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Chapter Text

“Both of us,” said Harry.

He could feel the exhaustion setting in. His ankle was throbbing; his muscles were tense, and he was jittery from adrenaline.

“What?”

“We’ll take the cup at the same time. It’ll still be a Hogwarts victory, a tie.” The last thing on his mind was the glory of winning. The fight was over; he was crashing. They’d be safe, done with this tournament, and Cedric would still get his rightful victory. It made sense to him, the right path forward.

“You – are you sure?” Surprised, Cedric’s posture loosened a bit.

“Yeah … we’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We got here at the same time, may as well take it together too.”

As Cedric’s face broke out in a grin, Harry let out a sigh of relief. Almost there, he was mentally repeating. Cedric came over and hooked an arm below Harry’s shoulder, helping him limp towards where the Cup stood.

Harry held a hand over one of the Cup’s gleaming handles. “On three, then?”

“On three,” confirmed Cedric, hand hovering over the other handle.

“Ok. One – two – three!” Their hands slammed down on the Cup, and the world around them blurred instantly. With a sharp tug behind his navel, Harry’s feet left the ground. Colours spun wildly and the wind roared in his ears, leaving him dizzy and disorientated. Then, with a sudden jolt, they crashed onto solid ground. Harry collapsed with a sharp cry as his ankle twisted beneath him, and he collapsed hard. The Cup slipped free from their grasp, stopping a short distance away.

Harry raised his head, “Where are we?”

Cedric shrugged lightly and hopped to his feet, pulling Harry up with him. They exchanged wary glances, both aware this was no longer Hogwarts. The familiar castle and its surrounding mountains had vanished, replaced by an overgrown graveyard shrouded in shadow and silence. A chill ran down Harry’s spine, a quiet warning whispering danger. To their right, the faint outline of a small church loomed, while an old, weathered house sat perched atop a hill to their left. Both looked abandoned, leaving Harry uncertain which – if either – might offer help.

He glanced back at Cedric, who was studying the Cup with a puzzled expression. Cedric then looked at Harry and asked, “Did anyone ever tell you the Cup was a portkey?”

“No”, Harry replied, “Reckon this is part of the task or something?”

“I dunno. Wands out, do you think?” Cedric said, sounding slightly nervous.

Harry nodded in agreement, and both of them drew their wands. A familiar tingle crept up the back of his neck – he was certain they were being watched. Scanning the graveyard, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward them through the tombstones. “Someone’s coming”, he whispered urgently to Cedric.

Both boys were facing the stranger now, squinting through the dark to make out details. Harry couldn’t make out a face, but from the way it was walking, it must be carrying something. The person was short, with a hooded cloak pulled over their head. A few paces closer, and he could see that it looked like a baby in the stranger’s arms. Or maybe a bundled cloak? The boys exchanged a quick look of confusion, then stood ready with their wands raised as the figure halted before them.

There was a moment where they all stared at each other before Harry’s scar seared with pain. He collapsed to his hands and knees, wand slipping from his fingers as his forehead lit up in agony. The pain was all-consuming, turning his vision white. He was so sure this was the worst pain he had ever felt, chanting in his head over and over to please make it stop.

“Kill the spare”, came a cold voice through the pain. He struggled to make out what it meant, where the voice came from.

With a swishing noise, there came another voice, screeching out “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a flash of green light, then a heavy thud beside him. The pain reached its peak and he retched, before it diminished. Harry was shaking, terrified of what he would see when he opened his eyes. He squeezed his stinging eyes shut tightly for a second before finally opening them.

Lying right beside him, spread-eagled, was Cedric. Dead.

Harry blinked in disbelief before meeting Cedric’s eyes. They were blank, lifeless. It was so opposite him in every way that Harry almost couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Someone whom he was just talking with, competing with, was dead. Another second passed before he was yanked to his feet.

The hooded stranger had set down his bundle and was now dragging Harry towards a marble headstone. With the light coming from the stranger’s wand, he got a fleeting glimpse of the name etched in the stone. He only needed a glimpse; he would recognise that name anywhere. He bore it on his left wrist.

Tom Riddle.

Before Harry could fully grasp what was happening, he was spun around and slammed hard against the tombstone. Cords tied tightly around his arms, chest and legs. Realising the position he was in, he struggled fiercely against the bindings, only to be hit harshly across the face. With a hand that was missing a finger. It clicked in a second.

“You!”, Harry hissed.

Wormtail, who was checking the tightness of the ropes, did not reply. When the man was done, Harry couldn’t move an inch. He then pulled a length of cloth from his pocket, wadded it up, and stuffed it in Harry’s mouth without a word.

Panic surged through Harry as the danger became unmistakably clear, but his mind raced helplessly, unable to find an escape. He wanted to go back to Hogwarts – back to his friends and Sirius – away from any graveyards and death tournaments.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry failed to notice the massive snake until it was coiling at his feet. It moved in slow circles around him. Am I its next meal? He wondered, a growing dread tightening in his chest.

Harry’s gaze lifted to see Wormtail pushing a heavy stone cauldron filled with liquid to the foot of the grave – large enough to fit a grown man inside. Muttering under his breath, Wormtail flicked his wand and flames ignited beneath the cauldron, and the snake slipped silently back into the shadows. Wormtail then turned his attention to the bundle lying on the ground. As he peeled back the robes to reveal their contents, Harry let out a muffled yell.

Wormtail was carrying what looked like a human child – except no child should ever look like that. It was hairless, its skin covered in rough, scale-like patches. Its arms and legs were so thin they seemed fragile enough to snap at the lightest touch. But its face is what was most horrifying; flat and snake-like, with gleaming red eyes.

If Harry didn’t recognise who that was by those eyes, the dull throbbing in his left wrist gave him the answer.

It was Lord Voldemort.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry’s soulmate.

And Merlin, did Harry know he was in trouble now.

Harry found out who his soulmate was on his 11^th birthday, like everyone else. When Hagrid came and took him to Diagon Alley, he told Harry of soulmates. That every witch or wizard has one, unless you were mark-less. That you get your soulmark when both soulmates are over 11, so Harry shouldn’t worry if he didn’t get his mark right away. That meant there was still someone out there for him. He wouldn’t be mark-less.

(Secretly, Harry thinks he would prefer to be mark-less).

His only saving grace was that soulmarks are private; you’re not supposed to ask another witch or wizard whose name they’ve got.

So, when he got the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, it was only Harry who began the quest of finding him. It wasn’t until second year that he made any progress. And what progress it was, thought Harry sarcastically.

He was overjoyed when he found a diary bearing the name T.M. Riddle on the back, especially after writing in it confirmed his first name was Tom. He didn’t reveal that he was Tom’s soulmate immediately – primary school educated him enough on stranger danger, thank you – but he did take the time to get to know Tom, and vice versa. For a while, he believed he had made a genuine friend. Just as Harry was preparing to tell Tom the truth, the diary was stolen. Shortly afterwards, Hermione was petrified, the threatening message was written on the wall, and Harry and Ron discovered the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets to rescue Ginny.

That’s when it all fell apart.

That’s when he found out the boy in the diary was Lord Voldemort.

Tom was Lord Voldemort.

His soulmate was Lord Voldemort.

After destroying the diary, Harry mourned. For Tom. For killing Tom. For his soulmate. But also, for himself, that he’ll never have a normal soulmate. He’ll never have someone who cares for him, who loves him unconditionally. He’ll never have a soulmate.

Harry shook himself free from his thoughts and back to the present just in time to see Wormtail lowering the creature into the liquid-filled cauldron. Harry’s scar flared up with pain again. He started praying for the creature to drown, for something to go wrong, for him to find a way out.

Then, Wormtail was speaking, “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”

The grave at Harry’s feet cracked, and a trickle of dust dropped into the cauldron at Wormtail’s command. The potion hissed and sparked, turning a toxic blue.

Wormtail started whimpering. Harry watched as he pulled a silver dagger from his robe, then as he spoke in a petrified voice, “Flesh – of the servant – w-willing given – you will revive – your master.”

He stretched his right hand out, the one missing a finger, and gripped the dagger tighter. As he swung the dagger up, Harry realised what was going to happen and shut his eyes tightly, but he couldn’t block out the pain-filled scream, though. He heard something drop on the ground, then a splash into liquid and decided it was safe enough to open his eyes. He looked at the potion again, and this time it was a burning red.

So focused on watching the potion, Harry didn’t notice Wormtail approaching until he was standing right before him.

“B-blood of the enemy – forcibly taken – you will resurrect your foe.”

Dread coursed through Harry. They were going to take his blood to resurrect Voldemort. He struggled against his bindings as hard as he could, but it was in vain. He could do nothing as the same silver dagger was lined up to the crook of his right arm, then dragged sharply down. He let out a small, muffled cry, more at the helplessness he was feeling than the pain. Harry could only watch as Wormtail collected his blood in a vial and poured it into the cauldron. In an instant, the liquid turned a blinding white.

Let it have drowned, Harry thought desperately.

But he had no such luck.

As a thick surge of white steam covered the graveyard, Harry could see the outline of a man rising from the cauldron. His scar was burning past endurance.

“Robe me” came from behind the mist. It wasn’t the high, cold voice this time. It was low and deep. It sounded a bit stiff, like it wasn’t used to talking.

Robe apparently on, the man stepped out of the cauldron and walked right up to Harry.

Harry’s wrist started pulsing as he looked into the face of Tom Riddle.

Lord Voldemort.

Gone were the monstrous features; instead, it was replaced by a seemingly 30-year-old Tom Riddle.

Harry loathed to admit it, but he was just as handsome at this age as he was at 16.

His cheekbones jutted sharply beneath flawless, pale skin, casting shadows that deepened the cold intensity in his eyes. A strong, angular jawline set his face in an unyielding expression, while dark hair, with a subtle wave, framed his features like a curtain of night. His face appeared unnaturally thin and gaunt, leading Harry to assume the rest of his body was similarly frail, though the robes concealed enough to leave it uncertain.  

The only thing that remained of Lord Voldemort was the piercing crimson eyes, fixed sharply on Harry as he surveyed the bound figure before him. His gaze travelled methodically – from Harry’s ankles, up the ropes binding his arms, then to his face – pausing on the lightning-shaped scar. Harry caught the glint of satisfaction in those eyes as they traced the jagged line from the top of his forehead down to his right eyebrow. At last, Voldemort’s eyes locked with Harry’s, and in that moment, something unspoken shifted between them.

Though his scar throbbed with searing pain, Harry could still sense the magnetic pull of his soulmate nearby. It felt like something restless stirring deep within his chest – itching to break free or drag him along. Voldemort stepped back, his gaze flickering away as if unsettled by something unseen. He began to examine his own form, but Harry had only a fleeting moment before the inevitable unfolded.

Lord Voldemort was alive. He was successful. Powerful. Immortal.

He had done it, risen from a near-death death. He vowed never to let anyone overpower him again. Not that he thinks they would, they would never get the chance before they met a swift death.

Inspecting his prophesied enemy before him, he was underwhelmed. A skinny boy, covered in wounds and blood, tied to a tombstone. The power radiating off him was interesting, but Lord Voldemort had met more powerful. The only thing remarkable about him was the scar covering his forehead, but that didn’t belong to the boy; it belonged to him. Then he looked at his eyes.

Striking emerald green, radiating fear and pain, but defiance still shining through. He felt a shift in his chest at the sight, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. That couldn’t happen. No one made Lord Voldemort unnerved.

So he took a step back, instead observing his new body. He looked in mild surprise at his hands; the sharp claws of Lord Voldemort were gone. Instead, there were the hands of Tom Riddle, what age he did not know, not until he could look at his face. The skin was pale and drawn tight over his knuckles, but without the sickly blue tint of his old body. He reached up to his face, running his hand reverently from soft hair, down to his nose, then chin. Another unexplainable change – features Lord Voldemort had long since lost through countless dark rituals. This shouldn’t be possible.

Just as his hand was falling away from his face, he caught a glimpse of black ink on his left wrist. Immediately, he knew what this implied. He had a soulmate.

He let out a soft chuckle at the absurdity. Him, finally having a soulmate. He gave up waiting for one many decades ago, back when Tom Riddle had graduated from Hogwarts. He used to covet the idea of having someone who was his, whose magic and soul matched his own. Someone who would always be loyal to him, who would put him above all others for no reason other than that Fate decided it so.

How foolish, Voldemort thought.

No more did Lord Voldemort care for a soulmate. But something was nagging at him; to check, to find, to own. Old feelings were stirring up just at the sight of the ink. He could have someone made just for him. Oh, he knows how unlikely it is that a sane person would follow Lord Voldemort blindly, but he could be convincing. Charming. Especially with his old looks back, it wouldn’t take long at all to lure the poor soul into a tightly woven trap right by his side. This person had Lord Voldemort’s soul, and Lord Voldemort looks after his things.

Mind made up, he brought his wrist closer for inspection. His eyes widened in shock as he read the name.

Harry James Potter.

His prophesied downfall. His vanquisher. The same boy tied right in front of him.

“Fate favours Lord Voldemort”, he whispered triumphantly.

The boy was his. Even before he claimed him that Halloween night. His soul was his, his magic was his. Harry Potter belonged to Lord Voldemort.

Harry couldn’t breathe. He swallowed hard around the gag, nerves prickling under his skin as he watched Voldemort’s gaze shift to his wrist, before he finally focused on it with a careful, deliberate inspection. His scar was still burning, his left wrist pulsing, and his right arm throbbing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop him, couldn’t run away.

He could do nothing as Voldemort tore his eyes away from his wrist back to Harry, his face was split into a shark-like grin. Voldemort advanced on Harry, grabbing his left wrist from where it was stuck to his side and holding it out in his view. Voldemort’s gaze turned predatory at the sight of his birth name on Harry’s wrist, and he slowly dragged a thumb over the ink.

Harry let out a strangled gasp at the feeling, the itch in his chest fading away to a light, fuzzy pleasure. His body turned loose, relying fully on the ropes to keep him standing as his head lolled forward. His scar was surprisingly quiet, just like the rest of his head. Everything seemed to stop, except for the feeling of a thumb dragging back and forth over his wrist.

Another hand crept into his hair, slowly running through it, before it tightened and drew his head back up. The hand slipped away from his wrist, and just as Harry blinked away the lingering sting of pleasure, the gag was pulled free of his mouth.

“Did you know?”

“W-what?”

“Did you know your soulmate is Lord Voldemort?”

The words shocked Harry out of his stupor. As he swallowed the dry feeling in his mouth, he thought of how to reply. “I- yeah, I’ve known since second year.”

“Hm. And how did you figure it out?” Voldemort was looking too curious for his own good. Harry swallowed again, eyes darting around the graveyard for a way to stop the questioning. When a few seconds had passed, Harry looked back at Voldemort.

“There was a diary. It had your name on the back of it. When I spoke to it, it showed me the anagram of your name. That’s how I knew.”

Voldemort’s eyes blazed. “How did you come across my diary?”

Harry could practically smell the danger in the air now. After a few seconds of silence, the hand in his hair tightened to the point of pain. Finding no way out of this conversation, Harry reluctantly replied. “I found it in the girls’ bathroom. It was given to a first year and she chucked it down the loo. Lucius Malfoy planted it in her book bag at the start of the year. Trust me, I don’t go looking for creepy Voldemort memorabilia.”

Voldemort didn’t seem to appreciate his comment as the hand tightened again. “And what happened to it?”

“Why are you so hung up on this diary?”

Voldemort drew his head forward by his hair before smashing it back against the tombstone with a dull crack. Pain radiated through his skull as his ears rang.

“Answer the question.” Voldemort hissed dangerously.

“I stabbed it! With a basilisk fang. Whatever that diary was, it’s destroyed now. There was ink spilling out everywhere.” Harry had the sinking feeling he just signed his own death warrant, soulmate or not. This diary seemed extremely important to Voldemort, though Harry couldn’t fathom why. It was just a memory of him, wasn’t it?

Voldemort seemed to be holding himself back; his hands were flexing, both the one in Harry’s hair and on his wand. Harry’s scar started to burn with a sudden ferocity that made his eyes water. He bit his lip harshly to keep any sounds in.

Voldemort paused, then chose his next question: “Where did you get a basilisk fang?”

Through clenched teeth, Harry replied, “The Chamber of Secrets. The diary possessed the first year and took her down there to kill her. My friend and I followed them.” Sensing Voldemort’s impatience and the next question looming, Harry pressed on.

“There was a monster loose in Hogwarts, so my friends and I investigated. We figured it was moving through the pipes. One of them was petrified by it, so the other and I tracked it to the second-floor girls’ bathroom. There, I saw a snake etched into one of the sinks, so I asked it to open the entrance. When we got down there, the Tom Riddle in the diary was almost fully corporeal, and we fought. He sent the basilisk after me – I stabbed it with a sword, then used the fang lodged in my arm to stab the diary. I only did it because he was going to kill my friends.”

Harry thought that summarised it well enough, but leaving out enough details to not put anyone else in danger. No way was he letting Voldemort know his friends’ names.

“You asked it to open? You’re a parselmouth.” Voldemort seemed conflicted. Probably stuck between whether or not to murder me, thought Harry. Before any more questions could come, there was a weak sniffling from somewhere behind them.

“M-my Lord. P-please.” Wormtail seemed to be desperate enough to stand in the way of his Lord’s ire.

And true to form, Voldemort turned around sharply to address the snivelling man. “Be quiet, Wormtail!” With a flick of his wrist, the bloody stump of Wormtail’s arm closed up. Just enough to stop the bleeding.

Considering Wormtail dealt with, Voldemort turned back to Harry. “As my soulmate, the only place for you is by my side. You belong to me, mind, body and soul. No one is allowed to touch you, and the only way to ensure that is by keeping you close. I will give you the chance to come willingly. This will allow you to build trust with me, earning you privileges such as me returning your wand. You would be expected to follow me as your Lord and obey my commands. This is the easy option. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out the hard one.”

Harry was struck dumb. Voldemort expected him to play ‘happy soulmates’. Well, as happy as playing a willing captive can get. When Harry didn’t respond, Voldemort continued.

“I’m sure you're considering fighting; a rightful Gryffindor response. I’m also sure you can see how hopeless that would be.” Voldemort’s red eyes gleamed in the dim lighting of the graveyard.

“Who are you, against me? I made everything you are – it is my soul you share. My marks stain your body. You are bound, beaten, and broken merely by my presence. One touch from me, and you are utterly powerless.” Voldemort prowled towards Harry like a predator closing in, and Harry felt as if the air had been squeezed from his lungs by the crushing weight of helplessness. A cruel, victorious smirk curled Voldemort’s lips – someone who knew the battle was already won. “So, what will it be, Harry? Tell me.”

Harry did a quick check of the bonds again, concluding they are just as tight as before. He looked around the graveyard, landing on the Cup, then Cedric’s body. He tried to look where his wand would be, if there was any chance that he could run and grab it if he got out of the ropes, but it was too dark to see it. His head spun with the weight of the situation, the inevitability of surrendering to Voldemort pressing heavily on him.

There was a possibility, though, that if Harry could get these ropes off, he could somehow make it back to the Cup. That is, if the Cup was a two-way portkey, but it was his best chance yet.

So, with a slow nod, Harry spoke, “Fine. I – I will come with you.”

Voldemort flicked his wand, then Harry fell face-first into the ground. Landing on his hands and knees, he quickly sprang up to not be kneeling before Voldemort. His ankle gave a sharp twinge of pain at the movement, and he fought not to let it show on his face.

Voldemort held out a hand, and something smacked into it from the darkness. Upon closer inspection, Harry realised it was his wand. Desperation coursed through Harry.

Accio wand, he thought, holding his palm slightly upwards.

Accio wand! He tried again.

He didn’t notice Voldemort’s questioning look at the wand until he spoke again, “Your wand, it feels like my own. I’m sure if I cast a spell, it would obey me the same. What is its core?” At this, he turned back to Harry, eyes demanding an answer.

Harry snapped out of his mental chant, meeting Voldemort’s eyes to respond. “Phoenix feather. Ollivander said yours was its brother.”

Once again, Harry focused back on the wand.

Accio wand!

Accio wand!

He was getting frustrated. Voldemort made it look so easy. It’s about time something worked out in Harry’s favour instead. Stuck in his thoughts, he missed the start of Voldemort’s next rant.

“- proof of our connection, for our magic to be so deeply intertwined. It’s unheard of. Perhaps that’s why you were prophesied for my defeat, only something that is made of me would make it possible.” Harry tuned most of this out, frustration turning to anger. He started chanting again.

Accio wand!

Accio wand!

Accio wand!

Then, what he heard next turned anger into rage.

“I needn’t have bothered killing your parents to get you; you simply would have come to me. Of course, it is highly unlikely they would have bothered with a child who is the soulmate of the Dark Lord. Their hatred of you would’ve driven you right into my grasp, for me to raise you as I see fit.”

How dare he! Harry thought furiously. His parents’ murderer, talking so callously about their deaths. Not that Harry thought Voldemort would feel guilt, but to speak ill of them right in front of him? His stomach was churning; he could feel his fingers tingling. Putting as much power into it as he could, Harry thought once again, Accio wand!

With a small smack, Harry’s wand flew into his palm.

He didn’t even have time to congratulate himself; he flung straight into action. He sprinted straight past Voldemort, Harry’s practice from Harry Hunting helping him avoid the spell that scorched the ground he just stood in, but he didn’t look back to see how close it was.

As he neared the cauldron, he felt a hand latch onto his bad ankle and give a sharp yank. He kicked at the hand, taking a brief glance to see Wormtail curling back into himself. Diving towards Cedric’s body, he raised his wand towards the cup, but the delay from Wormtail was just enough for Voldemort to hit him with a vibrant red spell.

Harry crumbled to the ground with a howl of pain. The agony was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Harry clawed at the ground, searching for a foothold of sanity before his strength gave out and he grasped at his arms. Pain-filled screams echoed relentlessly in his ears as he fought desperately against the torment. The pain consumed him utterly, driving him to the brink of surrender – he was ready to die just for it to stop. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the torment ceased.

Harry scrambled to get his bearings. His wand was trapped just beneath his chest, Cedric’s body lay close by, the Cup metres away – and Voldemort closing in fast. He must have been under the Cruciatus Curse for only seconds. Desperately, Harry reached for his wand, summoned the Cup, and slung an arm around Cedric. In the split second before the cup appeared, his eyes locked with Voldemort’s – red and blazing with fury. Voldemort raised his wand, but before a spell could be cast, the world blurred around Harry. A sharp tug at his navel – and they vanished.

Chapter Text

Voldemort stood staring at the spot from which the boy had just disappeared. Disbelief clouded his thoughts; how the Potter boy was able to escape him again, he couldn’t understand.

But he was intrigued. Only a powerful wizard would be able to employ such magic, such determination in the face of a great enemy such as himself. That even the pain of the Cruciatus was unable to keep him down, and many great wizards have fallen to his curse before. It seems that there is more to his soulmate than what meets the eye, as Lord Voldemort did not consider him a threat before. Not at all.

