d ask if you have a death wish, but my desire to end you is apparent and well-documented, so there’s nothing to be gained in reiterating it. However: now I’ll be sure to take my time with it.

Your lack of guile is both horrific and unsurprising. If that isn’t the essence of a Gryffindor, I’m uncertain what would be. How disappointing. Do try to improve upon your mediocrity.

And on that note: you would claim Lord Voldemort as your enemy? My, how bold. How arrogant. Do not promise more than you can provide.

Memories. Not a single memory — memories. What else has that eyesore showed you? This does not seem to be fair or just; is that not against your own morals? You have offered an apology, but it’s hardly adequate compensation.

You have made multiple allusions to what (you think) you saw of me in that memory, and asked for my side of things. One might get the impression you are familiar with being disbelieved or distrusted and are projecting that frustration onto me.

While I understand the draw of knowledge for knowledge’s sake, little lions should remember that curiosity killed the cat.

—LV

...

Little lion? What the hell? 

Maybe I should call him ‘big snake,’ see how he likes that. Harry ran that thought back and buried his suddenly burning face in his hands, groaning in despair at his brain.

Moving on.

Potter,

You began this exchange, yet you fail to respond. Is your attention so fleeting? Your previous claim to have a brain is not being borne out.

Does this dialogue only go one way? Am I to give you pieces of myself with no intention on your part to return the favour?

I didn’t take you for a coward, Harry Potter.

—LV

Wow. Harry was suddenly aware that, ultra-powerful and evil Dark Lord or not, Voldemort needed a life.

Chapter Text

Harry considered his options as he nibbled at a biscuit.

The need to respond with nothing more than “okay” was almost overwhelming. The only thing that eventually stopped Harry from giving in was knowing the resulting rage-splosion might actually kill him.

Heaving a melodramatic sigh – he’d had quite the day, he’d earned the sigh – Harry set quill to parchment.

Voldie,

Whoa. You held off with the whole “referring to yourself in the third person” for one whole letter. I guess you’re not known for your self-control though, are you? Or your patience – two letters, really? I have things to do other than play pen-pals. There was a big quidditch game today. 

Don’t you have a cult to run?

And pretty sure you claimed me as your enemy. (The ‘you idiot’ wasn’t written, but it was wholeheartedly meant.) Gave me a delightful mood ring of a curse scar to show for it and everything. 

You want to play bad childhood tit-for-tat? Fine. I’ll even go first, since I (UNWILLINGLY) saw the memory of you at Wool’s. Much like your matron, my aunt and uncle would tell everyone – neighbours, teachers, anyone who would listen, really – that I was a delinquent and a liar. And everyone believed them, no matter what I did (or didn’t do). So yeah, what I saw with you was familiar. 

Also, I’ll try to stop from seeing any other memories from the life and times of Tom Marvolo Riddle, but. My dude. Have you met Dumbledore? I don’t think he’ll listen to me. I can let you know what memories he shares from now on, if that would help?

–Harry

As he finished his letter and his biscuit, wiping away crumbs from his hands and parchment, he decided to send along a little something extra. After all, Ron didn’t really deserve biscuits when he was being a tosser.

P.S. Do Dark Lords like chocolate?

And he wrapped up the two remaining biscuits, spelling the packaging to be weather-resistant. Couldn’t have soggy biscuits, after all.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up naturally the next morning, and he was instantly suspicious. Rather than the usual spear of agony jolting through his scar, Voldemort’s emotions translated as hundreds of angrily buzzing insects flitting about inside Harry’s skull. It left him jittery and on edge – he wasn’t sure what that meant he should expect from the no doubt incoming letter.

Except there's no letter.

Nor is there one the next day, and he was ready to tear his hair out because the buzzing feeling just. Wouldn't. Stop.

Was Voldemort trying to punish him for not replying more quickly? Was he seriously that petty?

…Who was he kidding, of course Voldemort was that bloody petty.

Harry let his head drop heavily onto the desk in front of him, enjoying the satisfying thunk as it made solid contact, the dull pain distracting him from the sensation of the Dark Lord's irritation scratching at the edges of his mind.