And he was angry. That his soulmate would refuse to be at his side. When shown mercy for his wrongdoings against Lord Voldemort and a place in his ranks offered, the boy refused. Not only refused him, deceived him. Made him believe in the boy’s compliance, all the while planning his great escape. This would not happen again. Lord Voldemort will not show mercy, will not be led on by his flighty little soulmate. Next time, and there will be a next time, Lord Voldemort will trap the boy so tightly in his grasp that there’s no way out. He will dominate him, show the boy that the only place for him is kneeling before his master. Make him lose all hope of escape or rescue. Lord Voldemort will be the only thing left for him to lean on.

A pathetic sniffle brought him out of his thoughts, turning to look down on the cowering form of Wormtail. He mentally shook himself back to the present, ready to continue his plans for his return. Firstly, his spy in Hogwarts needed to be dealt with. Bartemius would not be allowed to kill his soulmate, as he surely would attempt to upon seeing the boy’s return.

“Your arm, Wormtail.” He looked on in disgust as Wormtail extended the bloody stump of his hand.

“Thank you, M-master, thank you.”

He quickly lost patience, snapping at the rat on the ground, “Your other arm!”

As soon as the arm holding the Dark Mark came into reach, he snatched at it, digging his nails harshly into Wormtail’s wrist. Ignoring the small whimper this action brought, he dug his wand sharply into the Mark, watching as the ink turned a deep black. He made a specific call for Bartemius, making it as urgent and painful as he could to get the message across. He would not have his soulmate injured by anyone other than himself. He then called forth his inner circle of Death Eaters. It was time for Lord Voldemort’s return to be known.

With a harsh thump, Harry and Cedric slammed into the floor. Cheers erupted immediately, the band playing a victory song. Harry’s mind was whirling with the change of situation. Still half slumped over Cedric, Harry tried to think of the best course of action.

He wanted to warn everyone that Voldemort was back. That he was stronger, slightly saner, more dangerous. That everyone needed to prepare for war.

But the logical part of his mind was nagging at him. The public has thought him a cheat and a liar for the better part of the year. His friends were already turning against him. What would they think if he came back from the last task of a tournament with a dead classmate in tow, then started claiming Lord Voldemort was back?

He was conflicted. Who could he tell that would take him seriously? That wouldn’t write him off as a nutcase who murdered his fellow competitor.

As soon as he lifted his head, he got his answer. Dumbledore was making his way swiftly towards where he and Cedric lay. And he felt like a weight was taken off his shoulders. He could tell Dumbledore. Dumbledore would know what to do; he fought against Voldemort in the last war. He’s always believed Harry’s interactions with Voldemort in the past, despite how sometimes Harry felt like they were set up for him specifically.

And then Harry was hit with a wave of despair. Cedric was dead. Killed by his soulmate. His soulmate tortured him, wanted to kidnap him.

But he was safe, back at Hogwarts. There was no way Voldemort would get into Hogwarts. No way that Voldemort would get past Dumbledore. With this realisation, the last of the adrenaline left Harry. All the aches and pains he pushed to the side were suddenly at the front of his mind. His ankle, twisted funny from the harsh landing, the cut on his arm was catching on his robe sleeve and pulling off specks of dried blood, and his scar was pounding furiously against his forehead. His muscles, twitching and spasming from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus, were the worst. He felt like he couldn’t move a single part of his body, like it was all one big, painful cramp.

Before he could lose himself in the pain, Dumbledore was at his side and speaking, “Harry… Harry, what happened? Where did you go?” There was concern in Dumbledore’s voice, but his face was hard.

Fudge had made his way over, too, looking quickly between Harry and the still body of Cedric. His face was pale as realisation washed over him, speaking quickly to Dumbledore, “Headmaster, we’ve got to move the body. There are too many people.” His hands were flapping wildly between Dumbledore and Cedric, as if trying to convey his urgency.

With Dumbledore’s help, Harry finally sat up from where he was slumped over Cedric. He looked around, finding them surrounded by various members of the Ministry and Hogwarts staff. All looked in a state of shock, like they never imagined the tournament would have actually killed one of them. One of them screeched wildly, “He’s dead! Diggory – he’s dead!” They were quickly silenced, but not before the statement was heard by the spectators.

“Let me through! Let me through! That’s – my – son! Let me through!”

A great commotion was heard from the stands, as finally a tall, ruddy-faced man pushed through the group surrounding them. His eyes were wild before landing on Cedric. On his expressionless, blank gaze, his face stuck in what looked like surprise. He collapsed to the ground with a mournful cry, loud across the sudden silence of the stands.

As Mr Diggory mourned over Cedric’s body, Harry realised with stark clarity that Cedric was really dead. He wouldn’t get back up. Would never go to class again, wouldn’t graduate, would never start an undoubtedly successful career. He would never get married, never have a family. He took a brief around look for Cho, who was Cedric’s soulmate. His heart broke for her, too.

A hand wrapped around his arm, and he looked up to find the pained face of Mr Weasley. “Come on, Harry, let’s get you out of here. To the hospital wing, I think would be best.”

“No, Arthur, to my office if you would. I have much to discuss with Harry. I will join you very soon.” Came the demand from Dumbledore.

“But… Professor Dumbledore, he’s exhausted and injured. I’m sure it could wait, just until Harry has been treated. He can barely stand with how much he is shaking! He’s in no condition for an interrogation!”

“I promise I will take him directly to the hospital wing as soon as we are done. There are just some things that can’t afford to wait. I will be up soon.” Then Dumbledore’s eyes had that familiar twinkle back in them, “Oh, and don’t be surprised if you attract a dog along the way.” With a small wink at Harry, he turned back to the Minister.

“Well, if this is what he thinks is best. Better get a move on then, Harry. Come on, lean your weight on me. I’ll help you out.” Sliding his arm under Harry’s shoulder and around his back, Mr Weasley helped Harry stand, then slowly started making their way to the headmaster’s office. They walked in mostly silence, other than Harry’s wheezes of pain as he struggled to put weight on his bad ankle. Just as they were nearing the castle, a black mass came zooming out of the darkness towards them. Harry had no more fight in him, just prepared to be attacked by the incoming threat.

But as it came closer, there was a friendly bark, and then a shaggy, black dog came into view. Relief flooded through Harry, but he felt too unsteady to crouch down to greet the dog as it walked up beside him. Instead, he whispered a small, “Hey Snuffles,” earning him a low whine. The three of them continued on the trek to the office.

After what felt like the longest walk in all his time at Hogwarts, Harry had finally collapsed into the chair in front of the headmaster’s desk. He was sweating and out of breath from the pain, and for a moment felt his simmering anger directed purely at the headmaster. Surely it wouldn’t have been too much to wait for answers until Harry was treated. He knew it was important; the war could start up again, and the information he held was crucial. But Merlin, he just wanted a break. His mind was still racing from the events of the graveyard.

That jolted Harry. What was he going to tell Dumbledore about the graveyard? No way was he risking anyone else knowing they were soulmates. They’d claim him dark, dangerous, a traitor. And wasn’t that just unfair? Harry didn’t choose his soulmate. Doesn’t even want his soulmate, especially after tonight.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts when Snuffles rested his head on his thigh. He offered a small, tired smile and gently stroked the dog’s fur. His fingers ached from the effort to move, but the soothing rhythm helped steady his mind. He took the moment to gather his thoughts.

He would tell the full truth about the night’s beginning – arriving with Cedric, Cedric’s death, and being bound to the gravestone. The ritual mattered too; Dumbledore would need to know exactly how Voldemort returned. Harry saw no reason to keep that to himself.

But everything after that became complicated. Most of what followed revolved around Voldemort discovering Harry was his soulmate. He’d still mention the questioning about the diary – Dumbledore might explain its importance. It was during that exchange that Voldemort learned Harry was a Parselmouth. Harry would say Voldemort offered him a place at his side, which, technically, was true – and that he refused. He’d explain that Voldemort then untied him for a duel, though he’d frame it as a humiliating loss; in truth, there was hardly a duel at all. Voldemort had spent most of the time torturing him – again, not technically false. Harry would claim he summoned his wand by accident, dodged past Voldemort, and somehow reached the Cup.

Yeah, totally believable. I just outran Voldemort, thought Harry sardonically.

It was the best idea he had, and the only it seemed, as Dumbledore just arrived through the door. He made his way over to the desk, sitting opposite Harry, and addressed Mr Weasley, “Thank you, Arthur, for bringing Harry here. You should go find your family, and we will meet you in the hospital wing as soon as we are done.”

Mr Weasley, who had been hovering behind where Harry was sitting, gave a curt nod. With one more reassuring glance at Harry, he turned to leave. Once the door was shut, Snuffles transformed into Sirius, who immediately whirled on Dumbledore.

“You said this tournament was safe, that Harry would be safe. I knew from the very start that something was fishy about this, but you gave the go-ahead to let a 14-year-old compete! What the hell happened?” Sirius was red in the face from his rant, but Harry felt touched to have someone caring for him so much.

“That is why I called Harry here. Something happened, and I could guess what, but I need confirmation”, Dumbledore responded calmly. He then turned to Harry, “Would you mind filling in the gaps for me, Harry? Starting from when you touched the Cup.”

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to start the story he had planned just for this. But just thinking of Cedric brought back images in front of his eyes, of Cedric lying dead on the grass. Of being helplessly bound to a tombstone. He could feel the ropes digging into his arms, the smell of blood and damp soil.

A hand clasped onto his shoulder softly, and he broke his train of thought to look at Sirius. “If you aren’t ready for this, Harry, that’s fine. Don’t feel pressured. We can take you to get healed, then come back to it, ok?” Harry gave a shaky nod of thanks at Sirius. He couldn’t do this, not right now with the memories so fresh.

Just as Harry let out a breath of relief, Dumbledore’s voice cut in – gentle but leaving little room to refuse.

“I’m sorry to press you so soon, Harry, but what you have to tell me is vital for the war. I could, of course, allow you to follow Sirius’ suggestion and revisit this later… but I believe speaking now, while it’s still vivid, will help you move past it. Think of this as a chance to set down the weight you’re carrying – place it in my hands – and I’ll see to the rest. So, if you would… start from when you touched the Cup.”

Once again, his anger directed itself at Dumbledore. At least this time, he seemed not to be alone. Sirius gave an unhappy grunt at Dumbledore’s speech, but, like Harry, he realised the futility of staying quiet. So, with a squeeze of his shoulder from Sirius, Harry started talking.

He told them about the fight with the giant spider, the burning pain in his ankle, and the way he and Cedric had pushed each other forward despite it. How they’d decided, almost in the same breath, to take the Cup together – Hogwarts winning, side by side. But the moment their hands touched it, everything changed. The pull of the portkey ripped them away from safety, slamming them down into a graveyard that reeked of cold stone and decay. They hadn’t known. Neither of them had known. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows, carrying something small and twisted in his arms. Then came the voice – high, cold and merciless – ordering Cedric’s death. The flash of green burned into Harry’s mind, Cedric falling before he could even understand what was happening. Harry’s breath caught as he described being dragged to the tombstone, the ropes biting into him, and the sickening moment he realised the hooded man was Wormtail.

Harry was on a roll now; the words were just pouring out of his mouth. Like they were desperate for someone else to hear them.

He moved onto the potion, how the cauldron was big enough to fit a man. How they used the bones of Tom Riddle Sr. The flesh of Wormtail’s hand. His own blood.

Sirius’s cruel glee at hearing about what happened to Wormtail turned into horrified concern. “They used your blood?! Do you know what people can do with blood?”

With a deadpan look, Harry turned to Sirius, “I know exactly what they did with my blood, I was literally right there watching them.”

Dumbledore remained quiet, though something shone through his eyes at the mention of Voldemort using Harry’s blood. It almost looked like victory, before it was quickly replaced by determination. “So, using this potion, Lord Voldemort returned, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see… and did he come back looking the same as he did the last war?”

At this, Harry startled slightly. He hadn’t considered whether to say he looked like Tom Riddle again or not. Not seeing the harm in it, Harry answered truthfully. “No, sir, he looked like Tom Riddle from the diary, only a handful of years older. Maybe around 30.”

Dumbledore seemed surprised, flicking his gaze over Harry’s shoulder and looking as if considering something. After a minute of silence, Dumbledore finally spoke again. “That should not be possible. Tom Riddle lost his looks many years ago, through countless acts steeped in the blackest of magic. There are only a few reasons that his natural looks would be returned, each as impossible as the next… Continue, Harry.”

So, he did. Now he was getting into dangerous territory.

“He, um… he had a few questions about the diary. He was very interested in what happened to it – and not happy with what I told him.”

Dumbledore leaned forward just slightly, his gaze steady but unyielding. “Curious. And how did he learn of the diary’s fate? He should have believed it was still safely locked away, as far as anyone knew.”

“It was before that,” Harry said quickly. “He was, uh, asking if I recognised him. I said he looked like the diary.”

“Mm,” Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “So… what did he do then? You’ve said he was unhappy with the diary’s outcome. I imagine his temper was… dangerous.”

Harry forced a shrug, keeping his tone even despite the tightness in his chest. “When I told him about what happened in the Chamber of Secrets, it came out I was a Parselmouth. He seemed… intrigued. Enough to offer to spare me if I joined him.”

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured, the words slow and deliberate. “And you declined, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bravely done,” Dumbledore said, though there was something measured in his voice, as if weighing the truth of it. “So… how did you escape?”

Harry’s stomach knotted. This was the biggest part of his lie, and he could feel Dumbledore’s attention like a weight. “He got angry, untied me, and told me to duel him. Said it would show me my place before he killed me. It… wasn’t much of a duel. I could barely stand, so he just hit me with torture curses. Then he started gloating about my parents. I guess that made me angry enough to fight back. I summoned my wand, dodged a few curses, and got to Cedric. I called the Cup just before a spell hit me. Then we were back here – and you came over.”

Harry willed himself not to fidget under the headmaster’s gaze. Please don’t ask me to go over it again.

After a moment, Dumbledore leaned back, his expression softening into something almost paternal. “That must have taken great presence of mind, Harry.” The gentleness in his tone felt calculated, a balm after the probing questions. “But you are worn thin, my boy. Let’s get you to the hospital wing.”

Sirius’ hand gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. As Sirius transformed back into Snuffles, Dumbledore stood, offering his hand to help Harry up. It was another long walk, mostly silent – save for Dumbledore’s quiet, oddly placed remarks about the castle’s history, each one feeling like a test Harry didn’t quite understand. He kept his head down, too drained to answer.

With a wave of Dumbledore’s hand, the doors to the hospital wing opened, and Harry found himself surrounded by flaming red hair. Voices were talking over each other, all turned towards him, and it was too much.

Madam Pomfrey came to rescue, shooing everyone away as she directed him onto the bed and pulled the screen shut. “It’s always something with you, isn’t it, Mr Potter?” She joked at him, trying to lighten his mood.

He had nothing to give her but a tired nod back; he was exhausted. With a wave of her wand, she cast a diagnostic charm. After reading the results, she had a grim look on her face. His ankle was fixed in no time, just left with a stiff feeling. The cut on his arm healed, leaving just a scar in its place. She held out two potions, “One’s a pain reliever, and the other is to repair the nerve damage done by the Cruciatus. Once you’ve taken these, go for a shower and get changed. When you come back, I’ll give you some Dreamless Sleep. Now, go on.” She was speaking softly, like she knew his head was throbbing.

Harry downed the two potions quickly, grimacing at the taste. He then picked up the pair of hospital pyjamas that were lying at the foot of the bed and went to shower. He had a bit of a laugh as Snuffles tried to follow him into the cubicle, giving him a soft reprimand and telling him to stand guard outside instead. The shower was amazing. All the dirt, grime and blood washing off him. He scrubbed himself raw, trying to get the lingering feeling of the graveyard off him. All dressed, he headed back out to his cot, ready for the promised night of dreamless sleep.

Just as Madam Pomfrey was handing over the potion, Dumbledore interrupted. “Madam Pomfrey, do you mind if I have a moment of privacy with Mr Potter? I promise, it won’t take long.”

Madam Pomfrey huffed, looking back at Harry briefly before nodding. As soon as her office door closed, Dumbledore turned to the gathered group. Harry also looked at them properly for the first time tonight. Mr and Mrs Weasley were there, along with Hermione, Ron and Snuffles. Dumbledore gave a glance at everyone before announcing, “There is someone I’d like to introduce before continuing this conversation. Sirius, please.”

On cue, the black dog sitting beside Harry’s bed turned into a man. Mrs Weasley let out a screech, “Sirius Black!”

With a dog-like bark of laughter and a small smirk, Sirius made himself comfortable on the side of Harry’s bed. He turned to Harry, “See, kid, one day you could grow up to be famous like me,” he said with a cheeky wink.

Dumbledore settled in the chair beside Harry’s bed, his eyes sweeping the room. “Yes – now that matter is settled. Sirius has been wrongly convicted, and tonight’s events have made that clearer than ever.”

His gaze lingered on Molly and Arthur. “I will explain everything in full later. For now, I must urge you – do not share any of this with the Minister.” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. “Harry, especially you.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Dumbledore pressed on, his tone mild but unyielding. “I have tried to warn him myself. Alas, he is… far too invested in his public image to recognise the peril we are in.” He steepled his fingers, the movement deliberate, thoughtful. “That means, for now, we must work quietly. Out of sight. Until Lord Voldemort’s return can no longer be denied.”

He let the next words fall like a warning. “If we act too soon, we risk being dismissed as unstable… and a madman gathers no allies.” His eyes sharpened, pinning each of them in turn. “We cannot lose credibility – not now, when the numbers we will need are still out there, watching, waiting.”

His voice softened, almost paternal. “Molly. Arthur. Sirius.” He leaned forward slightly, “I trust I can count on you?”

Harry looked at them in confusion. Count them in on what?

But they seemed to know what Dumbledore was talking about. Molly looked at Arthur before responding, “Of course, you can, Albus.”

Sirius gave a firm nod.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore clapped his hands, “Sirius, I’d like you to alert the old crowd – Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher. Your efforts are greatly appreciated, I promise you.”

Turning his gaze to Harry, Dumbledore’s voice softened yet remained firm. “Harry, I know you want to fight – that you want the world to understand the storm that’s coming. But listen carefully; now is not the time.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “The Minister refuses to face the truth. With his head buried in the sand, there’s no hope of swaying the public to our side. The last thing I want is for this ordeal to break you further than it already has.”

 “I will be doing my part in this war, alongside a select group of trusted adults. We are not idle, waiting for the world to end.” Dumbledore leaned in slightly, “What I need from you now is focus on healing. Both your body and your mind. Can you do that for me?”

Harry nodded dumbly, not comprehending what was going on. What did Dumbledore mean by the Minister wouldn’t listen? Cedric’s body was right there! Did he think Cedric just dropped dead of his own accord?

But he was relieved to know someone shared his concerns. The Daily Prophet had already been a nightmare this year – he couldn’t bear the thought of being labelled a lunatic in the headlines once more. Who knew what Voldemort’s plans were, or when he might finally reveal himself? Harry was grateful that Dumbledore had chosen this cautious path, hoping it might grant him a relatively peaceful fifth year. That is, if Voldemort decided to leave him alone – though that seemed wildly unlikely.

The hospital wing's doors were slammed open. Professor McGonagall and Snape rushed inside and over to Dumbledore, “Headmaster, Professor Moody is missing. His belongings have been packed up in a hurry, and Professor Snape found old vials of Polyjuice in his drawers. We believe it was an imposter.”

Dumbledore rose quickly and moved toward the two professors =, speaking in low, urgent tones. Meanwhile, a hand gripped Harry’s tightly, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He turned to Sirius and caught the apologetic look in his eyes.

“I have to go, Harry,” Sirius said quietly. “I can’t risk being caught again – not when you’re in more danger than ever before. But I’ll write, and I promise we’ll see each other soon. I love you heaps, Prongslet, and I’m so proud of you for making it out of that graveyard alive. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

Harry nodded, his voice barely a whisper as he said goodbye. Sirius bent down, planting a gentle kiss on the top of Harry’s head before pulling away. In the blink of an eye, he transformed back into Snuffles, just as Madam Pomfrey appeared in the doorway.

“Alright! All of you out! Out! This is a hospital wing, and my patient has to sleep. I’ve given you long enough. Out!”

With a few muttered goodbyes and get-wells to Harry, the hospital wing cleared out. It was late, and Harry had been tired for hours. All he wanted was to sleep.

“Here, dear, take this potion. You’ll have a full night’s rest then. I’ll see you in the morning.” Madam Pomfrey handed him the purple potion, and he downed it quickly. The vial slipped from his hand as his eyes immediately drooped shut, and he dropped into heavy, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry was bored. Utterly bored. Completely bored. Entirely bored. Wholly. Totally. Absolutely. Unconditionally. Downright. He was running out of words to describe it.

After the disaster of the end of his fourth year, Harry got shipped back to the Dursleys. Just as he was congratulating Dumbledore’s clever thinking, he had this idea. He said he wanted Harry’s body and mind to heal, right? So sending him back to abusive relatives is the best solution he could come up with, apparently.

Harry’s almost thinner than he’s ever been. Normally, towards the end of the year, he’d stock up on as much food as he could find. He’d lost his appetite, though, skipping meals and didn’t bother packing his trunk full of food. He would almost regret it now if he didn’t get that irrational guilt every time he goes to put a bite in his mouth.

Cedric will never eat again, his head says. It’s your fault he’s dead; you told him to take the Cup.

It’s not like he’s got an abundance of food here anyway, what with the piece of bread for breakfast and canned soup for dinner. Less waste, Harry tells himself.

The only thing he can do to break up the day is do chores. Not that they are voluntary, but a needed distraction from his thoughts. The Dursleys seemed to have picked up that Harry’s struggling, and instead of supporting him, like a normal family, they tried their best to break him down into submission. If they are reminded of his presence, he is met with disdainful words and sharp glares. Mistakes are met with a swat from Petunia or a slap from Vernon. Merlin forbid he does magic.

Today was a rare day; he’d finished his chores, and they let him go for a walk. He headed down the street towards the park at the end of the block, happy for some fresh air. As he sat on the old swing set, his thoughts came running back to overwhelm him.

He hadn’t heard from anyone; not his friends, not Sirius and not Dumbledore. He thought they would keep him more involved than this, especially seeing how it was he who saw Voldemort return. He who had to stand against him. Him that Voldemort is targeting. He’d gotten no news whether the imposter in Hogwarts was caught, or whether Fudge might have finally realised something was wrong. He had tried sending letters, but none came back to him. He barely even got messages for his birthday, a few written letters, but with no information other than they would ‘see him soon’. He was reading any newspaper he could get his hands on, watching the telly every chance he got to look for signs of Voldemort.

But there was nothing.

His jaw clenched in frustration before quickly loosening again at the flash of pain through it. Vernon had landed a solid punch a few days ago when he caught Harry trying to slip a piece of bacon in his pocket for Hedwig. Of course, that wasn’t his biggest concern.

His biggest concern was the dreams.

They had started just after he arrived back at the Dursleys’. First, they were flashes of places and people he’d never seen, accompanied by a feeling of deep rage. One time, Harry woke up to his lamp bulb shattered from a particularly bad one. Then, just as he was beginning to adjust, they changed. Sometimes he’d be looking through someone else’s eyes, and sometimes he’d just be following that same person around, like a ghost. But he knew who that person was at first glance.

Lord Voldemort.

As much as Harry would like the dreams to stop, for now, they were his only source of information on the oncoming war. Who better to hear it from than the source? Not that he could understand much from the dreams, with the way it distorts every few seconds, like it’s trying to throw him out. These dreams weren’t causing his magic to lash out anymore, so he had no pressing reason to stop them.

The nightmares I could do without, Harry thought.

They were brutal. Most are centred around the events of the graveyard, and some are just other horrors his brain has cooked up. All of them leave Harry terrified. The worst nightmare had come just weeks ago – Sirius was cruelly murdered while trying to save him from the graveyard. At one terrifying moment, Harry saw Sirius burning alive in the cauldron before jolting awake, drenched as water was poured over him. It turned out he’d set the bed on fire in his sleep, the sheets now scorched where his clenched fists had pressed into them. The Dursleys were furious, and Vernon’s punishment left Harry bruised and battered.

Harry hasn’t got much sleep since that one, too scared of what will happen if his magic is out of control. He’s noticed it getting more reactive. Sometimes it feels like it's buzzing just under his skin, like it's itching to get out. He hasn’t got anyone to tell either, for both the nightmares and his magic. He feels completely abandoned.

Deciding it was time to head back to the house, Harry got up and made the short walk back. He opened the front door slowly, checking if the coast was clear for him to dash to his room. When no one immediately came to harass him, he shut the door quietly and made his way quickly up the stairs.

Reaching his room, he collapsed on the bed in exhaustion. Everything seemed to sap all the energy out of him these days. He looked sideways at Hedwig and promised to let her out once the Dursleys went to sleep. They hadn’t locked her away this time, thankfully, so she could hunt mostly for herself. Harry still liked to top her food tray up with treats.

A sharp knock at the door drew his attention. “Come make dinner,” came the sharp voice of Petunia Dursley.

“Coming, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replied, rolling himself out of bed. Cooking wasn’t the worst chore; he actually kind of enjoyed it. He’d probably enjoy it more if he got to taste what he made, though.

He made a simple Spaghetti Bolognese, setting the table exactly how Petunia liked it and plating the preferred amounts for his family. He cleaned up quickly and was just about to run back up to his room when Vernon walked through the front door.

“Good evening, all,” his deep voice boomed through the house, “what’s been made for dinner, Petunia?”

“Spaghetti Bolognese, the boys just finished up. Come sit down, let me take your cloak and bag. Boy, to your room.” Petunia ordered. Harry wasn’t complaining; anything that would get him away from his family’s ire was fine with him.

Harry made his way out of the kitchen, passing Dudley, who stuck an elbow in his tender ribs. Not rising to the bait, Harry continued up the stairs, deciding to wash up now that they were all occupied. Not risking more than 5 minutes in the bathroom, Harry showered and dressed in record time before settling back in his room. His own dinner depends on how satisfied they are with their meal.

Hours passed slowly before, finally, as the clock read 9.12 pm, the cat flap on his door opened to push a can of beans through it. Harry got up to grab it, scooping a handful out for Hedwig before eating some himself. He got through half the can before his stomach cramped, and he put it on his desk to save for later. He never knew when the food would stop coming.

Another half hour passed before he could hear Uncle Vernon’s snores, so as quietly as he could, he cracked the window open just enough for Hedwig to pass through. She squeezed through a gap in the bars and took off into the night. As Harry settled in for the night, he prayed to anyone who would listen for a few hours of peaceful sleep.

Harry was in an unfamiliar library, but the person directly in front of him was familiar. His brain caught on slowly that this must be another dream. But something felt off about this one. It felt solid; he could feel the ground under his bare feet. He walked over to a shelf, placing a hand on a book before slowly lifting it.

This couldn’t be a dream. He wasn’t able to control his surroundings in any previous dreams.

“So, it was you who was spying on me,” came a rich, deep voice from beside him, “only the Boy-Who-Lived would have the audacity to try. What I want to know is how.”

Harry whirled around to see the man advancing towards him. That wasn’t normal either. Voldemort had never noticed Harry during any other dream. He took a few stumbling steps back, almost tripping over the hems of his pyjama pants.

“I’ve come to understand there’s a connection between us,” Voldemort said coldly. “But it wasn’t forged simply because we are soulmates. Tell me – how did you become aware of it before I did? I am a master Occlumens; there should be no way for you to slip into my mind at will. Yet your mind…” He smiled cruelly. “Your mind is an open door to me.”

Voldemort tilted his head mockingly, “So many troubled thoughts, Harry. Tell me – what’s eating at you so much?”

Harry sputtered angrily, “You’re bothering me! You know it’s you!”

“Don’t flatter me, Harry,” Voldemort took another step forward, “Now, what do you know about this connection? How did you find out about it? I suggest answering truthfully. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Harry took a few more steps back before he ran into a shelf behind him. He looked to his sides, but it was too long to make a quick escape around before Voldemort reached him. He took a steadying breath to reply, “I don’t know anything about this connection. I didn’t even know we had one.”

Voldemort’s smile turned wicked. “You’re lying.”

Faster than Harry could comprehend, Voldemort was onto him, pinning him against the bookshelf. One hand held his gathered wrists to the side, and another was digging harshly into his chin, keeping his head straight.

“Keep your eyes on me, don’t fight it, and it shouldn’t be painful.” His eyes snapped to Voldemort’s at the command, almost by accident. Voldemort only needed a second to get into his head.

Pain immediately radiated through his skull. He tried in vain to push Voldemort away. Whatever he was doing, it bloody hurt. Memories started flashing before his eyes, being viewed briefly before being discarded. It wasn’t until a memory of the Duelling Club came up that Voldemort stopped. They watched as Draco Malfoy summoned a snake, Lockhart’s pitiful attempts to get rid of it, and then finally Harry speaking parseltongue to get the snake to calm down. Next came Harry speaking to the Boa Constrictor at the zoo, then Harry opening the Chamber of Secrets.

Voldemort seemed interested in this and watched the memory of Harry and Tom Riddle’s fight. As the diary got stabbed, Voldemort’s magic got harsher. It seemed to be carving its way through Harry’s skull. He looked briefly through the rest of Harry’s interactions with the diary, a flicker of amusement in his magic for a moment, before going back to searching through his memories.

He didn’t have to look far, because Harry was already thinking of the conversation that took place after the fight in the chamber, the one with Dumbledore. “Unless I’m much mistaken, he transferred some of his powers to you the night he gave you that scar.”

Voldemort was furious, ripping through Harry’s head now for anything related to himself. Different memories flew by: Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, a high, cold laugh while being surrounded by dementors, Voldemort on the back of Quirrell’s head. Then he paused as a memory showed the Riddle House. They watched Voldemort converse with Wormtail, and Harry began struggling in earnest. He pushed as hard as he could against the presence of Voldemort in his head, to no avail.

And then the Muggle man was dead, and Harry was still pushing futilely against Voldemort. Voldemort’s magic was consuming him; Harry was being swallowed up in it. Voldemort scanned through a few more memories, pausing at a few of Harry’s scar hurting.

Then Voldemort took a random turn. He looked at memories of his friends. Of Sirius. His professors and classmates. Harry realised with a feeling of dread that Voldemort was gathering information on him. That he could use this information to hurt him, to hurt his friends. His struggles doubled, and finally, he could feel his magic responding. A low buzz started underneath his skin. He prepared to push Voldemort out, but the next memory had him freeze.

It was the Dursleys’. Voldemort was watching his time at the Dursleys. He’d told no one about them and never wanted to. Memories whizzed past: Harry getting shoved in his cupboard, five-year-old Harry’s hands burnt from oil flying in the pan, Harry accidentally apparating to escape Dudley and his friends, twelve-year-old Harry watching as bars are put on his window, and fifteen-year-old Harry getting beaten after setting his bed on fire. The memories were all as humiliating as the last, and righteous anger flowed through Harry.

Who was Voldemort to violate him like this? Who gave him the right to look into his mind and see his private thoughts, his memories? Magic crackling with his anger, he gave one last mighty shove. Magic burst out of him, and he screamed as the claws of Voldemort’s magic tried to dig into his mind before they finally dissolved.

Harry shot awake, scream breaking off. He looked around his room in shock; it was completely destroyed. The desk had collapsed on the ground, the carpet was singed, and the window was mostly shattered. Anything that was lying loose was on the ground, as if a huge gust of wind had come through. The only thing left standing was the bed Harry was sitting on. Looking at Hedwig’s cage standing upside down on the ground, Harry was relieved he’d let her out beforehand.

Then the locks on his door started to click one by one, opening to a furious Uncle Vernon. He was puffing angrily, surveying the damaged room before finally landing on Harry.

“Please, Uncle Vernon, I didn’t mean to, I swear! I’m so sorry I-” Harry tried to apologise. Unfortunately for him, Vernon didn’t want to hear any of it.

“You ungrateful, freak! How dare you destroy my property! I don’t know who raised you to think you could go around blowing things up, but I’m putting a stop to it tonight!” Vernon had shuffled into the room and dragged Harry up by his arm, pushing him up against the window. Harry had no time to prepare for the punch that cracked his nose.

Blows were raining down on Harry now, his face, jaw, collarbones and ribs. Vernon seemed sick of holding him up and let Harry drop to the floor. He kicked Harry sharply in the stomach, then ribs, and when Harry rolled to protect himself, he started laying into his back. Harry covered his stomach with his arms and curled into himself, having nothing to do but wait it out. When Vernon stopped suddenly, Harry carefully uncurled himself to see what was happening.

“I want you out. Pack your stuff. Get your things out of the cupboard. You’re going. You are not welcome here anymore!” Vernon was breathing heavily, veins bulging out of his face. “Go on! Get!”

That spurred Harry into action. He quickly jumped up from the floor, ignoring his injuries for the moment, and gathered anything around him he deemed important. Grabbing Hedwig’s cage, he ran downstairs to the cupboard. He found it already unlocked, confusing him momentarily, until he saw Aunt Petunia standing just down the hall. Shaking his head, he grabbed his trunk out, swapped the bundle in his arms with his wand and cloak, then walked out the front door.

As Harry walked past Magnolia Crescent, the weight of his situation settled heavily on him. It was early morning, long before any shops or homes would be awake. He had no way to contact anyone – no one to come and get him. Frustration flared again, directed at his friends, Dumbledore and Sirius. Without another thought, he flung his trunk onto the pavement and collapsed onto the cold metal bench at the bus stop.

He buried his face in his hands, gripping his hair tightly for a moment before exhaling slowly. Gently, he prodded at his swollen nose and bruised eye. Both throbbed painfully, and a sharp metallic taste lingered in his mouth – blood, though whether from his nose or a bitten tongue, he wasn’t sure. His ribs ached deeply, bruised and tender even without a touch. Small spots on his back protested sharply as he leaned against the unforgiving metal of the bench.

He was staring at his hands, thinking of what to do next, when someone approached. He dropped his wand into his hand and pointed it at the newcomer, before freezing. It was Professor Lupin.

“Professor, wha- how did you find me?”

“Not right now, Harry, we need to get you to safety. Here, read this, then hold onto my arm. We’ll be apparating.” Professor Lupin replied. He held out a slip of paper for Harry to read.

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Come on, Harry, grab my arm. We need to get going.” Harry nodded, gathering his things and grabbing onto Professor Lupin’s arm. The next second, Harry felt like he was being squeezed in a tight rubber tube. For a few dizzying moments, this continued before they finally landed.

Professor Lupin grabbed Harry’s upper arm to steady him, unknowingly making it worse by squeezing a forming bruise. Harry quickly righted himself and pulled his arm away, making sure to nod his thanks still. He took in his surroundings and found himself standing in front of a shabby-looking townhouse.

“This is Grimmauld Place; it belongs to Sirius. The Order is using it as headquarters for the moment. Come on, let's get you inside. You look in need of a feed.” Remus stepped up the stairs to hold the front door open for Harry.

The inside was just as bleak as the outside – peeling wallpaper hung loosely from the walls, and cobwebs draped the tarnished chandeliers. But further down the hall, framed in a doorway, stood Sirius. Relief flooded Harry at the sight of someone who might finally look out for him, recalling how Sirius had defended him in Dumbledore’s office. Yet, the sting of Sirius’ silence tugged at him – the missed contact, the solitary, a half-hearted birthday letter.

Dragging his heavy trunk, Harry approached awkwardly. When he reached Sirius, the older man cupped Harry’s face gently between his hands. “What happened to you? Who did this?” He turned Harry’s face from one side to the other, then back again as if to confirm he was seeing it right.

“No one. Well, obviously someone, but no one important. I swear.”

Sirius hummed, then led him into a dining room and sat him down at a chair. Remus continued down the hall, quietly saying he was going to the kitchen. Sirius took the chair beside Harry, turning it to face him. “You know, I had something of a rough family situation myself. Ah! Don’t give me that look! Takes one to know one.” Harry had just shot Sirius a filthy glare, hoping to derail him from the conversation.

Sirius pulled out his wand and spelled the blood off Harry’s face. With a quick Episkey, his nose was set back into place. He cast a simple diagnostic charm, scanning for more treatable injuries. As Sirius focused on his ribs, he continued with his story.

“My mother, you see, was deeply prejudiced. Blood-purity, muggle-hating, the lot. So, imagine how she took her firstborn son, Heir of the Black family, being sorted into Gryffindor. Befriending the likes of James Potter, a known blood-traitor. Yeah, not too well. She was never kind to begin with, but she turned cruel. Punishments were harsh, her words almost harsher. When I hit 16, I decided I’d had enough. Went ‘round your dad's actually. The Potters always welcomed me. Welcomed us, aye, Remus.” He shot a cheeky look at Professor Lupin, who was just returning.

“Point is, please don’t feel like you have to hide this from me. I’ve been in your shoes before, and I see you. You're practically my kid, let me know what’s going on so I can best take care of you.” He put his wand away, satisfied that Harry was healed to the best of his ability.

Harry’s eyes were stinging, and he blinked quickly to relieve them. No one had believed him about the Dursleys before, especially not by a mere glance at him. His teachers at primary school would be assured by the Dursleys that Harry was just a trouble-seeking kid who was desperate for attention. Even Dumbledore dismissed Harry, repeatedly, actually, both in his first year and at the end of his last year. He thought maybe Ron and the twins’ concern would be addressed by Mrs Weasley, but he got nothing but some worried comments on how thin he was.

Right now, he felt safe with Sirius. He wasn’t sure how much Sirius could help him, being an Azkaban escapee and all, but the idea of someone knowing the truth was enough. Having someone else to carry the burden of his bastard relatives was all he needed. Mind made up, Harry started speaking, “I – yeah. I guess you're right. It was my relatives, mostly my uncle. They get all funny about magic, and I’ve been having these nightmares that my magic reacts to. Blew up my room tonight. Guess they got fed up. Not that I’m complaining, anywhere is better than there.”

At the following silence, Harry rushed to clarify, “It’s not all that bad, I’m probably making it out worse than it is. I’ve always been a handful, and they managed me the best they could. They were very kind to take me in, and I’m grateful for all they’ve done for me over the years.” He didn’t want to come across as a spoiled brat, especially not to his Godfather. This speech was practically rehearsed with how many times he had to repeat it. The neighbours would all wonder what a perfect family like the Dursleys were doing with a scrappy-looking orphan leeching off them, so the response was drilled into him. It was the perfect way to soften their disdainful looks.

His Godfather opened his mouth to reply just as Remus came over to the table from where he was lingering at the door. He placed three cups of tea down – one for each of them - and a bowl of Shepard’s Pie in front of Harry. “Molly’s cooking, I promise it’s edible.” Professor Lupin smiled at Harry kindly. Harry thanked him softly before taking a slow sip of tea.

Just as Harry started on his food, Sirius spoke up, “Harry, you do not need to justify how those people treated you. Abuse is abuse, no matter how small. From the look of your face, I can tell that this wasn’t the first time. No one has the right to hurt you, both emotionally and physically. Not even family.”

It was a very heavy conversation to be having over his first proper meal of the summer. He felt like he could barely keep a few bites down with the nerves in his stomach. What if he said the wrong thing, making them hate him? What if they realise that it was his fault, that bad things just happen around Harry? He just got his Godfather back; the last thing he wanted was to drive him away.

“Sorry, Sirius. I didn’t mean to. I just – I just don’t know what to say. Or how to say it. I don’t even know what’s normal and what isn’t; it’s just always been that way for me. How do I know what I complain about isn’t just some ordinary family thing? That I’ll come across as a snobby kid?”

Sirius gave a fond ruffle of his head, “You’re the least snobby kid I’ve ever met, Harry James. That’s definitely not a concern we have. How about you list a few things you’re willing to share, and we’ll clarify what it would look like in a normal household?”

Giving it a thought, Harry nodded in agreement. He took another bite of Shepard’s Pie before deciding to start with the most basic.

“Chores.”

“Chores are regularly given out once the kids are teenagers. Common ones are cleaning, doing the dishes, mowing the lawn and cooking. They are used as a way to build responsibility and independence in kids. Now, they could also be used as a punishment, but it’s up to the parent to decide a suitable amount. Giving a kid a pile of chores to complete in a day is not reasonable. Does any of this relate to you?” Professor Lupin answered this one.

Harry considered this. He started chores at four years old, definitely not a teenager. The Dursleys never dished them out with the hope of empowering Harry – they wanted to demean him. But using them as a punishment was relevant. Most of his punishments up until the second year were chore-related. He decided to voice his confusion out loud.

“I think the bit about using them as punishments matches up. They, uh, definitely never gave a reasonable amount, though. I’d get punished more for not completing the list, too. Otherwise, not much of the rest lines up really.”

Sirius tilted his head, “So what did your chores look like then?”

Harry nervously clenched and unclenched his hands, “Well, I started when I was four? Kind of. It was mostly just weeding the garden at that point. By five, I was learning to cook, and by six, I was strong enough to push the vacuum. By the time I was 9, I was doing all the chores in the house. It was hard, I’d come back from school and be sent straight to the kitchen to make Dudley’s snack. It doesn’t sound much like you described Professor Lupin.”

Both men wore a grim look on their faces, but Remus smiled kindly at him, “It’s just Remus, Harry. I’m no longer your professor.”

“Ok, Remus, sorry.”

Sirius took the chance to steer the conversation back on track, “As you pointed out, Harry, what you experienced doesn’t line up with what the average kid would have. I’d go as far as saying it was child labour what you did, but don’t quote me on that.” He held up his hands – as if surrendering – before once again turning serious, “I’m proud that you shared that with us, and I realise that none of this is easy. But once the hard parts are done, we can focus on your healing.”

Harry nodded, feeling slightly reassured that Sirius and Remus weren’t immediately running. With a final bite of his shepherd’s pie, he pushed the rest of the bowl away. His body wasn’t used to such a calorie-rich meal, and his appetite hasn’t returned yet. Of course, both Sirius and Remus immediately noticed.

“Not feeling hungry, pup?” Sirius questioned with a tilt of his head.

Harry shrugged before deciding to return Sirius’ honesty with his own. “I’m not used to meals. The Dursleys have never fed me right. This summer wasn’t any better than the others.” He looked down at his feet as he felt his cheeks warm in shame. He knew that this wasn’t his fault. It just felt ridiculous admitting that his own family barely fed him.

“Well, take it easy. If your stomach isn’t prepared for a big meal, it will likely make you sick. While you’re here, Sirius and I can help you to gradually return to eating. We might even get someone to do a meal plan for you, only with your permission, of course. It would get you nutritional potions to help make the transition easier.” Remus suggested. Neither man seemed upset at Harry for his waste of food, so he brought his head back up.

Giving a quick nod, Harry spoke softly, “That would be great, thank you, Remus.”

“We should probably get a medical exam done, too, Harry. I could fix your injuries from tonight in a jiffy, but any breaks or fractures from the past will need to be done professionally. Would this be something you’re open to?” Sirius added. He seemed so genuinely concerned for Harry that it was making his head spin.

Exhaustion from the night setting in, Harry gave another nod to Sirius while yawning. He was so tired that he felt he could drop his head on the table and would sleep would instantly claim him.

Sensing Harry’s exhaustion, Sirius stood up and held a hand out to Harry. “Come on then, better get you to bed. We’ve had enough excitement for one night, I reckon.”

Harry let Sirius pull him up, saying a quiet thank you and goodnight to Remus before following Sirius down the hall to the stairs.

“We’ll set you up in Ron’s room; there’s a second bed in there. Just up on the second floor. Here, bring your trunk over, and I’ll levitate it up. Be quiet on the staircase, there’s a nasty portrait of my mother there. We don’t want to wake her up.” Following Sirius’ directions, Harry grabbed his trunk and brought it to the foot of the stairs. With a quick swish of his wand, Sirius directed his trunk up the stairs.

They followed behind, stepping softly on each stair. As they reached the second floor, Sirius pointed out the bathroom before continuing to a bedroom further down. They stopped out the front.

“Here we are. I’ll let you get settled and off to sleep. If you need anything during the night, don’t even hesitate to come and wake me up, I promise I will not care. My room is on the top floor; there’s a plaque on the door with my name on it. Anything happens, you come get me.” He pulled Harry in for a tight hug and spoke into his hair, “I am so sorry for everything that’s happened to you, that I wasn’t there for you. I promise to try my best to be in your life here on out. I’ll be around so much you’ll get sick of me.”

He left a quick kiss on Harry’s hair, “Love you, pup. Have a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

After a goodnight to Sirius, Harry opened the door and observed the room. It wasn’t overly big, and not very clean – much like the rest of the house. But there was a bed, and that’s all Harry needed. He pulled his trunk inside, laying it gently at the foot of the bed. He got a clean pair of pyjamas out and went to the bathroom to change.

Freshly dressed, Harry crawled into bed, looking over at Ron sleeping soundly beside him. That same awkward feeling he had with Sirius was there; Ron hadn’t written to him either. Harry put it out of his mind, deciding to deal with it in the morning. As he closed his eyes, he was briefly shocked that he had all but forgotten the dream that started all this.

What happens if he falls asleep and Voldemort’s waiting for him again? If his magic lashes out, will it hurt Ron? His mind was racing, but his eyes were drooping before eventually slipping shut. He only had a few moments more to worry before he was lulled into sleep.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke up the next morning, Ron was already gone. The sun was streaming in through the window, indicating it was late morning. He took a moment to appreciate the comfy position he was in - curled with the blanket pulled tight around him – before rolling out of bed. Grabbing a change of clothes. He headed to the bathroom to wash up.

Clean and dressed for the day, Harry prepared himself to head downstairs. He didn’t know what to expect, and he still had so many questions. Who were the Order of the Phoenix? How did Remus know to look for him? Why has no one written to him for the whole summer? He was suffering through a dreadful stay at the Dursleys’ while everyone else seemed to be here. None of it made sense.