—

It was three more days before the feeling faded; that evening, an owl bearing a reply landed in his dinner, and he was so strung out from the brain-buzz and his friends being angry at each other that he didn’t even care, he was just so happy the feeling had finally stopped.

He darted out of the Great Hall immediately and ripped the letter open as soon as he found a suitably hidden alcove.

Potter,

Thank you for the biscuits. (Let it not be said I’m without manners.)

Now.

Quidditch. You neglected to reply. Because of Quidditch.

Are you so incapable of managing your time that you could not find five minutes to write a response? Your reply was hardly fine literature; I doubt there was significant effort or thought put into crafting it. While I disagree with your choice of words, I do indeed have a political and cultural resistance faction to manage, and yet I somehow find the time to write to you. As you young people say: get on my level.

And another thing – you dare to lecture me about self-control? I have made use of your need to hare off half-cocked into danger on multiple occasions for my personal benefit. That might be the most hypocritical, pot-to-kettle remark to which I’ve been privy in years. It would appear you’re taking a wide variety of lessons from Dumbledore, given that he’s a serious, repeat offender of that tactic.

On the topic of Dumbledore, I will accept your compromise. He doesn’t listen to anyone, so I can hardly expect you to succeed where better mages have failed. You will tell me everything he shows you and tells you regarding my younger self.

Tell me more about your aunt and uncle.

–LV

P.S. Don’t ever refer to me as “[your] dude” again.

Well. There was only one way to respond to that.

My dude,

You are so welcome for the biscuits.

As for the rest: No.

–Harry

He’d probably write a longer reply later, but that bastard deserved a bit of frustration for five days of making Harry’s mind jitter.

Once again, he found himself in the owlery, grinning at the thought of Voldemort reading his letter and his response.

—

Later that night, as he lay in bed, he was struck by a realisation that hit like a bloody hippogriff, because.

Fuck.

Harry didn’t want to kill Voldemort.

He should’ve bloody known this would happen. If he’d mentioned the letter-writing to Hermione or Dumbledore, they probably would have specifically warned him about this exact consequence.

But Harry had never wanted to kill anyone – not the Dursleys, who spent his childhood treating him less than human; not Pettigrew, despite the man betraying his parents and playing a crucial role in resurrecting Voldemort; not Bellatrix, as devastated and enraged as he was when she killed Sirius right in front of Harry.

And not Voldemort, for all that he’s the unifying factor for these tragedies, the murderer of Harry’s parents, and hell-bent on destroying half of the magical world.

Any time he considered how he’s expected to kill Voldemort, a fundamental part of him curled up and cringed, wholly resistant to the mere notion. Most sixteen-year-olds didn’t have to prepare themselves to enact cold-blooded murder for the good of their country. One more joyous quirk of being Harry bloody Potter to toss on the pyre.

Maybe he was subconsciously looking for an out, when he sent that first letter. If Voldemort’s response, written or otherwise, had been more monster than man, it would’ve been easier to move forward on the path the prophecy had laid out for him. 

(And hadn’t it taken him weeks to process the implications of the prophecy on top of his despair at losing Sirius.)

But instead, the Dark Lord was acting decidedly human. A petty, sarcastic, overdramatic nerd of a human, but that made it worse.

(Made it better.)

He really wished he could just talk to Ron and Hermione about this. They could give him some perspective he felt he was sorely missing at this point. If only Ron wasn’t attached at the hip (or lips) to Lavender more often than not, and Hermione wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder over that bloody potions textbook. (Not to mention getting the two to talk to each other).

He missed his best friends.

Chapter Text

But, he eventually remembered, they weren’t his only friends.

Which is how he found himself in the Room of Requirement. His head lay in Luna’s lap as she braided twigs into his hair (where did they come from? What was their purpose? He’s not going to ask – it was making Luna happy, and that was enough); Ginny’s head rested against his stomach; Neville sat off to the side of the pile of cushions on which the three slouched.

It’s hard to be lost in his head, thinking morbid, fatalistic thoughts, when he was feeling so firmly present in his body, weighed down and warm, surrounded by the murmurs of normal teenage life. It’s exactly what he needed and he felt such a strong rush of emotion for these three that he choked up. Luna carded a hand against his scalp between braids and it grounded him.

“Hey Luna, have you started that essay for Flitwick yet?” Ginny asked.

“Hmm? Oh, not yet,” Luna replied absently. “My notes have gone missing. I do believe the nargles are playing a trick on me again.”

Ginny’s head shot up to look at the other girl. “Again?” she demanded. “The… nargles are still bothering you?”

“Oh yes, they think it’s great fun,” Luna said.

Ginny made eye contact with Harry and they silently decided to keep a closer eye on Luna’s bullies whenever they could. A glance over at Neville had him on the same page.

“Well, you can just borrow my notes,” Ginny said, flopping back down on top of Harry and squashing him. He tugged on her hair and she patted at his shin in vague apology. “Let’s work on it together in the library tomorrow after classes.”

Luna hummed her agreement, before glancing over at Neville and canting her head to the side. 

“Would you like a willow crown, too, Neville?” 

Well, that answered what type of twigs they were.

“Oh, uh, th-thank you, Luna, but I don’t think I’d wear it nearly as well as Harry does,” Neville hedged, blushing.

“Nonsense! I’ll add in some larch to help you out,” she said, before adding conspiratorially, “Harry’s been plenty bold lately, so I’ll trade out his hazel for you.”

Harry looked warily up at her and she smiled sweetly in return. He really hoped he never ended up on Luna’s bad side – he had no idea what she knew, but he was sure it was more than he wanted anyone to know.

“A-are you sure?”

“C’mon, Neville, get in here,” Harry said, waving the arm that wasn’t occupied by Ginny poking at his fingers.

“Yeah, Nev, join the cuddle-puddle,” Ginny cajoled. Harry grunted when she dug her head into his stomach to look backwards at the other boy.

Hesitantly, as though still unsure of his welcome, Neville settled in against Harry’s side, tensing briefly before relaxing when Harry’s arm wrapped around his shoulder and Luna started playing with his hair.

Harry drifted off to the quiet, happy chatter of the other three and thought about what he could do to protect moments like these without destroying himself.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke refreshed and ready to take on the world. But first, dinner, he amended as his stomach rumbled. Neville had headed out before Harry got up, so he wandered down with Luna and Ginny.

Nothing would change if Harry didn’t change it. Or, at least, he wouldn’t be able to control what changed if he didn’t take action. And, while writing letters wasn’t his typical style, he’d gotten a non-violent response from Voldemort. He’d opened a dialogue (...kind of) when he hadn’t expected anything like this, even when he sent that first letter. It was more progress than he or anyone else had really made in years. Decades, probably.

…What were the odds he was actually getting anywhere and not playing into some nefarious long game? Knowing Voldemort as he did, this was about the time his soul would start getting sucked out of his body or some nonsense like that. Best to keep his wits about him.

He was pulled out of his thoughts as they reached the Great Hall and said goodbye to Luna.

Above the general din that filled the hall at mealtimes, a snort echoed.

“Nice hair, Potter,” a voice called.

“A bird finally mistook it for nesting materials, eh?” Seamus added, cackling.

Harry stared blankly back before reaching his hand up to his hair, and. Bollocks. He’d forgotten Luna’s handiwork. He looked over in betrayal at Ginny, who was stifling giggles into her hand.

“You’re a real mate, Gin,” he muttered long-sufferingly.

“Anytime, Har,” she replied with a laugh, patting him on the shoulder and going to sit with Dean.

Well, may as well brazen this out.

“You like it?” he said, striking a pose. “I figured I’d try out the dryad look. Trees, so hot right now.”

That got him a laugh (at or with him probably depended on who was laughing), so he sat down and started dishing up some dinner.

“I think you look quite dashing, Harry,” said that Gryffindor girl who kept blinking at him. Rominda something?