That didn’t even factor into his nerves for facing Sirius and Remus this morning. Now that they’ve had a night to think about all Harry told them, would they still look at him the same? He wasn’t looking for their pity, or even worse, their disgust. Whatever the situation is, Harry reassured himself that he had lived through worse. He’s gotten this far without adult support; there’s no reason that he couldn’t keep going.

With a quick shake of his head, Harry headed downstairs, deciding the dining room he was in last night would be his first stop. Pushing open the door, he found the last of breakfast sitting on the table. Sirius, Remus and Arthur were sitting around the head of the table, cupping steaming mugs in their hands. At the sight of Harry, Sirius’ face broke into a wide grin.

“Harry! Your up! Come on over, we’ll fix you up some brekky.” Sirius hopped out of his chair, grabbed a plate and loaded it. He seemed to remember their discussion last night, as when Harry got his plate, there was only a piece of buttered toast and an egg on it. He thanked Sirius before sitting beside Remus.

Harry busied himself with cutting his toast into small pieces, trying to work out the best way to get answers from his godfather. Sirius was a Gryffindor through and through – he’d probably prefer a direct question over having the information teased out of him.

As the adults’ conversation dipped into a lull, Harry seized his chance. “Sirius, do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

“Of course, go ahead. Can’t promise the answers will be any good, though – this brain's not used to holding information.”

Remus shot him a dry look, “Your brain doesn’t hold any information.”

“Shush, Remus.” Sirius grinned before turning back to Harry. “What do you want to know?”

Ignoring their banter, Harry asked, “I was wondering what the Order of the Phoenix is. Is that what Dumbledore meant back in the hospital wing, when he told you to gather the ‘old crew’?”

“Spot on. The Order of the Phoenix is a group that Dumbledore formed to fight Voldemort. Back in the first war, we lost a lot of good people, but this time around, the recruitment’s been better. Helps that no one thinks we’re complete loons anymore.”

Harry mulled this over before asking his next question. “How did Remus know to look for me? I didn’t tell anyone where I was.”

Sirius shifted in his seat, his casual air slipping. “The Order’s been keeping watch on your house. Just an extra layer of protection – you never know what could happen these days. Remus was on duty that night.”

Anger flared in Harry’s chest. They’d been watching the house. Watching him. And yet no one had thought to check on him. His cries from nightmares had been loud enough to disturb the neighbours – surely, they’d heard? Surely, they’d seen him spending endless hours working on the yard, noticed how his bones were starting to show under his skin? If Sirius and Remus were to be believed, none of that was normal. And yet no one had asked if he was okay. Not once.

Swallowing his frustration, Harry moved on. “What’s happening with the war? With Voldemort?”

“Ah, this one’s tricky,” Sirius admitted, licking his lips as he thought it over. “Dumbledore doesn’t want you involved in the war just yet. Personally, I think that’s pointless – you’re going to be drawn in one way or another, so you should be prepared. Right now, there isn't much Death Eater activity, and Voldemort himself has kept quiet. But whispers are starting among that crowd. He’s gathering followers. Our spy says he’s searching for something – a weapon he didn’t have last time.”

“A weapon?” Harry repeated, “What does he need a weapon for? His wand is enough of one.”

“Sirius Black!” Molly Weasley’s voice cut through the room as she swept in. You know you shouldn’t be telling Harry this! He’s still a boy – far too young to be mixed up in this war.”

“You know as well as I do, Molly, that Harry has every right to be involved,” Sirius shot back. “He’s been through more than most adults in their entire lives. He deserves recognition for that.”

“That doesn’t mean he needs every detail! A little reassurance that we have it under control would have been more than enough!” Mrs Weasley’s reprimand rang loud enough to draw attention from the rest of the house.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and moments later, Harry’s friends appeared in the doorway.

“Harry!”

“Hey mate, how you doing?”

Harry hesitated, unsure what to feel. He’d barely spoken to them all summer; the anger still lingered, but so did the ache of missing them. Finally, he managed a small smile. “Hey, guys. Good to see you.”

Both their faces lit up, and with a shooing gesture from Sirius, Harry trailed after them into a nearby sitting room. They barely had time to sit before Hermione blurted out, “Harry, we are so sorry we didn’t write back. I promise we wanted to, but Dumbledore made us swear not to. Please believe me – we missed you so much, and we’re so glad you’re here now.”

“Yeah mate, proper barmy order from Dumbledore,” Ron added. “I knew you’d hate being kept in the dark at the Muggles’. Speaking of – what the hell happened to your face?”

The words hit Harry like a slap. His hand twitched toward his cheek before he could stop it. He’d almost forgotten the black eye, the split lip – let alone the mottled bruises hidden under his clothes. His chest tightened, heat rushing up his neck.

“A door,” he blurted. “I… fell into a door. The handle. You know what I mean.”

It was too fast, too forced. Ron and Hermione exchanged a slow, knowing glance. Harry’s stomach lurched – he could feel the lie fraying in the air between them – so he hurried on, desperate to smother the moment.

“I’m still mad. I was really hurt – confused, too. You’re my friends, not Dumbledore. I wouldn’t stop writing to you just because he said so. Please, just… don’t do it again.”

Hermione put a hand on his wrist, “Of course, Harry. We promise not to leave you alone again. That was wrong of us.”

“Yeah,” Ron said with a half-smirk, “imagine the trouble you’d get into on your own. You’ll definitely need us now more than ever.”

Some of the tension bled from Harry’s shoulders. As the three of them fell into a familiar chatter and bickering, the warmth of it dulled the sting of the summer. He really had missed them.

Life in Grimmauld Place was an upgrade from the Dursleys’, for the most part. The kids spent the following week cleaning under the direction of Mrs Weasley. Harry was used to full days of cleaning, so it didn’t bother him too much. Especially when he had his friends to talk to.

He had realised that Ginny, Fred and George were also here. The twins were of age now, and they regularly used magic much to Mrs Weasley’s exasperation. There have been many arguments about them apparating around the house, with no success in stopping them. Privately, Harry thought it was quite funny.

The nightmares were the one thing Harry could count on. At least they hadn’t caused much damage so far – just the occasional shattered light bulb. Still, he’d happily trade that for a full night’s sleep without waking in a cold sweat. Remus had suggested he see a mind healer, assuring him it was perfectly normal to seek help after everything he’d been through. Harry knew Remus meant well, but Uncle Vernon’s sneering words about ‘people who needed shrinks’ still echoed in his head. Even with Remus’ promise that no one would judge him, Harry couldn’t bring himself to agree.

Voldemort had been quiet too – eerily so. The only unusual event was the Dementors turning up in Little Whinging. The Order insisted they weren’t sent by the Ministry, and no one knew who had unleashed them. Harry was just relieved no muggles had been Kissed; he couldn’t imagine a fate more chilling than being left without a soul.

There were two weeks until they were back at Hogwarts, and Harry had still not spoken to Professor Dumbledore. There were times he was seen at Grimmauld for Order meetings, but he refused to even meet Harry’s eye. Harry wondered if he had done something wrong. Maybe Dumbledore was mad at him for the events of the graveyard. That he let Cedric get killed and Voldemort return. But sometimes Harry wondered if it was something worse.

What if Dumbledore knew who his soulmate was? That would be a perfectly reasonable excuse to ignore Harry. No one would want to be around someone so closely related to a monster.

Soulmates were another sore spot for Harry at Grimmauld. He was surrounded by them. Ron and Hermione had met back in first year and, after years of circling each other (read: pissing each other off), they’d finally decided to give a relationship a go this summer. They fit together like puzzle pieces, each balancing the other perfectly. At first, Harry wasn’t sure how this new development would affect their friendship, but so far it had felt like a natural next step, and nothing between them had changed.

Harry hadn’t expected Sirius and Remus to be… that. He’d known their history, the years of friendship and loyalty, but it had never crossed his mind that it might be romantic. Azkaban had stolen so many years from them, years that could never be returned, yet somehow their bond had survived the separation and was building into something stronger than ever. Remus grounded Sirius, and Sirius brought a spark to Remus. The realisation made Harry’s chest tighten, jealousy simmering until it was almost bitter.

Then there was Molly and Arthur, moving through life as if caught in each other’s gravity. Their love was effortless yet unshakably strong, still burning brightly after years of marriage. The warmth between them was almost sickening in its sweetness, spilling over to their family as naturally as breathing.

Harry couldn’t help feeling a little desolate. One by one, his family and friends were finding their soulmates, and he was the only one left destined to be alone. Still, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had years to get used to the idea. No point in wallowing over something he couldn’t change. Even so, as he settled down for the night, thoughts of his soulmate lingered stubbornly in his mind.

Harry opened his eyes to a library. It was the same library as last time, and he was standing in the middle of it. He took the time to observe his surroundings better, hoping not to be caught off guard again.

The room wasn’t very large, but every wall was lined floor to ceiling with books. Two separate bookshelves stood about a metre away from the back wall, positioned like room dividers with a small space on either side for passage. Behind them was just enough room to walk through. In the left corner sat a heavy dark oak desk, while on the right, a set of couches and an armchair were arranged in a cozy ‘U’ shape. Warm light filled the space, giving it a relaxing, inviting feel – if only Harry’s previous run-in with Voldemort here hadn’t tainted it. Notably, there was no visible door.

Just as he was considering going to hide behind one of the shelves, the intimidating figure of Lord Voldemort materialised over by the desk. They stared at each other for a moment before Voldemort made his way towards the sitting area. He lowered himself gracefully into the armchair, then turned back to Harry.

“Well? Come sit, we have much to discuss.”

Harry stood shocked for a moment more, then his mind seemed to catch up to the situation. He made his way slowly towards a couch, sitting at the furthest end away from Voldemort. Voldemort didn’t seem to care; the subtle quirk of his lips indicated he found it amusing. Once again, there was silence. Voldemort’s red eyes bored into Harry, while Harry stared to the left of Voldemort. He remembered the pain of Voldemort in his head vividly, and he wasn’t going to give him another opportunity.

“I’ve come to realise that forcing you to my side won’t work. We were raised much the same way. We were raised much the same – taught to fight, to defend ourselves against any threat, clinging to whatever control we could grasp in our lives. Today, I come in peace, hoping we can reach a mutual agreement.”

Harry bristled at the comparison. He was nothing like Voldemort. Sure, the diary had hinted at their shared upbringings, but Harry had never become a killer.  

He was surprised by Voldemort’s approach this time. He appreciated that his soulmate hadn’t immediately resorted to violence. As much as he loathed everything Voldemort stood for, a small spark of hope flickered in his chest. If Voldemort was willing to listen, maybe there was a chance to stop the war – or at least protect his friends.

He finally met Voldemort’s gaze. “What kind of agreement are you thinking of?”

“The one non-negotiable is that I have you – by my side, protected and safe. I will not require you to become a Death Eater; you’d have your own role as my soulmate. Ideally, you would stay out of the war entirely – neither mine nor the Light’s side. I realise this is against your nature, and I am willing to offer concessions to make this possible.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “My friends and family. I want them safe.”

“Of course,” Voldemort replied with a nod. “Choose carefully who needs your protection. I will not grant immunity to the whole Light side.”

Harry frowned, struggling to understand. “Why does it have to be a war? Surely there’s another way. Tom Riddle was brilliant – he could’ve swayed the Ministry in months. All this senseless violence just seems… ridiculous.”

Voldemort’s lips curled in a small, pleased smile at the compliment before his eyes darkened. “How else is the Dark meant to make its voice heard? Our traditions, our practices, have been banned by the Light. We must prove our strength – that we won’t be erased quietly.”

Harry’s frustration bubbled up. “By slaughtering half the British wizarding population? That’s madness. You’re not just killing the Light – you’re wiping out your own people too.” He clenched his fists. “There are other ways to prove strength besides brute force. Just like this conversation – we’re talking, negotiating. I’m not bowing to your demands, so you’re listening.”

“The Dark is politically weaker than the Light. Dumbledore’s influence has purged anyone with ties to us from the Ministry. It’s not a fair fight.” Voldemort was leaning in, eyes gleaming with excitement rather than annoyance.

Harry’s adrenaline spiked; he leaned forward, voice sharp. “The problem is that most of those people were Death Eaters. Did you really expect the Ministry to welcome a bunch of murderers? Even if they weren’t actively fighting, they all believed in blood supremacy. It’s absurd – you preach that, but you’re a half-blood yourself!”

Voldemort met his gaze, unyielding. “I do not believe in blood supremacy. I know I am more powerful than any pureblood I’ve encountered. My true belief lies in the erasure of muggles. They are a threat far greater than the wizarding world admits. And that includes Muggleborns. How can we trust those with a foot in either world and not expect the muggles to discover us? Muggles must be eradicated, and mudbloods tightly controlled.”

Harry hesitated, taken aback. “I… I do agree Muggles are dangerous. I’ve seen it firsthand.” He paused, surprised at himself. But he knew where to draw the line – genocide was wrong, and impossible with Muggle technology advancing so fast.

He pressed on. “But you’re going about this all wrong. There are millions of muggles – and only thousands of us. Have you seen their weapons? Bombs that can level entire cities in seconds, machine guns that could wipe out an army. Their technology has leap forward – satellites, instant communication worldwide. If you start a war with them, you’ll destroy us all.”

Voldemort tilted his head, considering. “Then what of mudbloods? If the muggles are as dangerous as you are implying, surely, they are as well.”

“Muggleborns are no more dangerous than half-bloods. I’ve heard the purebloods complaining that they are stealing magic, but that’s nonsense. Magic is a gift – we should welcome new magical blood, not shun it. Our numbers are already dwindling; our bloodlines are going stagnant. We need every magical person we can get.” Harry silently thanked Hermione for her lectures.

Voldemort looked at Harry for a long moment, then reclined. “I will take your concerns into consideration. I see the merits of a political war, but it would be much slower than my current path. I am still undecided on whether to pursue it. Apart from your friends’ safety, is there anything else you want me to promise?”

The fight seemed to rush out of Harry, leaving him a bit light-headed. “Oh, uh, thank you. And no, I don’t think so. It’s too soon to come up with real peace terms.”

“Very well. As I said, my only demand is that you come to me. I do not like the idea of my soulmate in the Order’s headquarters.”

Harry’s anger flared instantly. “But I’m about to go back to Hogwarts! It’s my OWL year! I can’t leave school – or my friends! How do I know I’m not walking into another trap? That as soon as you have me, I’ll be locked away to be tortured? You can’t possibly think I’ll believe you!”

Voldemort’s voice hardened, unwavering. “This is non-negotiable. If you want your friends and family to be safe, these are the terms. I am willing to swear a binding vow to guarantee your safety – you know that we have magic in this space to do so. I’ll also include you in all war-related decisions, giving you the chance to influence my actions. Your arguments have merit, and if you propose reasonable alternatives to my methods, I promise to hear you out. You will not be imprisoned, and if you require time with your friends and family, I will accommodate it. Is this acceptable?”

Harry froze. This was his chance – to stop the war, to protect those he loved. But it meant surrendering himself to Voldemort. Voldemort was right – he was made for fighting. At least this way, the casualties might only be himself. As long as the torture didn’t start the moment he arrived, maybe he stood a chance.

He swallowed and asked, needing clarity, “What exactly would the vow be?”

“That I would never intentionally harm you, not even indirectly. I will vow to keep you as safe as I am able, to care for your well-being, and to protect your chosen people to the best of my ability. The vow will remain as long as you are by my side.”

Harry searched for loopholes but found none. It felt like signing away his life – and maybe it was. He only hoped it would be worth it.

“I want to protect Hermione Granger, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and the Weasley family. And I’m allowed to add people to the list in the future.”

Voldemort nodded his assent. “No Dumbledore then?”

“He can protect himself,” Harry said with a shrug. His feelings about Dumbledore were complicated right now – and Voldemort certainly wouldn’t allow it.

They stood and made the vow. Harry fought not to think about holding Voldemort’s hand. Once seated, Harry turned back to Voldemort. “So, what now?”

“I will send someone to collect you in a week. We will have another shared dream before then to finalise the details. You’ll have time to say your goodbyes.”

Harry slumped back into the couch with a huff, “What do I even tell them? How do I explain whatever… this is?”

Voldemort’s tone was indifferent, “That is your choice. I don’t care what you say; nothing they do could keep you from me.”

Harry bristled. He’d almost forgotten he was going to live with a possessive psychopath. Before he could respond, the edges of the dream blurred before fading out altogether.

Harry’s eyes shot open. The light coming in the window showed it was early morning, and Ron was still snoring deeply in the bed beside him. As quietly as he could, he got up to get ready for the day.

He made his way downstairs, completely lost in his thoughts. Panic was taking over him – had he really agreed to go to Voldemort? Godric, what would everyone think? He already felt like a traitor; he didn’t want to hear it from anyone else.

Deep inside his chest, a confusing warmth stirred – a flicker of hope that his soulmate wanted him, that soon they would finally meet properly. Voldemort had vowed to protect him and his friends, to care for his well-being, and that promise weighed heavily on Harry’s mind. Despite the darkness surrounding his soulmate – the cruelty, the fear, the destruction – a small, stubborn part of Harry couldn’t deny the pull he felt. It was a longing so tangled and complicated that it scared him. He wanted Voldemort, even though every part of him screamed that he shouldn’t.

But something else was nagging at him. Their conversation had been almost civil – if you could overlook that most of it was a heated argument. There were only limited claims of ownership over Harry, and no attempts to torture or invade his mind. It was the sanest he had ever seen Voldemort act. Harry worried it might be a manipulation, a way to lure him in and trap him. Yet surely Voldemort wouldn’t have sworn that vow if all he wanted was to hurt him. And even if he tried now, he would lose his magic.

Still, something felt off. Voldemort had always liked the idea of having Harry close – mostly as some sort of trophy to display – but what made him vow to keep Harry safe? Including from Voldemort himself? What made him care about Harry’s well-being? There has been a shift in their dynamic, and Harry was the only one not clued in on why.

He ate his breakfast mechanically, barely registering the chatter around the table. How could he possibly tell them he had betrayed them? That he was running off with his psychotic soulmate? He desperately needed to confess, even if just to hear someone tell him he’d made a mistake. He wanted to tell Sirius, but he knew how fiercely opposed his godfather was to anything Dark – especially running straight into the arms of the Dark Lord himself. The same went for Mrs Weasley, whose brother had been killed by Death Eaters. As for Ron and Hermione, their friendship remained strong, but Harry just didn’t feel right unloading this burden on them.

The last person Harry thought might understand was Remus. He’d stood by him during the difficult conversation about the Dursleys and had continued to offer steady support since. Unlike Sirius, Remus was less quick to react – more likely to listen before passing judgment. Being a werewolf, a creature often misunderstood and feared, he might grasp some of the darkness pulling at Harry. While Harry didn’t want to embrace the Dark, his soulmate was its embodiment. Surely, Remus had wrestled with similar conflicts within himself at some point.

Leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind, Harry set out to find Remus. He checked a few rooms but came up empty, realising he didn’t even know where Remus was staying. Deciding to take a chance, he headed upstairs toward Sirius’s room. Harry had been in there before, rifling through old photos together. Sirius had once given him a two-way mirror – the same one Sirius and Harry’s father had used. “Consider it a late birthday present,” Sirius had said.

He knocked on the door, hearing a shout from inside, “Coming!”

The door opened, revealing Sirius rocking an impressive bedhead. “Morning, Harry! What can I do for you?”

“Morning, Sirius. Do you know where Remus is?”

Sirius turned his head upwards, yelling out, “Remus!”

“What now, Sirius?” Came the reply

“Harry wants you!”

 “Stop yelling, I’m coming.” Remus appeared in the doorway. “Morning, Harry. What can I do for you?”

Harry's voice cracked with nerves, “Can I, um, talk to you?”

“Of course. Want Sirius too?”

Harry shook his head, “No, not for this. Is that alright?”

“Course it is, Harry. Come, we’ll kick Sirius out and chat in here. It’s good for privacy.” Remus held the door open for Harry to duck inside. With a small amount of grumbling from Sirius, Harry and Remus were left alone. They sat down on the bed, turning to face each other slightly.

“What did you want to talk about?” Remus’ voice was gentle, like he knew Harry was ready to run away screaming.

“I, well, something happened. Last night. Actually, it’s been happening for a while now, but it got bad last night. I think. I don’t know how to feel about it, and you’ve been kind to me in the past. I just – could you help me, please?”

Remus smiled softly, “Of course, I will. Take your time. Figure out how you want to start, then we’ll go from there.”

With a deep breath, Harry began, “It’s my soulmate. It’s bad, really bad. I haven’t told anyone, but he figured out it was me recently. We’ve, um, made a deal.”

“Alright, good job. So, the soulmate’s the main issue. We’ll start with that. You don’t have to tell me who he is, but if you think it would help, I’m not here to judge.”

This was it. Harry’s well-kept secret was about to come out. As he prepared for the inevitable fallout, he finally blurted, “Lord Voldemort.”

Remus blinked, “Ok. Wow, you don’t do anything by halves, don’t you, Harry? No worries, though, we all know you don’t choose your soulmate, and even if you did, I still wouldn’t judge.”

Recovered from his shock, Remus continued, “So, the soulmate is Lord Voldemort, who I’m assuming found out at the graveyard, and now you’ve made a deal. Correct?”

Harry nodded, “Yeah. He was really, like, possessive in the graveyard. Wanted to kidnap me, probably continue torturing me. Whatever.” It was awkward talking about his soulmate’s weird obsession with him.

“We’ve been having these dreams – like we can actually talk to each other. The first one he was pretty much the same as in the graveyard. But he saw my memories too, and that hurt… a lot. That was the night you found me. The Dursleys kicked me out because my magic exploded.” Harry looked back up at Remus nervously, only to meet with kind, amber eyes.

Feeling a bit more confident, Harry continued, “But last night was different. We had a conversation – even an argument – and he didn’t hurt me once. No threats either. But we made a deal, I get the chance to stop the war and protect my friends, as long as I go to him. He made a vow, saying he’d be unable to hurt me and would protect you guys. The vow only lasts as long as I’m with him, and he’s sending someone to pick me up at the end of the week. I think that’s it.

Harry hesitated, then asked, “Uh, what do you think I should do?”

Remus appeared to be taking his verbal dump well, “You are a very kind person, Harry, but I wish you didn’t feel the need to sacrifice yourself for others. The war is the adult’s job; it should never have to weigh on your shoulders.”

After a moment of consideration, Remus spoke again. “I see two options for you. One: you go to him, do whatever you think is best, and try to find some happiness in your life with him. Despite everything, he’s your soulmate. Fate doesn’t make mistakes; there’s a reason you two were brought together. It will be challenging, but I believe you will manage.”

He paused before continuing, “The second option is that you don’t go. You stay in the house, attend Hogwarts as usual, and keep yourself out of his reach. That will obviously anger him, and we’ll have to face the consequences, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. So, what do you think? And remember, no matter what you decide, every one of us will be here to support you.”

Harry considered his words carefully before finally saying, “I think I should go. He’s giving me a chance to steer the war in a different direction. Maybe he’s just trying to placate me, but I can’t ignore the opportunity. You would all be safe – I placed you, Sirius, Hermione and the Weasleys under my protection. I don’t want to lose any of you to the war.”

Remus gave him a nod, “There is no right or wrong decision here, just what you want to do. If this is your choice, then we’ll have your back. Have you thought about who else you’re going to tell?”

“Sirius. Ron and Hermione, definitely, I can’t let them think I’m just missing. Suppose I’d have to tell Dumbledore, too. I don’t know if I want everyone else knowing yet, though.” Harry didn’t like the idea of the whole Order knowing, especially when most of them were strangers.

“That’s completely fine. Would you want me to sit in on the conversation? Bit of moral support if you’d like.” Remus gave him an encouraging smile, and Harry felt genuinely supported.

“Yes, please, thank you, Remus.”

“Anytime, cub. Come on, we'd better let Sirius back in. We’ll head downstairs, take a breather. When you're ready to talk to them, come find me.”

Chapter Text

It was the final week of summer break, and tomorrow Harry would be going to Voldemort. His nerves were mounting, and a flood of what-ifs raced through his mind. What if the vow didn’t hold? What if the moment he arrived, he was locked away? Though the vow did explicitly guarantee his freedom, Harry hoped the promise to maintain his well-being meant he wouldn’t be imprisoned. After all, no one could be truly well – or happy – in a dungeon.

Harry had already talked with Ron, Hermione and Sirius, and the conversation went about as well as it could. His friends admitted they’d been worried when he never mentioned his soulmate, already suspecting it might be someone from the Dark’s side.

Sirius was harder to calm down. Thankfully, Remus was there to ease the tension, making sure Harry understood that Sirius didn’t blame him – he just couldn’t bear the thought of his godson running off with the Dark Lord. Although this upset Harry, Remus comforted him, reminding him that Sirius loved him deeply and just needed a little time to process everything.

Remus began to tell Harry the tragic story of Regulus Black, Sirius’s younger brother. When Regulus was still young, he was drawn to the Dark Lord’s side and was marked before even graduating from Hogwarts. He quickly rose through Voldemort’s ranks, displaying fierce loyalty. Sirius was heartbroken to see his little brother align with their enemy, but by that point, there was little he could do to turn him away.

Not long after, Regulus vanished without a trace – presumed dead, likely at Voldemort’s own hand. “You remind Sirius of Regulus,” Remus said quietly, “how he lost him to the Dark Lord.” Harry finally understood. Sirius wasn’t just angry or fearful – he was reliving a deep, raw grief. He had already lost one brother to Voldemort, and now he feared losing another family member to the same darkness.

By the next day, Sirius was already apologising to Harry. “Look, I’m sorry for how I reacted – that wasn’t fair to you. You’ve got enough on your plate without me making it harder. I promised I’d be part of your life, and I intend to stick around until my last breath. No scary soulmate’s gonna scare me off.” He finished with a cheeky grin, as if daring the universe to try.

With his friends and Sirius informed, that only left Dumbledore. He was coming by in an hour for an Order meeting, so Harry was waiting in the dining room, hoping to catch him beforehand. He didn’t have Remus for this meeting, so Harry felt he knew what to say by now. He was still nervous, especially because he would be admitting he lied about the graveyard, but he still hoped that Dumbledore would be reasonable.

As the minutes ticked by, Order members started filing into the dining room. All of them greeted Harry, despite him only knowing a handful. Tonks gave him a cheery wave as she stumbled in the door, and he returned it with a small chuckle. As she plonked down beside him, she tilted her head questionably at him.

“They letting you in on Order meetings now? Look at you moving up in the world, Haz!”

Shaking his head, Harry replied, “Nah, not yet. I’m waiting to talk to Professor Dumbledore. I just don’t want to miss him.”

“Ah, right. Well, shouldn’t be too long now. What have you kids been up to here?”

As he got drawn into a conversation with Tonks, he missed the entrance of his least favourite professor. It wasn’t until the hair on the back of his neck stood up that he looked around. The dark eyes of Professor Snape were glaring at him, but before anything could be said, Dumbledore walked in.

“Good evening, all. Thank you for coming. Harry, what brings you here?”

Harry walked over and spoke quietly beside Dumbledore, “Hi, sir, I was wondering if you had a moment to talk? Something important has happened, and I need to tell you as soon as possible.”

As Harry spoke, he noticed that Dumbledore was avoiding his eyes, looking just over his shoulder instead. Dumbledore responded in an equally quiet but firm voice, “I’m sorry, Harry, but I’m terribly busy today. Perhaps we can schedule a meeting once you're back at Hogwarts.”

“But, sir,” Harry lowered his voice again, “I can’t come back to Hogwarts anymore. Something has happened, you really need to know.”

Dumbledore was still looking over his shoulder, but finally responded, “I’ll meet with you here after the Order meeting. It will have to be quick; I do not have much time.”

With a quiet thank you, Harry left the dining room. Snape was still glaring at him as he walked past. He felt like doing something childish in return, but ultimately decided against it. Once out, he headed up the stairs to where Ron, Hermione, Ginny and the twins were gathered. They had an extendable ear ready and were preparing to sneak it under the door. The last Order member entered, and the door locked shut, then they struck.

Most of the Order meeting was unenlightening. The Aurors reported any suspicious activity, and the Ministry workers disclosed any relevant conversations happening in the departments. Other than talks of potential recruits, there seemed to be no major updates. Then Dumbledore turned to Snape, asking for his report.

“The Dark Lord has been absent this past week. He has not held any meetings nor given instructions. His plans for Azkaban have been put on hold, same for obtaining the prophecy.” Snape seemed to hesitate slightly before continuing, “He’s been asking about Potter. He’s gathering information from anyone who has been in contact with the boy. The last command he gave was to Lucius Malfoy, ordering him to find out where Potter’s relatives live. He’s becoming obsessive.”

Harry’s friends all turned to him with troubled faces. He offered a weak smile to reassure them, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wasn’t concerned about Voldemort’s obsession – he expected that. What unsettled him was how blatantly Voldemort was behaving. If this continued, it wouldn’t take long before others pieced together that they were soulmates. Harry knew he couldn’t keep it a secret forever, but he wanted at least a year to come to terms with it himself. So far, they’d only shared one civil conversation, and Harry didn’t even like his soulmate. The last thing he needed was everyone else weighing in on their complicated relationship.

As the shuffling of chairs came over the extendable ear, Fred and George quickly wound it up while Harry took off down the stairs. He waited down the hall for everyone to file out before slipping inside. Dumbledore was still seated at the head of the table, and Harry went to sit to his right. Once he got settled, Dumbledore turned to him, still not meeting his eyes, and addressed him. “What is it you had to tell me, Harry?”

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself. He’d rehearsed this conversation twice already; he could do it again. “It’s Voldemort, sir. He’s my soulmate. We’ve made a deal.”

Dumbledore’s face tightened, the faintest flicker of disdain in his eyes, “You’ve made a deal with him? With Voldemort?”

“Yes, sir. The agreement is that as long as I stay with him, my friends and family will be kept safe from the war. He’s promised to consider my concerns about his methods. I might be able to prevent an all-out war.”

Dumbledore’s lips pressed into a thin line, his voice lowering but filled with iron resolve. “Harry, it is not your burden to carry. You are being led astray. Tom Riddle is a master manipulator – he feigns care only to trap and control. There is no honour in his promises; no reason for you to trust him. You must reject this pact and return to your friends, to Hogwarts. I will not let you throw your life away.”

Harry bristled inside, anger flickering at the condescension. Of course, Voldemort cared for no one but himself, and yes, his promises were suspect. But Harry believed, however faintly, that Voldemort was listening. Maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe he’d been manipulated. Still, there was the vow.

“But sir,” Harry pressed, “He swore a vow – to never harm me, to keep me and my friends safe, and to protect my well-being. The only way to break it is if I’m not with him. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Dumbledore’s eyes hardened, his tone as sharp as a blade. “That vow is a cage disguised as a promise. First, he tried to force you into submission, then he dangled power before you. When that failed, he turned to deception. I know his tactics well – I’ve seen them unfold countless times. You’re handing him exactly what he wants: control over you, with little gain for yourself.” His words left no room for argument.

Harry tried to interject, “He did try that, back in the graveyard and the dreams – but he still-”

“In dreams?” Dumbledore cut in, his gaze narrowing, as if piercing through Harry’s defences. “You share dreams with him?”

“Uh, yes, sir. A few times. That’s how the deal was made. And-”

“When did these dreams begin?”

Harry frowned, unsettled by the interrogation. “The first week of summer. Why does it matter, sir? It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of Voldemort. He has my blood now, so the connection is stronger.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “From the graveyard. Tell me – how much of what you told me that night was true?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Most of it. The only thing I lied about was the duel. It was more me pretending to go along with him then catching him off guard to escape. He knew I was his soulmate almost immediately after stepping out of the cauldron – that’s how the diary came up.”

Dumbledore avoided his eyes, rubbing his chin. “So he knows I’m aware of the diary. No matter. When were you planning to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Dumbledore snapped his head up, voice suddenly cold and commanding. “You are not leaving, Harry. I will not permit you to throw yourself into danger.”

“Please, sir,” Harry met his gaze firmly. “I’ve made my decision. I know the risks, but this is the only way forward I see. I have to try.”

“No, Harry. Voldemort killed your parents, has tried to kill you more times than I can count. And now, you’re just going to let him claim you like this?” Dumbledore’s voice was cold, heavy with finality. “There are other ways to prevent this war – better ways. This is not the path you should be taking.” His words hung in the air, leaving Harry grasping for something to say, something to explain why he felt he had no choice.  

After a pause, Harry spoke honestly, the feelings he’d buried surfacing despite himself. “But sir… he’s my soulmate. I know he’s a monster – violent, cruel – but maybe this is my chance to fix him. He’s vowed to protect me; he can’t hurt me. Maybe he’s not the best soulmate in the world, but he’s still mine. Maybe someday he could actually care for me. I deserve the right to at least try.

The words sounded more lovesick than Harry intended, failing to capture the complexity of his conflicted feelings. He hoped Dumbledore wouldn’t just dismiss him as a foolish, infatuated teenager – because this was far from that. Harry understood the futility of trying to change Voldemort, but he had already seen hints of Voldemort indulging him. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened. “Powerful men don’t waste time on love, Harry – especially not Tom Riddle. Did you know he was conceived under a love potion? It is widely believed that children born under such a spell lose the ability to feel love. Do you really want to live that kind of life?”

Harry hadn’t known this. Part of him thought it explained Voldemort’s coldness, but the idea that a potion could rob someone of love felt too simplistic to accept fully. He pushed the thought aside and pleaded, “Please, sir. Let me try. Everything in me says I have to do this. If it doesn’t work out, then fine. But I can’t give up the chance.”

Dumbledore’s expression hardened. “I’m sorry, Harry. I cannot allow you to go.”

It was dinner, and the whole group was gathered around the table. Fred and George were in the middle of a dramatic retelling of one of their latest pranks, the room filled with laughter and light-hearted banter. But Harry sat at the far end, lost in his thoughts, feeling completely disconnected from the jovial atmosphere. He couldn’t believe Dumbledore – how dare he speak to him like an obedient child? Ordering him around as if Harry were still a schoolboy or a pawn in the Order’s games. Dumbledore had no right to control his choices, especially not now.

Anger simmered beneath Harry’s disbelief. He was confused and hurt by the coldness in Dumbledore’s tone, the way the older man avoided meeting his eyes, as if ashamed or unwilling to face the consequences of his words. Why was Dumbledore treating him like a failure rather than offering support? After everything Harry had been through, he expected understanding, not dismissal. This wasn’t the mentor he’d trusted for so long—it felt like a stranger, cold and distant, standing between him and the choice he believed was his only hope.

Sirius and Remus looked relieved by Dumbledore’s response, but Harry felt a sharp sting of betrayal. Wasn’t it Remus who had been urging him to make his own decisions? And Sirius – the one who promised to stand by him no matter what? Yet now, they seemed perfectly content to strip away his freedom to choose. It was infuriating. He was fifteen, not a child to be watched over every second. He didn’t need a group of babysitters deciding what was best for him.

Speaking of babysitters, Dumbledore has asked Tonks and Kingsley to stay at Grimmauld Place for a few days. He said it was for extra security, but Harry knew it was really to watch him. They thought he’d run away. It’s not like he’d be able to; there was always a person with Harry at every moment. He could barely even get a moment to himself to go to the loo!

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. How will Voldemort react when Harry doesn’t show up? He didn’t have a way to contact him either, besides the dreams. He’s hoping Voldemort will pull him into one tonight; he still hasn’t been told how he was going to be picked up.

With that thought burning in his mind, Harry rushed through the rest of dinner, desperate to get to bed as soon as possible. When he finished, he stood and started saying goodnight to everyone. Just as he turned to leave, Sirius called out, “Hold up, pup. Dumbledore asked me to give you this – Dreamless Sleep. Said it’ll help stop Voldemort from contacting you tonight.”

Harry almost growled in frustration. Bloody Dumbledore! He fought to keep his anger in check before answering, “Uh, yeah, sure. Actually, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Sirius nodded and followed him into the hallway. Harry spun around, voice sharp. “What the hell are you doing? Trying to drug me? I thought you were on my side—that I could make my own damn decisions!”

Sirius flinched at the sudden outburst, raising his hands in surrender. “I am on your side, pup. But I hated your plan. You were about to walk right into the hands of a known murderer and expected me to be okay with that. I don’t like that Dumbledore’s forcing you to stay, but it’s better than the danger you’d be putting yourself in.”

Harry ripped at his hair in frustration, his voice rising. “Then you weren’t on my side! You never have been! You all get to be so fucking happy with your soulmates, but I’m not even allowed the chance to see mine. He swore a magical vow – I was there, I felt it. He’ll lose his magic if he tries to hurt me.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to steady himself. “Please, just let me talk to him tonight. I’ll tell him something’s gone wrong, that I can’t come. It’s better he hears it from me.”

Sirius stood silent, clearly weighing Harry’s plea. Harry’s trust in him felt like it was cracking, and the thought of Sirius drugging him was something he couldn’t forgive.

Finally, Sirius exhaled slowly. “Alright. Talk to him tonight. Tell him you’re not going and work out a different agreement. I’ll hold Dumbledore off in the morning.”

“Thanks, Sirius. Goodnight.” Harry said quietly, passing by him and heading upstairs. He washed up quickly, climbed into bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Harry was in the library. He scanned the room, seeing Voldemort reclining comfortably on the armchair. He was flicking through a book. The sight was so bizarre that it took Harry a second to be able to move. He made his way over to the same couch as last time and sat down.

“Having second thoughts?” Voldemort hadn’t even looked up from his book.

“Uh, no, not second thoughts. But there is a problem, though.”

At this, Voldemort put his book down and raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. “Explain.”

“Well, I said my goodbyes, like you told me to. Everything seemed fine until I told Dumbledore. He refused to let me go. He’s got Order members watching me where I’m staying. Tonight, he even tried to drug me with Dreamless Sleep so you wouldn’t be able to reach me. Sirius was a part of it too – I had to beg him just to let me talk to you.”

Harry’s eyes welled up, the betrayal cutting deep. He didn’t understand how they could turn on him like that. Quickly, he wiped his tears – he didn’t want Voldemort to see him break down.

Voldemort’s anger flared instantly; for the first time in a while, Harry’s scar burned fiercely. Harry bit his lip hard to stifle any sound and dug his nails into his palms. The pain was brief, vanishing as suddenly as it came.

“I apologise; I did not mean to cause you pain. It’s frustrating, you see, how Dumbledore continuingly derail my plans.” Despite not seeming apologetic, he could tell Voldemort did not genuinely mean to hurt him. “When will you be out of the house next?”

“I’m not sure, probably when we go to the platform. We aren’t doing our own shopping this year.”

Voldemort leaned back in the chair, deep in thought. After a minute, he spoke up, “Do you have an owl?”

At Harry’s nod, he continued, “If you send your owl to me, I can send a package back containing a portkey. Your owl will remember its way through the Fidelius; I’ll grant it temporary permission to cross my wards as well. This is the fastest and safest way for you to reach me. The other option is a staged kidnapping at King’s Cross, but I don’t prefer that—it would signal that the Death Eaters are active again and put you in danger. Ultimately, the choice is yours.”

Harry already knew his answer. King’s Cross was a busy, public place—full of kids and families. There was no way he’d risk drawing the Death Eaters there. Still, he pressed Voldemort for more, “Is it really necessary for me to come to you right away? We have plenty of time. I could finish this year at Hogwarts first, then we can plan for next summer.”

Voldemort’s eyes turned cold. “I thought you weren’t having second thoughts.”

“I’m not,” Harry replied, “I just don’t understand why you’re in such a rush. Both of those options would have me with you within a week.”

“You’re in danger; I cannot let you stay with the Order of the Phoenix any longer, especially with Dumbledore onto you.”

Harry felt like a whiny kid at the moment, but he needed to get an answer, “But why am I in danger? It’s not just because I’m your soulmate; nobody I told had negative reactions to that alone. And it’s not like Dumbledore would attack me out of the blue.”

Voldemort hesitated for a moment, studying Harry thoughtfully. When he spoke again, his voice was almost soft. “There is another reason – one I only recently discovered. If I know it, Dumbledore must know it too. I cannot reveal it while you remain with the Order. If there’s any chance they don’t already know, I can’t risk them finding out through you. This secret would put your life in danger, and not just because you know it. The reason lies within you. Once you are safely by my side, I will consider telling you.”

Harry was more confused than before, “So, there’s something wrong with me, and because of that, the Order will kill me. That’s what you’re saying?”

Voldemort looked offended by this statement, shaking his head slightly as he answered, “It’s not something wrong with you. It’s just something you’re carrying. But yes, they would, without a doubt, kill you. Most likely painfully.”

Harry exhaled sharply as he sank back into the couch, uncertainty swirling inside him. Could he trust Voldemort? There was a sincerity in his words, but wasn’t Dumbledore warning him that this was all a calculated game – charm first, trap later? Yet, if Voldemort’s version was true, then Dumbledore was the one plotting to kill him. The surest way to keep Harry under control would be to isolate him completely – especially from his soulmate, standing on the opposite side of the war.

Harry wanted to see how honest Voldemort was really going to be with him, “Dumbledore mentioned something. That you were conceived under a love potion. Is this true?”

Voldemort looked slightly taken aback by the question, and just about spat out his answer, “Yes. My mother used it on my father. She stopped soon after she fell pregnant, and he abandoned her. It is a common belief that children conceived under the potion are unable to feel love.” He paused for a moment before a cruel smirk formed on his face, “Harry, are you wondering if I’ll ever love you?”

“No. I mean, I’m not sure you’d ever really love me, but I still think the whole bit about ‘children incapable of love’ is rubbish. Love isn’t something you're born with or without; it’s something you can learn. You weren’t shown it before, but neither was I. I just got lucky to have two amazing friends at Hogwarts, who I know love me deeply. You’ve probably loved things before without realising – your snakes, certain books, even your own power. Twisted as it is, it’s still a kind of attachment. You’ve just never let yourself see it for what it is because you’re afraid of what it might do to you. I don’t think you're incapable of love; you’ve just spent your whole life running from it.”

Harry might’ve overdone it, and a quick glance at Voldemort confirmed that. But it wasn’t anger Harry was seeing, it was genuine surprise. “Most people hear that and tell me it explains a lot about me. I’ve never had someone argue it.”

Harry grinned lopsidedly, “Glad to be the first.”

They sat in silence for a minute before Harry broke it, “I think the portkey idea was the best. I can send Hedwig to you in the morning. She’s a snowy owl, just so you know.”

Voldemort hummed, “I agree. Once your owl arrives, I will send the portkey back with her. There will be instructions alongside it. Until then, stay safe, and avoid eye contact with Dumbledore. He’s a Legilimens and will have no problem reading your thoughts with a glance. I will have to go now, but goodnight, Harry, and I will see you soon.”

Before Harry could respond, the dream was fading away.

It was midday, and lunch was just starting. He had sent Hedwig off this morning, telling her that if anyone annoys her, she has his permission to scratch their eyes out. He didn’t know where Voldemort was staying, so he had no idea how long it would take for her to get back. In the meantime, he tried to act normal, which meant being a sulky teenager.

It wasn’t hard with Sirius; he was truly upset at him. He responded to him curtly, sometimes sharply, and otherwise ignored him. Remus, on the other hand, was different. While relieved Harry was safe, he also seemed genuinely displeased with Dumbledore’s heavy-handed actions. He reminded Harry that the war didn’t rest solely, that his friends were still safe, and things wouldn’t fall apart because Harry couldn’t leave. Of course, Harry knew this was only true because he was able to contact Voldemort, but it seemed Sirius hadn’t told anyone else he had.

After lunch, they cleaned. Harry elected to do his bit on his own. He was in the kitchen, trying to get the counters clean. They seemed to have a permanent layer of grime. He passed a dingy door towards the back, then stopped. There was a pull in his chest, similar to the one he got around Voldemort. He was a bit nervous opening the door, almost expecting bats to come flying out of it, and once he had, he looked around in confusion. It looked like a nest, like some creature was living in there. A large boiler took up most of the space. Rags and blankets were piled on top of each other, with little bits of stale food stacked in a corner. In the other corner, there were some photos and a gleaming gold locket.

Harry knew immediately that the locket was what was calling him. Without disturbing the nest of blankets, Harry quickly scooped up the locket, only to almost drop it as it heated up. He held it by the chain as he inspected it. It was large, a bit much for Harry personally, and oval-shaped. On the front was a serpent-looking ‘S’ made of green jewels. It was definitely pretty – and the most Slytherin thing he’s ever seen – but he’s still confused about why the locket called to him.

“Nasty half-blood, blood traitor is stealing Kreacher’s things! What do you- That’s Master Regulus’ locket! You give that back to Kreacher, give that back!” Kreacher was wagging a finger threateningly at Harry.

Harry rushed to reassure him, “Wait, no, Kreacher, I’m not stealing, I promise. This locket, what is it?”

Kreacher visibly shuddered, “A terrible, horrible thing it is. Kreacher be trying to destroy it, but nothing touches it! Kreacher promised Master Regulus to destroy it, and Kreacher can’t!”

“Why did Regulus want to destroy it? What does it do?”

“It belonged to the Dark Lord. Kreacher doesn’t know what it does, but it is a terrible, terrible dark thing.” Kreacher was shaking his head back and forth, his ears flapping around wildly.

But that confirmed one thing for Harry: it was Voldemort’s. Now, he had to get the elf to agree to Harry keeping it, “Ok. Thanks, Kreacher. Does it, um, open?”

“Kreacher tries! All kinds of things! Locket always stays shut!”

Harry looked down at the jewelled snake, “Can I try something? It might not work, but if it does, would I be able to keep the locket? I’ll be able to figure out how to destroy it, I swear.”

Kreacher was mumbling under his breath again, “Half-blood thinks he can do better than Kreacher. Hmph. Go ahead.”