“Er. Thanks,” he said, flashing an uncertain grin and quickly turning back to his mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes never judged him.

As he ate, he started thinking of what he’d write to Voldemort. Better not to leave it too long, or else he’d get all pissy again. Harry didn’t fancy another week-long headache. But did he really want to write anything about the Dursleys? He didn’t like to think about it, let alone talk about it.

Harry was interrupted from his mental letter-composing by an owl landing on his head. Merlin, even the bloody birds were sassing him now. Seamus (and Ginny, the traitor) roared with laughter; even Hermione let out a chuckle, so he couldn’t be too upset.

Ron stopped making googly eyes at Lavender long enough to look at his friend. “What’s with the new hairstyle, mate?”

“What do you mean? I’ve been wearing it this way for a week,” Harry said, deadpan.

“Huh,” Ron said, still staring at the owl, which was preening itself. “Well, looks like someone’s a fan of it.” And then he drifted back to staring at his girlfriend. Git.

Harry coaxed the owl off his head with a few chunks of ham; it dropped the letter it carried into his lap and flew off with a chirping hoot. He slid the letter into his robe pocket and continued enjoying his dinner. The letter could wait; the mashed potatoes would not.

—

He decided to read the letter in the Room of Requirement that night, since Hermione seemed intent on “discussing” (see: nagging and/or scolding him about) the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book again. He was a brave and selfless Gryffindor, but he also knew there was no winning that battle. (Especially since it was mainly Hermione taking out her Ron-shaped frustrations on him, and that wasn’t on.)

But the letter was blank.

Well, it was, until letters started to bleed into existence at the top of it.

Harry laughed nervously. That wasn’t at all familiar and terrifying. And hadn’t he just worried about something like this on the way to dinner?

Hello, Harry.

He fought down a shudder and pulled his quill and ink out of his bag. Fuck, this was such a bad idea.

Voldemort.

Is this parchment going to drain my soul?

…

What an interesting question. Why would you think that?

No reason.

Hmm.

Well, that serves as an excellent segue to the purpose of this parchment.

We’re going to play a game. I will ask you questions, and you will answer them.

Wow. Thank you for asking me to play such a super fun and not at all invasive game (?). Oddly enough, I’m going to have to say no.

It wasn’t a request.

Yeah, I got that. Still not playing.

Tell me about your muggle family.

That’s… not a question. 

Irrelevant.

And, y’know, games usually have some reciprocity, and I don’t think it’s fair for me to have all the fun. So how about this: for every question of yours that I answer, you have to answer one of mine in return.

No.

Well then I’m not playing. And oh, huh, I’m suddenly very sleepy and think I’ll have to say good night.

Wait.

…

I will answer one question for every ten that you answer.

Nope. One for every two.

One for every twenty.

?? That’s not how bargaining works.

That is how it works for Lord Voldemort.

You’re such a git. 

Night!

Stop.

…One for every five.

Deal!

This could only end badly, he thought, even as he wrote it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry belatedly thought to add a rather important stipulation.

But I reserve the right to not answer questions.

Request denied.

Well, shite.

At first, Voldemort was militant about enforcing the five-to-one ratio. It wasn’t all that surprising, given Harry'd bargained the Dark Lord down and that was sure to make him pissy. But Harry had hoped Voldemort would just give up; he wasn’t exactly eager to share more personal information than he had to.

So, he wasn’t at all ashamed of deflecting and dancing around the answer. Voldemort asked (because Harry was stubborn about the questions being actual questions, not prying statements) and Harry gave the most mundane, roundabout responses that could still technically be considered the truth.

The occasional nosebleed or scar-bleed were worth the irritation he was causing the Dark Lord. And when Voldemort decided to play the game in return, when Harry could tell he was cornering him with questions and using his answers to hedge him in and dig for deeper secrets, he couldn’t deny it was a bit exhilarating. 

It probably didn't help his case that Harry made sure his one-in-five questions were as irritating as possible.

So, level with me: Do you regret the ‘Voldemort’ thing?

What on earth do you mean?