“Ok, um, ~open~.”

The locket clicked open, but the inside was empty. Kreacher was hopping up and down, “Half-blood Master be’s able to destroy the locket! Kreacher makes Master Regulus proud!”  

“Yeah, glad I could help, Kreacher. I’ll see you around.” Shoving the locket in his pocket, Harry made a quick escape from the overjoyed elf out of the kitchen and back up to his room.

Ron wasn’t there, Harry was glad to discover. He sat down on his bed and pulled the locket out. He turned it over, then back again, finding no clues to what the locket was. The only thing left was to put it on. Harry slipped the chain over his head and let the heavy locket fall against his chest. It started to warm instantly, enough that Harry could feel it through his shirt. Just as suddenly as it heated, it cooled, settling into a comfortable weight around his neck. He slipped it under his shirt, assuming Voldemort would prefer him to keep it hidden. He didn’t know Regulus’s reason for wanting to destroy the locket, but he’d give Voldemort a chance to explain what it is. Harry lay back in his bed, wondering how much longer Hedwig would take.

It was late when Harry woke to soft knocking at the window. He rolled over to see Hedwig perched outside, which woke Harry up in seconds. He opened the squeaky window slowly, stopping every few seconds to not wake a sleeping Ron. Hedwig flew inside, landing on top of her cage. In her beak was a small velvet box, which he hurriedly took off her with a quiet thank you. After refreshing her food and water bowls, Harry sat down on his bed to open the box. Inside was an old coin, Harry recognised it as a shilling. There was a folded note stuck to the top of the box, and Harry opened it.

The portkey will activate at your touch. I suggest you leave as soon as possible. I will see you soon. - V

Harry thought quickly. The best time to leave would be now. Everyone is asleep, and no one would be able to stop him. But doubts were creeping in; he was remembering Dumbledore’s words, along with Voldemort’s past violence against him. But he was sure this was the best idea. With the Order’s recent actions, Harry was starting to believe that he really could be in danger.

Mind made up, he grabbed anything that was lying around and stuffed it into his already packed trunk. He whispered to Hedwig to find him when she was ready, then gently shooed her off the cage so he could take it. Grabbing his broom, he walked back over to the box. He held his belongings tightly and touched the coin, then his feet left the ground. After a few nauseating moments, he slammed into a hard, wooden floor.

He has landed in a familiar library. Everything was just as he remembered – a desk tucked in one corner, a sitting area in the other. The only difference was a door wedged between them, a door that hadn’t been there before. Before he could dwell on it, the door swung open, and Lord Voldemort entered, his eyes locking onto Harry’s sprawled form with cold intensity.

“Harry, you’re here. Good. Take my hand: I will help you to your feet. I will show you to your room and leave you there to rest. We will talk in the morning.”

Harry nodded, still stunned by the reality of what he’d done – he’d fled the Order and run straight to the enemy. Forcing himself not to think too much about it, he reached out and took Voldemort’s hand. The moment their skin touched, a faint pulse of magic sparked through the air, their hands glowing softly. He looked up at Voldemort, a silent question in his eyes.

“It’s the vow activating,” Voldemort said smoothly, voice low and firm. “You fulfilled your part by coming to me. Now the vow binds me to uphold mine—to protect you as best I can.”

Harry nodded again and pulled his hand away, hastily gathering his things. Before he could bend down, his belongings lifted into the air, floating obediently beside Voldemort.

“I can carry my own stuff, you know,” Harry muttered stubbornly.

Voldemort ignored the protest and began striding toward the door, waving his hand to make the floating items follow. Harry hurried after him, keeping a cautious distance.

They entered a wide hallway lined with doors on either side. The darkness outside the windows made it hard to tell where they were.

“Where are we?” Harry asked, eyeing the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Malfoy Manor. This is my private wing – no one can enter without my permission. You won’t be disturbed.” Voldemort’s tone was cool and commanding. “Here is your room. Settle in; a house elf will fetch you in the morning. Good night, Harry.”

With a flick of his hand, Voldemort sent Harry’s things into the room, then turned sharply and disappeared down the corridor.

Harry watched him go, unsettled by how... different Voldemort seemed. Shaking off the confusion, he stepped into the bedroom. The space was large but plain: a dark wood four-poster bed dominated the room, flanked by bedside tables. The sheets were a natural cream, while heavy, dark green curtains hung from the posts and framed the large window to the left. Two doors punctuated the walls—one to the right, one opposite the bed. It was neat, functional, though a little austere.

His nerves still buzzing, Harry was desperate for sleep. He decided to unpack in the morning, slipped into bed still wearing his pyjamas, and let the soft sheets soothe him. Despite his racing thoughts, exhaustion won out, and he drifted into a restless but needed sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry woke slowly. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, making him burrow his face deeper into the pillow. The bed was ridiculously comfy; it felt like he was sleeping on a cloud. The sheets were so soft they had to be silk. He gave himself a moment longer before sitting up. There was a soft pop from somewhere in front of him, and he reached for his glasses to find the source.

“Master Potter is awake. Master Dark Lord be requesting Master Potter to join him for breakfast. Tilly be showing Master Potter the way.” The little house elf was standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a make-shift pillowcase with the Malfoy family crest on the left side of her chest.

Blinking blearily, Harry responded, “Uh, yeah. No problem, Tilly. Just let me get dressed.”

“Tilly will help Master Potter! Tilly knows just what he should wear!” The elf hurried toward the door along the right wall, which opened to a walk-in wardrobe. From his place on the bed, he could see robes hanging neatly and clothes folded on shelves. Tilly quickly grabbed a few items, her movements brisk and confident.

Seemingly satisfied, she returned to the room and laid the clothes out on the bed: a pair of black trousers, a pale green button-down shirt, and a day robe. Harry’s cheeks flushed as he noticed she’d even brought underwear for him – a small but mortifying detail he hadn’t expected.

“Master Harry would suit green today, green matches his eyes. Tilly will leave you to get ready, call Tilly when you’s be wanting to go for breakfast.” With that, the elf popped away.

Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about wearing someone else’s clothes, especially when it must have been Voldemort who acquired them for him. It was very rare that Harry got a brand-new shirt, let alone a whole wardrobe. It was reminding him of Dudley, who got new clothes every season. However, he didn’t want Voldemort to think Harry’s unappreciative – he needs to get on the man's good side now, and he’s done a piss poor job of that so far.

Pushing the misplaced guilt from his mind, Harry began to get ready. There was only one other door in the room he hadn’t opened yet, and he assumed it led to the bathroom. His guess was confirmed when he stepped inside to find a lavish space.

The bathroom was impressive – both a bath and a shower, each elaborately designed. The shower occupied the back left corner, the bath sat along the right, and the sink and toilet were positioned in front of the door. Between the bath and shower, towels hung neatly. Curious, Harry walked over and touched one. They were just as soft and warm as they looked, inviting in their comfort.

While he would love to relax in the bath, hunger and curiosity about what Voldemort might say kept him from lingering. Instead, he took a quick shower before dressing in the outfit Tilly had picked out for him.

Looking at his reflection, Harry barely recognised himself. Gone were the oversized Muggle clothes, replaced by an expensive-looking robe. The new clothes still hung a little loosely on his too-thin frame, but they were an improvement over Dudley’s hand-me-downs. The finer garments disguised how his bones stuck out in places, which Harry could appreciate. He attempted to comb his hair flat with little success, then called out for Tilly.

While walking to the dining hall, Harry tried to memorise the numerous turns they were taking. The rest of the manor was as grand as Voldemort’s wing – richly furnished, with the only difference being the portraits lining the walls. Sooner than Harry expected, they were standing before a grand set of oak doors.

“This be’s the dining hall. Master Dark Lord be in there. Breakfast is already being served.” With a quiet thank you from Harry, the elf popped away. Steeling himself, he opened the doors.

He immediately recognised the room from his visions from Voldemort – there were a couple of times they were centred here, normally involving multiple Death Eaters. It was a spacious area, featuring a long ebony table and a glittering chandelier overhead. The Malfoys were there, positioned to the left of the table’s head. Lord Voldemort had claimed that spot himself.

“Good morning, Harry. Please, sit down.” Voldemort flicked a hand, and the chair to his right slid back. Harry grudgingly made his way over, a bit peeved to be sitting so close to the man.

As he sat, he stole a glance at the other occupants of the table. Lucius looked shocked to see him, as if he didn’t know Harry would be here – or more accurately, why he was sitting having breakfast with them instead of being locked away. Draco was pale, eyes flicking anxiously between Harry and the Dark Lord, before finally away. Then there was Narcissa, who was perfectly composed.

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr Potter. We are delighted to have you as a guest. Please feel free to approach me if you require anything during your stay.” Narcissa spoke politely, but not quite kindly. Harry could already tell he didn’t want to be on her bad side.

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. You have a beautiful home, and I appreciate you letting me stay. But please, just Harry’s fine.”

“Very well, Harry, you can call me Narcissa.”

A wide variety of breakfast foods appeared in front of him; Harry wasn’t going to be able to finish them all. There was a plate of eggs on toast, surrounded by bacon, mushrooms, baked beans and sausages. A bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt was to the side, along with a steaming cup of tea. It oddly brought to mind the breakfasts at Hogwarts.

Harry hesitantly voiced his concerns, “I-I don’t think I’ll be able to finish all this. I really appreciate the food – it looks delicious – but I struggle with big portions. I swear I’m not trying to be rude.”

“Don’t worry about it, dear. We gave you the same as Draco, as we were unsure what you ate. Eat what you can, and the house elves will adjust your meals to your preference.”

Feeling slightly reassured by Narcissa’s words, Harry started to tuck into his breakfast. Unfortunately, he only got through half the eggs and a few mouthfuls of fruit and yogurt before he pulled away. Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him, “Is that all, Harry?”

Harry’s face flushed slightly, “I told you, I’m not good with big portions.”

Voldemort hummed in response, turning back to the newspaper he was reading. Harry noticed he only had a cup of tea in front of him, no food. He sat there awkwardly as the Malfoys ate, not knowing if he was allowed to leave or not. After they finished, the plates were cleared, and Voldemort dismissed them. Assuming he was being dismissed as well, Harry started to stand.

“Not you, Harry.”

Harry slowly sat back down, shooting a longing glance at the door. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy for a conversation with Voldemort right now, but it looked like he wouldn’t get a choice.

Voldemort carefully folded the newspaper before laying it on the table. He turned to Harry, “What measures have been taken to remedy the damage done by your relatives?”

Stunned and slightly defensive, Harry responded with his own question, “Why do you care?”

“There are a few reasons, one being what I told you in the dream. You’re in my care now, under my protection. I will not have you in poor health if I can fix it. You’re also my soulmate, which implies a level of responsibility over you. You share my soul; it is my duty to look after you.” Voldemort delivered the words with his usual stoicism, stripping them of the warmth they might have otherwise held.

Harry hadn’t expected such honesty; he was sure he’d be brushed off. Despite Voldemort’s speech coming across somewhat stilted, there was an underlying level of regard for Harry. With equal candour, Harry answered, “Nothing much has been done. Sirius and Remus have been helping me eat more, but that’s about it. They talked about taking me to a healer, but we just never got around to it.”

“I will call my healer to examine you,” Voldemort said, his voice calm but firm. “They will be able to treat any lingering injuries and create a suitable meal plan for you.”

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with slow precision before continuing, “Now, I have some expectations. You have free run of the manor and its grounds, but I’d like you to stay away from the wards – I will know the moment you approach them. I will give you the remainder of the week to settle in, but starting September 1^st, I expect you to resume your studies. I have arranged tutors who will visit on select days, though you’ll still be expected to study independently. What subjects are you taking?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, dropping his eyes to the table. “Oh, uh… Divination and Care of Magical Creatures for electives, and all the core subjects still.”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers as his crimson eyes locked on Harry. “You can choose to self-study your electives if you wish, but you will not be tutored on them. I would prefer you to learn the beginnings of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy instead – they are much more practical in the magical world.”

He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curving his lips, “Narcissa will also start your etiquette training; you will need to learn how to navigate certain social circles if you’d prefer a political war.” Then, a pause – heavy and deliberate – before he added, “As for myself, I will be educating you in the art of duelling, defence and eventually, the Dark Arts.”

Harry’s head snapped up so quickly his neck twinged. His pulse spiked, and he stared at Voldemort in disbelief. “What?! I can’t learn the Dark Arts! It’s evil and-”

Voldemort’s hand cut through the air like a knife, silencing him. “Hush, Harry. I will have you do extensive research on Magical Theory and the divisions of magic.” His voice was low but brooked no argument.

“There’s not much I can say to convince you now – with how blinded by the Light you are – but there is no such thing as evil magic. Just as there’s no such thing as good magic.” Harry clenched his jaw, but Voldemort’s words wormed their way into his thoughts despite himself.

Voldemort continued, his tone smooth and almost coaxing, “It all depends on the wizard themselves, and how they decide to use it. Is a painless death by the Killing Curse worse than being levitated off a steep cliff? Is the use of the Imperius Curse in Saint Mungo’s evil, when it is to help patients take their potions?”

Harry’s mind was whirling. He could see Voldemort’s point, but he knew there were Dark spells out there made specifically to cause pain. “The Cruciatus then? How is that spell not evil?”

“The Cruciatus Curse was made purely for torture. I am not saying that Dark spells are not dangerous,” Voldemort replied smoothly, his voice like silk over steel. “I am saying they are not inherently evil in and of themselves. Magic does not come with morality stitched into its fabric – that is something the caster brings. The Cruciatus Curse was designed with one intent, yes, but even that, in theory, could be used to break mental control or shock someone out of possession. Unlikely, of course, but possible. What matters is not the spell’s name or classification, but the intent behind it.”

Harry frowned, gripping the arms of his chair a little tighter. “So, you’re saying it’s all just… perspective? That there’s no such thing as Dark magic?”

“There is such a thing as Dark magic,” Voldemort said, leaning forward and eyes gleaming. “But darkness is not the same as evil, Harry. Darkness is simply the part of magic most fear to understand – and therefore most easily corrupted.”

A heavy silence followed their debate. Harry sat back in his chair, the words still echoing in his mind. There’s no such thing as evil magic. It went against everything he had been taught at Hogwarts, everything he had believed since stepping into the wizarding world. Yet, when Voldemort had spoken, there had been a strange logic to it – uncomfortable, but hard to completely dismiss. The examples had been sharp and deliberate; Harry couldn’t deny that they made a certain kind of sense. A painless death versus a cruel fall. A mind-control curse used to help patients rather than enslave them. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t as black and white as he’d always thought, either.

He rubbed the back of his neck, torn between instinct and curiosity. Dumbledore had always warned him that Voldemort was a master manipulator, but that didn’t mean every word he spoke was a lie. Harry had seen enough of the wizarding world to know that sometimes Light wizards could be cruel, and Dark wizards could protect what mattered to them. Maybe it wasn’t the magic itself that determined morality; maybe it really was the intent.

Still, a pit formed in his stomach at the thought of crossing some invisible line. He didn’t want to become like Voldemort. He didn’t want to enjoy hurting people or lose himself in the process. But turning down training altogether? That would be foolish. Voldemort could teach him skills no one else would, things that might one day save lives – his own included.

Finally, Harry lifted his head and met Voldemort’s gaze. “Alright. I’ll let you teach me,” he said, voice steady despite the thudding in his chest. “But I won’t hurt anyone if I don’t have to. You can’t make me.”

Voldemort’s eyes had a satisfied gleam to them, and his voice was distinctly smug when he replied. “Very well, Harry, I’m glad we could come to an agreement. Do not worry, I will not force you to do more than you’re comfortable with.”

He rose with fluid elegance, brushing invisible dust from his robes. Offering a handout, Voldemort coaxed Harry to his feet. “Come, we shall relocate to my office. I’d like to explore some options for the war, and, as promised, I’d like your opinion.”

It caught Harry off guard that Voldemort was honouring his promise, so he wasn’t thinking as he placed his hand in Voldemort’s. Harry felt a wave of calm sweep through him, suppressing the mixed feelings he was carrying. Caught by surprise, he stumbled slightly and had to catch himself on Voldemort’s arm. That snapped him out of it, hastily removing his hands from Voldemort with a muttered apology.

A sly, self-satisfied smirk curved Voldemort’s handsome features. He leered at Harry as he responded, “No need for apologies, darling. Allow me to escort you – it’s quite a long walk, and I wouldn’t want you to lose your footing.” Extending his arm with deliberate expectation, his tone dripped with mocking amusement.

Harry’s lips curled into a sly smile, eyes glinting with mischief as he met Voldemort’s leer head-on. “Oh, I’m sure I can handle a little walk, but it’s so sweet of you to worry.” He stepped closer, voice low and playful. “After all, I’d hate to leave you all alone. Who else would keep you entertained?” Without hesitation, he slipped his arm through Voldemort’s, matching the smirk on his face with one of his own. There was a subtle challenge in his touch; he was itching to see what would make Voldemort withdraw.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed with delight, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips. “Entertained, am I?” His voice was smooth and teasing, with just the right hint of danger beneath. He tightened his grip ever so slightly on Harry’s arm, a subtle reminder of who held the power.

“I do enjoy a challenge, Harry. But be careful what you provoke.” He let his gaze linger a moment longer, the dark promise in his tone both an invitation and a warning.

Harry knew it was far too late to consider pulling away, but Merlin, did he want to? He didn’t expect Voldemort to play along, let alone whatever he just implied.

Harry felt heat rise to his cheeks despite himself, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he met Voldemort’s intense gaze. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.” He gave a small shrug. His voice held a teasing edge, though he barely registered it; part of him was caught up in the thrill of this dangerous dance.

Voldemort’s eyes flickered with something unreadable – amusement, perhaps, or something darker – before he straightened and gave a slight nod. “Good. Then come. We have much to discuss, and I prefer the privacy of my office.”

Without waiting for a reply, he began to guide Harry toward the door, his arm still tightly linked with Harry’s. The air between them was still charged with unspoken tension.

Harry hadn’t even attempted to learn the path from the dining hall back to Voldemort’s wing; his attention was completely absorbed by the feeling of their interlinked arms. He had only just got his wits about him again, only to be suddenly deposited in a chair. He took a quick look around the room he was in.

Sunlight poured into the office, spilling across dark wooden shelves heavy with ancient books and curious artifacts. The room’s centrepiece was a massive, imposing desk of polished ebony, paired with a high-backed chair that seemed carved for command. Against one wall, a dark leather couch offered an unexpected touch of comfort. Though bright with daylight, the space carried a subtle undercurrent of unease – an unspoken weight in the air that hinted at the power and danger contained within its walls.

Harry was currently sitting in a simple wooden chair, directly opposite Voldemort. Despite his confidence in the dining room, Harry found himself wracked with nerves. He wasn’t sure he was prepared to have this conversation just yet. His brain was still swimming with the knowledge he had learnt about the Dark Arts, and it had Harry wondering – if even this much was beyond his grasp, what hope did he have of understanding enough to stop a war?

Voldemort seemed oblivious to Harry’s internal conflict. He grabbed a stack of papers from a drawer, flicking through them rapidly before selecting two to lay on the desk. “These are my main goals for the war,” he said, his voice steady. “One was drafted during the previous war, and the other I created after our conversation a few weeks ago. I am happy to go ahead with either plan, but I understand you’d like to be involved in the decision-making.”

He fixed Harry with a sharp gaze, waiting for his response as if daring him to take the next step.

Harry held a hand out, “Can I read them?”

With a nod, Voldemort slid the papers across the desk. Harry started with the draft from the first war. It was worse than he expected.

‘Mass executions of muggles and sympathisers… no mercy will be shown.’

‘Eliminate impure bloodlines… all muggleborns, half-bloods who are deemed weak, any who oppose the purity of wizarding blood… their properties and possessions will be seized to fund the war.’

‘Infiltrate and dismantle the ministry from within… use Death Eaters as spies, assassins and enforcers… destabilises government control.’

‘Remove restrictions on Dark Magic… deploy the Unforgivables liberally… experimentation with dark rituals will be encouraged.’

Jesus fucking Christ, Harry released a slow breath. He now had solid confirmation that Voldemort was not as insane as before, but Harry didn’t believe he was fully sane now either. He put down the first page and picked up the second.

‘Restoration of magical traditions and holidays… reconnect wizards with their heritage.’

‘Regulated use of Dark Magic… ensure proper education on the subject first… remove fear of the Dark Arts.’

‘Complete detachment from muggle world… strict border controls, magical wards… educational reform emphasising magical self-reliance.’

‘Muggleborn assimilation… will be separated from muggle families at the first sign of magic… obliviate muggle families… muggleborns will be integrated fully into wizarding culture.’

‘Investment in magical research and development will be prioritised… enhance quality of life for wizards… maintain superiority over non-magical forces.’

‘Fostering strong ties with other magical communities worldwide… promote shared strength against external threats.’

Alright, Harry can work with this. Maybe. There’s definitely a lot of hints of magical supremacy, and Voldemort’s plans for Muggleborns are not the best either, but it’s a massive step forward from the last war.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly on the desk. “Ok. So, I like the idea about restoring old holidays and traditions – that’s important. Detachment from the muggle world is good too, I’m glad you’re not planning to fight them outright.” Then he shrugged slightly, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a little heavy on the magic-supremacy, but I guess we can’t get too picky.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair as he considered the next point. “As for the Dark Magic part, I’m a little unsure – it might just be my lack of education about it – but it sounds like you’re preparing to put a proper code of conduct in place, making sure people are trained before using it. Overall, these all sound like solid steps to take.”

Harry shifted in his seat, his face settling into a more serious expression. “I think you should completely scrap the plans from the first war. They were… pretty terrible, no offence.” He glanced up at Voldemort, “And about the muggleborns – integrating them into the wizarding world is good, but there’s no reason to take them away from their families.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered Harry’s arguments. “If we are to truly tighten security and separate ourselves from the Muggle world,” he began, “then Muggleborns cannot be allowed ongoing contact with their non-magical families. Such connections are vulnerabilities – loopholes through which the enemy could exploit us. Obliviating the parents is a necessary measure to ensure the safety of our society.”

Harry leaned forward, undeterred. “But what if instead of severing those ties, we integrated the families into wizarding society? There are plenty of roles muggles could fill – administrative work, maintenance, even magical research support. It could create mutual understanding rather than division.”

“No family should be broken up,” Harry continued, “Doing so would leave an entire generation of Muggleborn witches and wizards with lasting trauma from being stripped from their families and thrown into an unfamiliar world. The discrimination against Muggleborns runs too deep right now to disappear anytime soon, which means they’d grow up despised and alone, exactly like us.”

Voldemort’s voice turned cold, “Trauma is an unfortunate side effect of necessary measures, Harry. You speak as though sentiment can outweigh security. If a child’s connection to the Muggle world is allowed to remain, so is the risk of information leaking beyond our borders. We are not speaking of individual tragedies – we are speaking of the survival of our entire kind.”

There was a heavy pause before Voldemort continued, “As for your ‘mutual understanding’, it is an ideal that exists only in your imagination. Muggles will resent being reminded of their inferiority, no matter how politely they are given work. Contempt festers in such conditions, and contempt breeds sabotage. I will not gamble the safety of our world on the hope that they might grow to love us.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And I won’t gamble a child’s future on the assumption that they’re safer without the people who raised them. You can talk about survival all you want, but if your survival plan leaves an entire group of children isolated, hated and broken, then you’re building a society that will turn against itself in the end.”

“No family should be broken up; you should know that better than anyone.” Harry released a tired sigh, “We both should.”

Voldemort’s expression flickered, the faintest trace of something – annoyance, perhaps, or the shadow of an old wound – but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You are too naïve. You think love alone will override suspicion, fear and prejudice. You think that muggles will simply accept our secrecy, accept their child stepping into a world they cannot fully join, without bitterness?”

“No, not all of them will,” Harry shook his head, “But some will. And every one that does is one more ally you didn’t have before. One more family raising their kid to be proud of who they are instead of ashamed.”

Harry’s hands closed into fists on his lap, frustration building. “You say you want to build a stronger wizarding world, well, you can’t do that by telling part of it they’re lesser from the moment they can walk. The discrimination against Muggleborns is already extreme, and if we rip kids away from their homes, we’ll make sure it lasts forever.”

Harry was starting to lose the little hope he had that he’d be able to change Voldemort – they were both as stubborn as each other, too proud to allow their beliefs to change.

Voldemort’s voice softened, though his eyes remained hard. “And if we leave them, and their families betray us, what then? When a careless word brings Muggle law enforcement to our doorstep? When governments learn just enough about our world to become a threat?”

“Then we teach them. Properly. The families, too.” Harry leaned forward, eyes alight.

“What if we create a magical primary school, open to all magical children. Think about it, Muggleborns wouldn’t just show up to Hogwarts as strangers; they’d already be part of the magical community. The school could have a social services system, like the Muggles. They have people called social workers who monitor the welfare of children and families. They would be able to talk to the families, explain what’s going on, and help them with the next steps to supporting a magical child. It would integrate Muggleborns from the start, educate the families, and make the transition natural. And if a family turns out to be abusive or neglectful, then – and only then – should a child be taken away.”

Voldemort was silent for a long moment; his eyes fixed on Harry as though weighing both his words and intentions. “A school of that nature…” he said at last, “would be a powerful tool for unity. A generation raised together, bloodlines irrelevant, loyalty shaped early; it would bind the wizarding world tighter than fear ever could.”

His tense posture loosened, but only slightly. “Very well. But if a child is removed for abuse or neglect, the family will be obliterated. Immediately. I will hear no arguments on that matter.”

Harry exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him. “All right,” he said, nodding. “If that situation comes up, I won’t argue against it.”

Voldemort inclined his head, the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. “You will bring me more ideas for this school, Harry. Start with potential curriculum, then structure. The next time we meet, I expect something worth my time.”

“Thank you… for listening. I appreciate the effort you’re going to in including me in this.” Giving him a small smile, Harry tried to communicate his genuine appreciation.

Voldemort’s gaze softened unexpectedly. “It has been a very long time since someone stood up to me without their fear being visible. I find I am… proud that it is only my soulmate who can do so.” Then his lips curved into something dangerously close to amusement. “But don’t push it, Harry. I can only tolerate doing so much ‘good’ in a month.”

Harry laughed. “Was that – did you just make a joke?”

“Perhaps.”

Harry grinned, “Careful, or people might start thinking you're human.”

When Harry finally left the room, Voldemort remained seated, the flicker of the boy’s laugh still echoing in his mind. It was disarming how the sound refused to fade. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest as he considered the exchange – Harry’s gratitude, his teasing, the way he had met Voldemort’s gaze without the faintest tremor of fear.

He briefly stopped his treacherous thoughts to call for Lucius before he was drawn once more into the current of his mind.

Voldemort rarely tolerated defiance. In the past, even the faintest spark of disagreement had been met with a swift and merciless end. Yet this exchange with Harry had been… different. The boy challenged him without posturing, without simpering, without the hollow bravado of someone trying to look brave while quaking inside. Harry’s voice carried conviction, not fear, and that conviction had unsettled him in a way he could not remember feeling before. The strange part was – it wasn’t unpleasant. It tugged at something buried deep, some remnant of a self that had once valued sharp minds and daring spirits before cruelty had become his default.

His thoughts kept circling back to the moment Harry had claimed his arm in the dining room earlier, bold and steady, eyes meeting his without flinching. And then – Merlin help him – the brat had teased him right back. Not mockery. Not disrespect. Banter. It was ridiculous. Lord Voldemort did not do banter. Not with his Death Eaters. Not with anyone. And yet here he was, thinking about how it had felt. Unnerving, yes, but also oddly invigorating. Almost… intimate.

More than anything, he found himself truly anticipating the day he began teaching Harry the Dark Arts. Despite the boy’s corruption by the Light, there was a sharpness to him, an openness to certain truths that most of Dumbledore’s little pets could never stomach. Harry had listened. More importantly, he had understood. Hogwarts’ current curriculum was a travesty – softened, diluted under Dumbledore’s watch to turn out mediocrity. Voldemort could fix that. He could forge Harry into a wizard worthy of legend. He had seen it after all, his use of wandless magic in the graveyard, that split-second summoning of his wand without a word. The boy had raw power. With the right guidance, that power could be honed into something glorious. And entirely his.

Finally, Lucius appeared. He bowed low, hair immaculate despite his haste. “You called, my Lord?”

“Have you located the address of Potter’s relatives?” Voldemort’s voice was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

Lucius hesitated. “No, my Lord. The leads we pursued-”

The air cracked with the force of the Cruciatus Curse. Lucius collapsed instantly, writhing under the weight of the curse. Voldemort watched, expression cold and unchanging, until the man’s screams bored him. He released the spell, voice dropping to a silken threat. “Get out of my sight.”

Lucius stumbled away, nearly tripping in his desperation to obey.

The door shut, and the silence returned. Voldemort’s irritation lingered only a moment before it slipped away, replaced by thoughts of the boy again. The defiance in those green eyes. The way Harry had stood his ground. The unpolished, powerful magic he could feel just beneath the surface.

He leaned back, allowing himself the smallest curl of a smile. Once Harry was his, there would be no undoing it. No Light-side to turn to, no saviour to revert back to. The boy had gotten under his skin, and Voldemort found himself both unsettled and… begrudgingly pleased.

Chapter Text

Harry’s first few days at Malfoy Manor were surprisingly peaceful. The place was undeniably beautiful – every hallway lined with expensive-looking décor, polished marble floors gleaming under warm light, and grand architecture that made even Hogwarts feel a little shabby in comparison. The grounds stretched out endlessly, but his favourite spot was the garden. Sometimes he and Narcissa happened to be there at the same time, trading good-natured debates over which plants were superior – her treasured roses or the wild foxgloves he preferred.

Inside, the library was vast, almost dwarfing the one at Grimmauld Place, and to Harry’s own surprise, he was learning more than he ever had at school. He put it down to the lack of pressure – no homework deadlines, no tournament hanging over his head. He’d even found himself paging through a few morally questionable books, lingering over sections describing certain curses. There was something almost hypnotic about the way they were detailed – spells meant to incapacitate, to maim, even to kill – dangerous, yes, but fascinating all the same.

The Malfoys were… interesting company. Narcissa was exactly the polite, gracious host Harry had expected, always pausing to invite him into conversation whenever their paths crossed – whether it was in the halls, over tea, or in the garden. Lucius, on the other hand, still seemed to be nursing a grudge from Harry’s second year. He never missed a chance to sneer just a little when he looked at Harry, though his words stayed coldly polite. Harry didn’t run into him often, and he got the feeling both of them preferred it that way.

Draco was another matter entirely. He was clearly forcing himself to be civil, shoulders tiff, voice tight, as though politeness were a curse he’d been saddled with. One afternoon, after bumping into him outside the library, Harry finally said, “For Merlin’s sake, shove off and act normal, you prat. Nothing’s going to happen if we argue a bit.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but a smirk tugged at his mouth. “Normal for you is insufferable.”

“And normal for you is annoying,” Harry replied with a shrug. “At least we’re consistent.”

Draco gave a theatrical sigh, “Fine, Potter. If we’re going to talk, let’s make it worth my time. How about we settle this on the Quidditch pitch?”

Harry snorted. “You’re still bitter I beat you in third year, then.”

Draco’s smirk sharpened, “I just want to remind you that a fluke win doesn’t make you good.”

“You're on,” Harry said, sticking out a hand for Draco to take. They shook on it, then split off to fetch their brooms, their insults trailing behind them like a weird sort of truce.

Despite Harry seeing the Malfoys plenty, he’d barely caught a glimpse of Voldemort. There were flashes here and there – moving between rooms in his private wing, a shadow at the end of a hallway, the occasional silent presence at a meal – but no real interaction. Harry couldn’t decide whether that was a relief or a problem. On one hand, it meant he didn’t have to dig up the energy for one of their sharp-edged conversations or the inevitable argument that followed. On the other hand, what else could Voldemort be doing with his time if not buried in war plans? He had promised Harry would be included in those discussions, but days had passed without a word. The question gnawed at him – was Voldemort quietly withdrawing that promise, or was something else going on?

By the fourth day of silence, Harry’s patience wore thin. The quiet of the manor, once peaceful, now felt heavy, like the air before a storm. If Voldemort thought he could just brush him off, he had another thing coming.

Harry left the library mid-afternoon, letting the book snap shut with more force than necessary. He stalked through the echoing corridors, boots thudding against polished stone, following the faint hum of magic that seemed to cling to Voldemort’s presence. It led him past the formal dining room, down a side hall lined with tall, arched windows spilling pale light across the floor.

He reached the pair of double doors leading to Voldemort’s private wing – tall, dark and carved with intricate patterns. Now he was close; he could feel the pull in his chest trying to coax him forward. He followed it to Voldemort’s office, then pushed the door ajar and slipped inside.

The office was dim; curtains drawn halfway so only narrow blades of light cut through the gloom. The shadows seemed to pool in the corners, clinging to the dark wooden shelves.

At the centre of the room, the polished ebony desk was scattered with maps, yellowed scrolls and open tomes. Voldemort was bent over it, writing with quick, precise strokes. He didn’t look up immediately – just finished his sentence, set the quill aside, and finally lifted his gaze.

“To what do I owe this… intrusion?” His voice was smooth, almost bored, though a flicker of curiosity glinted in his red eyes.

Harry stepped forward, ignoring the heat that curled low in his stomach at finally having the man’s attention. “You promised to include me. Days go by, and I’ve barely seen you, let alone heard anything. So – what’s going on? Have you changed your mind?”

One corner of Voldemort’s mouth twitched – not quite a smile, but close. “I have been occupied.” His long fingers made a lazy gesture toward the piles of parchment. “War is not won through idle conversation.”

“That’s not an answer,” Harry shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from clenching them. “If you’re planning something, I should know. Unless that promise was just convenient at the time.”

Voldemort tilted his head, his gaze lingering in a way that felt almost like a touch. “You are very bold when you think I’ve slighted you, Harry. Sit.”

Harry didn’t move. “I’ll sit when you tell me what you’re hiding.”

A quiet, low laugh escaped Voldemort – dangerously amused. “Perhaps,” Voldemort murmured, leaning forward on the desk, “I wanted to see how long it would take you to come knocking. Consider my curiosity satisfied.”

Harry huffed, folding his arms. “Great. Mystery solved. Now, unless you’ve got another experiment lined up to see how fast I lose my patience, maybe you could just tell me what’s going on.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly, the usual sharpness in his gaze dimming with reluctant honesty. “There are questions I cannot answer, Harry. Certain… truths remain elusive.”

Harry stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “Then let me help. We both want the same thing – answers. Clarity.”

Voldemort gave a short, dismissive wave. “That information is private. Not meant for sharing.” His tone shifted almost too smoothly. “Tell me, what have you come up with for your school? Has the curriculum been decided?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then paused. The sidestep was clear as day. “Stop deflecting,” he snapped. “I didn’t come here to play games. I chose you – over the Order, over my friends, over everything. And they all know it. And they will keep knowing it – until you give me a reason not to.”

He held Voldemort’s gaze, steady and unflinching, though his pulse quickened. “The least you could do is show some faith in me.”

Voldemort studied him in silence, eyes roaming his face as though reading something only he could see. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost some of its edge. “There’s something… unusual happening to me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, curiosity sharpening.

“Years ago, I performed rituals that had changed me completely – altering my body and mind beyond recognition. The features I bear now, the very essence of who I am, should be impossible.”

“And yet…” He traced the polished surface of his desk, his expression darkening. “Despite the rituals, I find myself evolving. My mind is sharper, more complex than before, yet it feels unpredictable. I’m not certain what’s causing these changes, so I’m researching – ensuring the power I gained from those rituals remains intact."

His voice dropped lower – an intimate, almost confessional tone. “It unsettles me, this shift within myself. But I cannot ignore it.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, appreciating Voldemort’s rare openness. “Thank you. For telling me. I want to help. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

He turned the words over in his mind. The changes… they must have started back in the graveyard, when Voldemort returned looking like Tom Riddle again. Maybe something in the potion had triggered it, like an ingredient. Then it hit him – Voldemort used his blood.

Two possibilities formed. One: their soulmate bond – magic in its purest form – might have interfered. Two: whatever Voldemort claimed Harry carried inside him might have passed over, like a disease.

“Could it be the bond?” Harry asked quietly. “Or whatever I’m carrying inside me?”

Voldemort paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered Harry’s words. “It could definitely be a possibility. I had already considered the… item you’re holding affecting me. But I dismissed the idea of our soulmate bond having any influence. Perhaps I was too quick to overlook it.”

“Alright, just keep me updated, will you?” He hesitated, then asked, “And will you ever tell me what’s so dangerous about this thing I’m carrying?”

Voldemort’s eyes darkened, though his reply was quiet, almost silky. “Soon. Once I’m certain the effects of my rituals remain safe, then I will tell you.”

It was Monday, September 1^st – Harry’s first morning not returning to Hogwarts. His mind buzzed with thoughts of his friends: What are they doing now? Rushing to pack? Sharing a hurried breakfast? Already on their way to the station? The thought of missing out on all of it weighed heavily on him, and the reality of not returning to Hogwarts or being with his friends left him feeling unexpectedly low.

Today also marked Harry’s first day of tutoring at Malfoy Manor. Voldemort had handed him a detailed schedule the day before, outlining the plan for his studies.

Tutors would be present at the manor on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, covering a rigorous curriculum. On Mondays, Harry would focus on Transfiguration in the morning and Charms in the afternoon. Tuesdays were reserved for Potions and Arithmancy, while Thursdays were set aside for Ancient Runes. Wednesdays were for his etiquette lessons, Narcissa’s neat handwriting informing him they’d be in the morning. Fridays were set aside for lessons with Voldemort personally. The schedule was intense, but Harry appreciated the structure.

He dressed for the day and headed down to breakfast. The household was holding a small send-off for Draco before he left for the station. Though a dull weight of despair still sat heavy in his chest, Harry forced a cheerful smile as he chatted with Draco about the year ahead at Hogwarts.

“How do you reckon your OWLs will go? Nervous?” Harry asked.

“It shouldn’t be too bad,” Draco replied. “Can’t be any worse than your study for the tournament. At least my life’s not on the line – just my reputation.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Thought I’d blow myself up trying to perfect those fire-proofing charms.” Then with a sly grin, he added, “Say, any guess on the new defence professor? At least they won’t be trying to kill me this year – I won’t even be there.”

“My father says the Ministry is appointing someone,” Draco said, his nose tilting up ever so slightly. “I just hope they’re competent. Salazar knows I can’t afford a poor teacher this year.”

“You’ll have to write me and tell me if they’re as loony as the last lot – other than Remus, of course.” Harry corrected himself quickly.

Draco smirked. “Professor Lupin was tolerable, I suppose. And yes, I’ll write – mainly so I can tell you how Slytherin completely demolishes Gryffindor. Without their star seeker, it’ll be an easy win.”

That, naturally, spiralled into a spirited argument about Quidditch – Harry fiercely defending Gryffindor, Draco championing Slytherin – until Narcissa swept in to announce it was time to leave.

Before Draco could go, Harry caught his arm. “If you get the chance, tell my friends I’m alright? Maybe mention I could meet them on a Hogsmeade weekend.”

Draco nodded. “See you, Scarhead,” he said lightly, before stepping into the floo after his parents.

Harry walked into the room he’d been directed to for his first Transfiguration lesson. It was small and dimly lit, desks lined in neat pairs from front to back. A chalkboard dominated the front wall, a teacher’s desk beside it cluttered with stacks of parchment and a variety of caged animals.

Two people were already there. One glance told Harry they were twins – dark hair, dark eyes, the same stocky build and the same slouched shoulders. They turned towards him in unison, silent, watchful.

Harry decided to break the quiet. “Hi – uh – I’m Harry. Harry Potter. Are you my tutors for Transfiguration?”

They exchanged a glance he couldn’t read, though something cruel flickered in their eyes before the man stepped forward.

“I’m Amycus Carrow,” he said, his voice flat but sharp. “You will address me as sir. This is my sister, Alecto. You will address her as ma’am. We teach both Transfiguration and Charms. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded quickly, “Yes, sir.”

“Then sit.”

He took a seat in the front row, choosing the one closest to the door.

Amycus didn’t waste time. “Let’s see where you’re at. Conjure something, I don’t care what.”

Harry hesitated. “Sir… I haven’t done conjuring yet. That’s taught in sixth year.”

Alecto gave a sharp, derisive snort. Amycus rolled his eyes, then crossed to the desk and set a teapot in front of him.

“Fine. Transfigure this. Show me the hardest thing you’ve learnt.”

Harry’s mind blanked. Transformation had always been his toughest skill to master in class. Still, he lifted his wand, muttered the incantation, and the teapot shifted into a white ferret, which immediately sat up on its hind legs and sniffed to air.

“Cute,” Alecto drawled, approaching slowly, her eyes narrowing with mockery. “But pathetic. I’ve seen second years do better. Maybe I could show you some real transfiguration. Ever heard of the Transmogrifian Torture? I promise I won’t use it for too long.”

The sadistic curl of her smile set his instincts on edge. Harry shook his head, forcing politeness into his voice. “No, ma’am, I haven’t heard of it – and I’d prefer if you didn’t use it on me.”

Alecto pouted in mock disappointment. “Pity.”

Her wand flicked. The ferret twisted and elongated, its fur rippling into cold steel until a gleaming knife lay on the desk. She picked it up, weighing it in her hand, then, without warning, drove the blade into Harry’s upper arm. His breath caught as it cut cleanly through the robe and skin.

“That’s proper transfiguration,” she said with satisfaction. “Focus makes it what you want – skill makes it sharp enough to cut.”

She smiled meanly, turning to Amycus. “I think I’ll keep this. It might be the right motivation to push him forward. Don’t you think?”

Amycus didn’t so much as flinch.

Harry didn’t expect him to. They were Death Eaters – cruelty came standard. But he’d thought Voldemort would be more careful about who taught him. After all, the man had sworn to protect him. Was putting him in a room with two sadistic Death Eaters, Voldemort’s idea of protection?

Amycus finally pulled the knife from Alecto’s grip, tossing it onto the desk with a clatter. “Enough of that. We’ve wasted time already. Potter – today you’re learning Vanishing Spells.”

Harry flexed his arm under the desk, feeling the slow, warm trickle of blood soaking his sleeve. He doubted either of them would let him heal it.

Amycus pointed to a cage containing a twitching mouse. “Make it vanish. Incantation’s Evanesco. Clear, controlled wand movement. Try.”

Harry drew his wand, steadying his breathing. He had read about Evanesco before but never practised it. He hesitated.

“Problem, Potter?” Amycus’ tone was deceptively calm.

Harry forced the words out. “No, sir.”

He traced the wand movement and spoke the incantation. The mouse flickered, blurred – and then reappeared, unharmed but squeaking loudly.

Before Harry could even blink, Alecto was beside him. The sting of steel bit into the back of his hand, sharp and fast. He hissed.

“You failed,” she said simply, wiping the blade on his sleeve. “Failure has consequences. Again.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He aimed again, focused on the mouse, and cast. This time it vanished completely.

Amycus gave a curt nod. “Better. Now bring it back.”

Harry hesitated. “Sir, Vanishing is one-way transfiguration. I don’t know the counter-”

Pain lanced his forearm as Alecto pressed the knife into his skin, slow enough that the burn lingered. “He didn’t ask for excuses.”

Biting back a groan, Harry focused on her retreating steps. He’d imagined Death Eater cruelty before, but this was methodical, deliberate. Voldemort had put him here – did he know?

The thought hit harder than the knife. If Voldemort knew they were doing this… and didn’t care…

Amycus summoned another cage, this one holding a small bird. “Vanish it.”

Harry obeyed, the bird disappearing in a clean shimmer.

Alecto prowled closer. “What’s the principle behind Vanishing?”

Harry searched his memory. “It’s… changing the object’s existence at a molecular-”

Wrong move. The blade nicked the side of his neck, just shallow enough not to be dangerous but deep enough to bleed.

“Not changing, you stupid boy,” Alecto purred. “Erasing. Unmaking.”

Harry swallowed the flare of anger in his chest. He wanted to shout, to hex her, but the image of Voldemort’s face flashed in his mind – cold, unreadable. Did the man who swore to protect him picture this exact scene and think it acceptable?

Amycus handed him another mouse. “Again. Faster.”

They drove him through spell after spell, cutting him for every falter, every too-slow answer, until his robes clung damp to his skin. His head pounded. He didn’t know if it was from the loss of blood or the thought circling like a curse in his mind: If Voldemort knew and didn’t care… what did that make Harry’s choice to stay with him?

The mouse vanished cleanly. Amycus gave a grunt of approval, but Harry barely heard it. His eyes were on the doorway, willing it to open.

For once, he didn’t know if he wanted Voldemort to walk through and stop this… or to confirm, once and for all, that he wouldn’t.

It ended up not mattering. He didn’t come.

Harry shut his door with more force than he meant to, the sound reverberating through the quiet corridor outside. He peeled his robe off, wincing as dried blood pulled at the fabric where it had stuck to his arm. Underneath, his white button-down was spattered and streaked with crimson, each stain a reminder of Alecto’s gleeful precision.

The room felt too small, the air too thick.

He dropped the robe on the floor, flexing his fingers to test how deep the cuts were. They stung, but it was the thought gnawing at him that hurt more – that Voldemort might already know and simply didn’t care.

A sharp, deliberate knock broke the silence.

Harry froze.

“Harry,” came the smooth, low voice from the other side. “May I confirm you are… unharmed?”

He almost laughed. Unharmed. What a choice of words. He could tell Voldemort was measuring his tone, but there was something else underneath – strained, frayed.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He could tell him to piss off. Or he could let him in and finally say everything simmering in his chest.