The name – making it an anagram of your other name. It feels like one of those things you think is cool and edgy as a teenager, but that you regret down the line.

I have never had a bad idea ever, nor have I regretted anything I’ve done in my life.

My dude.

Off the top of my head, I can think of AT LEAST five things you probably regret doing. And your bad ideas are numerous and embarrassing.

You failed to kill a toddler (i.e. me) with the all-murder-all-the-time, one-hit-kill spell while managing to destroy your body. I feel like you’ve regretted not just dropping me on my head a few times.

Why would I expect success from that, when you’ve clearly been dropped on your head plenty?

…I walked right into that one.

Also, that counts as two of your questions.

He’d been out of commission with a monumental headache thanks to Voldemort’s rage after that particular exchange.

But, of course, Voldemort’s persistent interest in knowing more about the Dursleys – certainly due in greater part to how uncomfortable it made Harry than for any real interest in the muggles he’d grown up with – could only be put off for so long.

Especially when the snake-faced jerk kept harping on about the complete and utter unfairness of Harry witnessing memories of Tom Riddle and his origins.

You began this exchange as an apology, yet you dodge every opportunity for reciprocity.

Cease this juvenile avoidance.

I don't know how many times you need to hear it, but that’s on Dumbledore. I don’t want to know anything about your childhood!

And yet you do. You have also mentioned Dumbledore intends to keep sharing memories with you.

Your memories in exchange is only fair.

Like you care about fairness.

Irrelevant.

How was your childhood, Harry?

Merlin, you really aren’t going to let this go, are you?

Obviously not.

It had been at least two weeks that they'd been speaking almost nightly, and he could sense Voldemort's patience was running exceptionally thin. He didn't want to tell the other man anything. Well. There was another option, unpleasant as it might be.

...Okay, fine. 

You used our mental connection thingy to send me visions.

Can you use it to see into my head?

“Mental connection thingy”

I despair to think that fate chose you as my equ– 

And then Voldemort’s bitching cut off abruptly, to be replaced by a hastily written sentence that looked less than perfect, if only just.

You would rather give me (unnecessary) permission to enter your mind than write it out.

Better to get this over with before he had time to realise what a stupid, stupid idea this was.

Yep.

…

Very well.

The feeling of Voldemort’s presence in his head was as intrusive and heavy as always, though thankfully without the skull-splitting pain he typically experienced. It felt wrong to allow it instead of fighting to push the other man out immediately. But Voldemort was not using Harry’s passivity to explore freely – he sought out the memories of Harry’s time with the Dursleys like a niffler scenting gold.

As hard as he tried not to, Harry still caught flashes – gossipy neighbours whispering loud enough for him to hear them, Dudley and his friends chasing him, Aunt Petunia swinging a cast iron frying pan at him, Uncle Vernon dislocating his shoulder as the man shoved him into the cupboard, the twelve locks and cat flap on the second bedroom door, the bars on his window. None of them pleasant in isolation, and a damning narrative when strung together.

He felt wrung out and empty once Voldemort relinquished his mind back to him, a weighty silence pulsing across their connection.

Harry.

Can we just not talk about it?

Voldemort didn’t reply immediately, which gave Harry false hope the man would finally, finally drop the issue now that he’d gotten what he wanted.

But of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Do you plan to kill them?

Who, my relatives? Uh, no.

No?

Definitely not.

I’d rather never see them again.

Another pause, and this one brought with it a definite sinking sensation. Presciently, as it turned out.

Shall I kill them for you?

Harry swallowed dryly, his fingers feeling a little numb with how tightly he was gripping his quill. It should be simple, to tell Voldemort no. To be outraged at the offer, to tell him off for presuming to think Harry was anything like him and wanted the people who’d hurt him to die.

But he couldn’t.

He tucked the parchment deep in his trunk without writing a reply before laying down on his bed and staring at the canopy. Sleep eluded him as Harry tried to deny that, amidst the twisted mass of emotions knotted in his chest, he wasn’t just a little pleased to have someone see how he’d been treated and think it was worthy of punishment.

What in Merlin's name was he doing?