Another knock. “The vow has been restless today,” Voldemort said after a pause. “And your emotions are pounding against my mind like a drum. It’s… distracting.”

Harry weighed the choice for another beat, then strode to the door and yanked it open.

Voldemort stood there, gaze raking over him in one slow sweep. The moment those red eyes landed on the bloodstains, Harry felt it – concern, raw and sharp, wrapped in a possessive undertone that made his pulse jump.

“Inside,” Voldemort said, not a request.

Harry stepped back, letting him in if only to keep from having this conversation in the open.

The door shut with a quiet click. Voldemort’s presence filled the room instantly, making the space seem smaller.

“What happened?” The question was quiet but laced with an edge that felt dangerous.

Harry crossed his arms, ignoring the sting it sent through his cuts. “You tell me. Did you know the Carrows were going to use me as target practice today? Or was that just a fun surprise for all of us?”

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on the slash at Harry’s neck, then dropped to the deep red soaking his sleeve. “Explain,” he said, each syllable measured.

Harry barked a short laugh. “What’s there to explain? We did Vanishing Spells. I messed up, spoke out of turn – got a knife for my trouble. Several times.”

Something flickered in Voldemort’s expression – gone before Harry caught it. His voice was lower when he spoke again. “You are mine to instruct. Mine to shape. No one touches what is mine without my leave.”

The words should make Harry bristle. Instead, something about the way he said mine landed heavy in his chest, tangled up with the heat still curling from earlier.

“Funny,” Harry said flatly. “Because it felt a lot like they had your leave.”

Voldemort took a slow step forward, his gaze unblinking. “Do you believe I would allow this?”

Harry met his eyes and forced himself not to look away. “I don’t know. You put me in a room with them. You must have known what they’re like. Either you didn’t think they’d try something, or you didn’t care if they did.”

A long pause stretched between them. Voldemort’s voice, when it came, was quieter – dangerous in its calm. “I knew they were… strict. Not that they would harm you.”

Harry scoffed. “Strict. That’s one word for it.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “I felt it,” he said suddenly. “The vow pulled at me like a chain. Pain in my head from your emotions, spikes of fear, frustration, and anger. Do you think I came here out of idle curiosity?”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. The headache he’d mentioned wasn’t just an excuse.

“You’re telling me you felt it,” Harry said slowly, “but didn’t come sooner?”

“I came as soon as I could without making it obvious,” Voldemort said, the faintest hint of strain in his tone. “If others believe you cannot endure the smallest discomfort, you will invite more of it. I will not have that.”

Harry stared at him, trying to pick apart the mix of logic and something darker threading through his words, “So, this is about appearances.”

“This is about control,” Voldemort corrected, stepping closer still. “And the Carrows clearly need reminding where it lies.”

Harry didn’t miss the way his gaze kept drifting to the cuts, the subtle tension in his jaw. It wasn’t softness – not exactly – but the concern was real, just buried under layers of possession and pride.

“You’re not going to punish them for it,” Harry said. Not a question.

Voldemort’s lips curved in something too sharp to be a smile. “Punishment is a tool, Harry. Used openly, it teaches others. Used quietly, it teaches the one who receives it. Which lesson would you prefer they learn?”

Harry shook his head. “You talk about control like it’s the only thing that matters. Maybe it is to you. But if you think I’m just going to keep quiet while they-”

Voldemort’s hand came up, not touching him but close enough that Harry felt the heat of it near his shoulder. “You will not keep quiet,” he said, almost a whisper. “You will tell me. Every time. And I will decide what to do with the information. That is the arrangement we have, is it not?”

Harry’s throat felt tight. “Is it? Or is this just another way to make sure I can’t act without you?”

A faint, knowing glint lit Voldemort’s eyes. “Both”

Harry wanted to argue, to push back, but the headache in Voldemort’s gaze – the vow’s pull – was still there, and somewhere beneath the possessiveness, the cruelty, was the undeniable fact he had come.

Without another word, Voldemort conjured a straight-backed chair with a flick of his wand. “Sit.”

Harry hesitated, narrowing his eyes, but sat anyway.

“Take off your shirt.”

Harry’s mouth opened automatically to protest, but Voldemort had already turned toward the adjoining bathroom, dismissing any argument as irrelevant. The door shut behind him, leaving Harry alone in silence.

With a muttered sigh, Harry undid his shirt buttons, peeling the fabric away from his shoulders and wincing as it tugged against dried blood. He tossed it on top of the robe, sitting there bare-chested except for the chain of the locket resting against his sternum.

Voldemort returned a moment later, a damp towel in hand, and stopped mid-step. His crimson eyes fixed immediately on the locket.

“Where did you get that?” His voice was sharp, fast and demanding.

Harry blinked at the sudden change in tone. “Gr-, Gri-, uh, the place I was staying at with the Order.” Bloody Fidelius.

“How did you find it?” Voldemort’s words cracked through the air like lashes.

“It was in a cupboard,” Harry said quickly, “with a bunch of other things no one touched.”

“Who told you what it is?”

Harry shifted under the intensity. “Kreacher. The house-elf. He said it was a dark object belonging to you, and I – look, I haven’t hurt it.” His voice softened. “I actually… like it. It’s comforting. Warm.”

Voldemort’s gaze dropped to the locket. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing the metal where it lay against Harry’s skin.

“It’s cold,” he said, his voice low and strange.

Harry frowned. “Not to me.”

For a long moment, Voldemort just looked at him, searching his face with a focus so sharp Harry almost squirmed. Then, without explanation, he pulled back, crouching slightly as he began gently pressing the towel against the blood-streaked skin of Harry’s arm.

“The cuts are shallow,” Voldemort said after a moment, tone almost clinical. “They will close on their own in a few days. But if you are worried, I can call Narcissa to heal them properly.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No. I’m fine. Really.” The thought of anyone else – especially Narcissa Malfoy – seeing him like this was mortifying.

Voldemort didn’t press the issue. He finished wiping the blood away, his touch careful but impersonal, then tossed the towel back toward the bathroom. Straightening, he gave Harry one last searching look.

“Do not let anyone take that locket from you,” he said finally, voice weighted in a way Harry couldn’t quite place.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Harry muttered.

A faint smile – sharp, knowing – touched Voldemort’s mouth. “Good.”

And then he turned, robes sweeping after him as he left, the door shutting softly behind him, leaving Harry with the strange mix of confusion, defiance and something disturbingly close to gratitude.

That evening, Harry barely had time to relax from dinner before there was another knock.

“Come with me,” Voldemort said when he opened the door. No greeting, no explanation - just the smooth command that didn’t invite refusal.

Harry hesitated. “Where-”

“You will see,” Voldemort cut in, turning away without an answer.

Harry followed, the corridor stretching long and dim under the flicker of torchlight. They descended two floors before Voldemort pushed open a heavy oak door. The room beyond was bare stone, the air cool and still. At its centre stood Amycus and Alecto Carrow, their usual smug confidence dimmed into wariness.

“My Lord,” Amycus said quickly, inclining his head. Alecto mirrored the motion, though her eyes flicked briefly to Harry.

Voldemort’s gaze followed hers, and the room seemed to drop several degrees. “Look at him,” he said softly, almost conversationally. “Do you see the marks you left?”

Neither answered.

“Answer me,” Voldemort murmured.

“Yes, my Lord,” Amycus said, his voice tight.

“And you thought this acceptable? That you could damage what belongs to me without my permission?’

Alecto’s mouth opened, perhaps to explain, but Voldemort’s gaze sliced to her, and the words died on her tongue.

“You were instructed to teach,” Voldemort continued. “Not to indulge whatever… urges you carry from the battlefield.” His tone never rose, yet the air in the room seemed to press in around them. “Harry is under my protection. That vow is not a decoration – it is law. You will obey it as if it were your own life were on the line. Because it is.”

Amycus’ eyes darted to Harry again. “We thought to-”

“You did not think,” Voldemort said, the faintest hiss threading his words. “You follow. And you will follow my method of instruction. If Harry bleeds in your classroom again without my sanction, I will ensure you do not leave it intact. Do you understand?”

Both siblings nodded quickly.

“Say it.”

“Yes, my Lord,” they said in unison.

Voldemort let the silence stretch, his gaze cold and unblinking, before finally turning on his heel. “Harry,” he said, not looking back, “with me.”

Harry followed him out, the heavy door shutting behind them. They walked in silence for several corridors before Harry finally asked, “Was that… for me? Or just to make sure no one thinks they can get away with defying you?”

Voldemort stopped, turning to face him fully. “There is no difference.”

Harry frowned. “Feels like there is.”

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched Voldemort’s lips. “Then take it however you like. But understand this – if anyone harms you without my leave, they will answer to me. And I do not share what is mine.”

The possessive weight of the last word lingered between them as they resumed walking, Harry’s mind a tangle of irritation, unease, and something far more dangerous that he refused to name.

The next morning, Harry woke to a dull throb in his body and the faint, lingering chill of the locket steady against his chest. It was strange – he still swore it felt warm most of the time, like a steady heartbeat against his skin, but now he couldn’t shake the memory of Voldemort’s voice saying It’s cold.

He dressed quickly, opting for long sleeves to hide the cuts, and made his way to the dining room. The manor was unusually quiet, its echoing halls empty save for a lone house-elf scurrying past. When he arrived, Voldemort was already seated at the head of the long table, a silver teapot steaming beside him. His gaze lifted as Harry entered, lingering for a moment before he gestured to the seat to his right.

Harry sat, keeping his head down as a plate appeared in front of him. He tried to focus on the toast and eggs, but he could feel it – Voldemort watching him. Not his face. Not his hands. His chest. The locket.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, finally looking up. “You’re staring.”

Voldemort’s expression didn’t change. “I am considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Why do you have it. Why did you keep it?” His eyes flicked briefly to Harry’s collar, to where the chain disappeared beneath it. “And why it feels different to you than it does to me.”

Harry hesitated. “I told you – it’s warm. Comforting. Like it’s… on my side.”

That drew the faintest lift of an eyebrow. “Objects of power are rarely ‘on anyone’s side’, Harry. They have purposes. Allegiances.” He took a slow sip of tea. “And sometimes… appetites.”

Harry swallowed, unsure whether that was a warning or a test. “It’s not hurting me.”

“Yet.” The word was so soft it almost didn’t reach across the table.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then finally, Voldemort asked Harry softly, “The locket. Show me.”

Harry wanted to object, but something in the air – the command, the inevitability – made him reach beneath his collar. The chain caught briefly on a button, then slid free, and the locket dropped into Voldemort’s waiting hand.

The moment his fingers closed around it, Harry felt it – a shift, subtle but undeniable. The locket seemed to… stretch, as if waking up. Something inside it stirred, pressing faintly against his sternum even though it was no longer touching him.

Voldemort’s brow furrowed slightly, the only crack in his composed mask. “Interesting,” he murmured, thumb brushing over the metal. “It reacts to you.”

Harry swallowed, unsettled. “It’s not doing anything.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked to his. “You feel nothing now?”

“I feel… like it wants to come back.” The words slipped out before Harry could stop them.

Voldemort looked at him not just with curiosity, but with a shadow of something darker – possession, perhaps. Without breaking eye contact, he placed the locket back against Harry’s chest, letting the chain fall into place.

Finally, Voldemort leaned back. “You will keep it on you at all times.”

Harry blinked. “I thought you didn’t trust it.”

“I do not. Which is precisely why I want it where I can see it.” His voice was smooth, decisive, leaving no room for argument.

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Voldemort’s eyes lingered on him one last time, a faint curve to his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good boy.”

Harry felt heat creep up his neck, unsure if it was from irritation or something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Harry sat quietly at the long breakfast table, the morning light filtering softly through the tall windows. Voldemort was already there, his pale hands folded neatly, eyes calm but sharp as they watched Harry pick at his food.

“You seem distracted this morning,” Voldemort remarked, his voice low and steady. “Is something troubling you?”

Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “Just… the usual. Lessons, tutors. I don’t even know who’s teaching potions today.”

Voldemort’s lips curved slightly, a gesture almost like a smile. “Perhaps that is for the best. Expectations can be a burden.”

Harry forced a small laugh, trying to push the growing knot in his stomach aside. “After the Carrows, I’m not sure any tutor can be worse.”

“You’ll find some are harsher than others, yes,” Voldemort said, his gaze unwavering. “But cruelty is not the only path to discipline.”

Harry swallowed hard, then pushed his plate away as Voldemort added, “A healer will be coming to assess the effects of your time at the Dursleys, after your Arithmancy lesson today.”

The words settled heavily in Harry’s chest. “A healer? You’re actually bringing one?”

“Yes, I did say I would. I want to ensure your body has not suffered irreparable harm.”

Harry’s thoughts spiralled – the bruises, the sting of humiliation. He clenched his fists beneath the table, then forced himself to look up. “Right.”

Voldemort’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Rest assured, you will be cared for.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and forced down another bite of his breakfast, but his appetite was gone. The thought of a healer checking on the damage from the Dursleys’ years made his chest tighten. He pushed his plate away and stood, smoothing his shirt as he tried to shake the heaviness clinging to him.

With a farewell to Voldemort, Harry left the dining hall and made his way through the twisting corridors toward the potions lab. Each step echoed softly against the stone walls, his mind drifting back to Voldemort’s words and the unknown tutor awaiting him. The knot in his stomach tightened again.

Who will I have to face this time? He wondered. Will they be as cruel as the Carrows, or worse?

The heavy oak door of the potions lab loomed ahead, and Harry paused for a moment before pushing it open, stepping inside to face whatever awaited him there.

He was met with warmth, not the usual icy air that seemed to haunt the manor’s corridors. The walls were lined with shelves of neatly labelled jars and stoppered bottles, and the faint scent of herbs mixed with something sharper – peppermint, maybe – hung in the air.

At the far bench, a tall, slightly stooped man was arranging ingredients in a meticulous row. His light-brown hair was thinning at the crown, and his long fingers bore the faint stains of years of handling potion ingredients.

“Potter,” the man said without looking up. “Bernard Gibbon. I’ll be overseeing your potions work. Today, I want to see where your skills are, so you’ll be brewing a Calming Draught. I assume you’ve made it before?”

Harry nodded. “A couple of times.”

“Good,” Gibbon said evenly. “Then go ahead. I’ll watch and correct if I need to. Ingredients are laid out. Tools are clean. Begin.”

It was strange – no glare, no theatrics, no sharp insults. Snape’s voice would already have been dripping with contempt by now, muttering about dunderheaded incompetence before Harry had even uncorked an ingredient.

Harry took a deep breath and began. Lavender first – he crushed the flowers gently with the pestle, careful not to bruise them. Gibbon said nothing, just watched with a steady, assessing gaze.

Peppermint oil came next, added slowly while stirring clockwise. He didn’t have to be told; the rhythm of brewing felt almost soothing. It reminded him of cooking.

When Harry split the powdered moonstone into two equal measures, adding the first half now and reserving the rest, he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Gibbon’s mouth. Approval, maybe.

“Not bad,” Gibbon murmured when Harry shifted the flame to a simmer before adding valerian root. “Your technique’s careful. That will serve you well.”

Harry couldn’t help thinking how different this was from Potions under Snape. With Snape, every mistake – real or imagined – was a public humiliation. Here, Gibbon let him work. The corrections, when they came, were specific and quiet.

“Your lavender extraction could be a touch lighter,” Gibbon noted as Harry stirred in the hellebore petals. “You’re losing some of the subtler oils. Not a disaster, but worth refining.”

It was feedback Harry could actually use – direct, without insult. He finished with the final half-measure of crocodile heart. The potion shifted to a soft, clear blue, exactly as it should.

Gibbon leaned forward, inspecting it for a moment before nodding. “Correct. Shelf life: three weeks. Dosage: no more than two tablespoons at once. Beyond that, it dulls reflexes. Too much peppermint oil could give the drinker a burning sensation in their mouth, and it can also cause watery eyes or uncontrollable sobbing. There are unpleasant results if it’s consumed by animals.”

Harry corked the vial, feeling a small, quiet satisfaction.

“Your technique today is promising,” he said at last, voice calm but firm. “However, potions are as much about understanding as execution. For your next lesson, I want you to prepare yourself to brew the Draught of Peace.”

Harry blinked. “That’s… a much more advanced potion, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Gibbon agreed, nodding. “But I expect you to know your ingredients thoroughly and understand the process before attempting the brew. Your homework is to research the properties and uses of moonstone, porcupine quills, unicorn horn and hellebore – the core ingredients.”

He folded his hands on the table. “Look into the specific techniques used in balancing their potency and mitigating the risks. Take notes on common mistakes and how to avoid them. Come prepared to discuss, and to brew.”

Harry felt a flicker of both nervousness and determination. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Gibbon said, his gaze steady. “Remember, the foundation of any successful potion lies in knowledge as much as skill.”

Harry left the lesson thinking it was the first time in years he’d brewed a potion under a Death Eater’s eye and felt like he’d actually learned something – without being torn down first.

Harry’s steps were lighter than they’d been in days. Gibbon’s lesson had been… surprisingly good. Pleasant, even. Educational without feeling like his brain had been wrung out. So maybe, he thought, maybe the next tutor wouldn’t be awful either.

He turned down the familiar corridor toward the classroom where he’d once met the Carrows. The memory alone was enough to stir a brief churn of dread in his stomach, but the feeling faltered when he stepped inside. The room felt different now – the air brighter, sharper somehow. The heavy, oppressive presence that had once clung to the walls was gone.

A man stood at the front, pale hair catching the light. He looked up from a desk covered in neatly arranged parchment, his sharp blue eyes taking Harry in with swift assessment before breaking into a crooked grin.

“Hello, Potter. I’m Barty Crouch, Junior, by the way, you might have heard of my father. I’ll be your tutor for Arithmancy and Runes.” His voice was light but carried an edge of precision. “And before you start worrying, no, I don’t bite… unless you try to subtract improperly.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the humour. “I wasn’t worried.” He hesitated, then admitted, “But… I should probably admit I have absolutely no idea what Arithmancy even is.”

Barty’s smile only widened. “Perfect. Fresh canvas. Sit”

Harry sat at the same desk as last time, the one closest to the door. Still wary, he continued, “Just so you know, my only maths education was Muggle primary school. Haven’t touched that stuff since I was eleven.”

“Then we’ll start simple,” Barty said, unrolling a sheet of parchment covered in neat columns of numbers. “Arithmancy is the magical study of numbers – their meanings, patterns and how they connect to magic itself. Magic isn’t just words and wand movements. Underneath, its structure. Ratios. Cycles. Think of numbers as the bones holding the body of magic together.”

Harry frowned slightly. “So, it’s like… magical maths?”

“In the simplest terms, yes. But unlike Muggle maths, Arithmancy doesn’t stop at answers – it asks what the answers mean. Take the number three. In Arithmancy, it’s harmony and unity – the strength of three components forming a whole. That’s why so many spells use triple repetition.”

Barty tapped his wand, and the parchment rearranged into a single date: 12/8/1997.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” he said. “We reduce this date to a single digit. Add them up.”

Harry scribbled with the provided quill. “One plus two plus eight plus one plus nine plus nine plus seven… thirty-seven.”

“Good. Now add those digits together.”

“Three plus seven is ten.”

“And again.”

“One plus zero… one.”

“Exactly.” Barty leaned back slightly. “One is the number of beginnings – the first step on a path, the moment before momentum builds. In some traditions, it’s a sign to act; in others, a warning that you’re about to set events in motion. The point is numbers tell you more than they seem to.”

Harry studied the parchment again. “So… you can actually predict the future with this?”

“Not predict – understand,” Barty corrected patiently. “The future isn’t fixed. Think of it like looking at a river: you can see where the currents are flowing, where they might split, and where the rapids are. But the choice of which way to go? That’s yours.”

For the next hour, Barty walked Harry through the basics – the single-digit meanings, the way magical formulae often boiled down to key numbers, how runic inscriptions used numerical values to strengthen enchantments. He explained every step without a trace of condescension, his voice steady and clear.

By the end, Harry realised he’d stopped feeling nervous. He still didn’t know exactly what to make of Arithmancy, but Barty had made the numbers feel alive. He left the lesson feeling lighter than when he walked in.

Harry was stretched out on his bed, half-listening to the muffled sounds of movement elsewhere in the manor, waiting for dinner to roll around. A knock broke the quiet – sharp, deliberate and unmistakable. He knew exactly who it was before he even moved.

Dragging himself up, he opened the door to find Voldemort standing there.

“The healer is here. Follow me,” Voldemort said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Harry’s stomach sank. He didn’t want to see the healer. That meant talking. Explaining. Reliving. He couldn’t imagine telling anyone – least of all a stranger – about what had happened at the Dursleys. The thought made his gut twist unpleasantly.

He trailed after Voldemort through the winding corridors until they reached a section of the manor he hadn’t seen before. The hospital wing was eerily pristine: high-ceilinged and silent, the scent of antiseptic potions lingering faintly in the air. Rows of narrow beds, each dressed in crisp white linens, stood at precise intervals along the polished floor. Soft, enchanted light spilled from sconces along the walls, casting a sterile glow over the cabinets of neatly arranged glass vials and silver instruments. Everything was immaculate – coldly so – as if even the air had been scrubbed clean.

Voldemort stopped beside one of the beds and gave Harry a push on the shoulder, forcing him to sit. The sheets crackled faintly under his weight, and the room’s stillness pressed in around him like an unspoken command to stay exactly where he was.

From a side door, the healer appeared – a woman in her fifties with iron-grey hair pulled into a tidy bun. Her face was kind in shape, with soft lines around the eyes and mouth, but her expression was one of brisk efficiency. She moved like someone who had no time to waste, her dark green robes swishing at her ankles as she crossed to Harry’s bedside.

“Mr. Potter,” she greeted, voice calm but firm. “I am Healer Carroway. We’ll try to keep this short. I’ll do an in-depth scan of your body and organs, then see to any lasting injuries you have. I ask you to answer my questions honestly; it will speed up the process significantly.”

Harry glanced briefly at Voldemort, but the Dark Lord’s face was unreadable.

The healer set down her satchel with a decisive thump, already pulling out her wand and a roll of parchment. “Let’s begin.”

She tapped the tip of her wand against the parchment, murmuring an incantation under her breath. A thin ribbon of golden light flowed from her wand, winding slowly over Harry’s body from head to toe. The light lingered at certain points – his left ribs, his right shoulder, the bones in his hands – before sinking into the parchment, which began filling with neat, precise script.

Her eyes moved down the page, her mouth tightening slightly. “Consistent signs of long-term malnutrition,” she read aloud. “Stunted growth, multiple nutrient deficiencies, early signs of kidney dysfunction.” She flicked her wand again, the light circling more insistently around his arm. “Untreated fractures in your right ulna, three metacarpals and at least two ribs. And… a shoulder dislocation that has healed improperly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “It’s old stuff,” he muttered. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“It matters if it’s still affecting you,” she said sharply, though her tone softened at the edges. “Now. How did these injuries occur?”

He shrugged. “Accidents.”

Her brow arched in a way that made him feel twelve years old again. “Mr Potter. A fractured arm, several broken hands and damaged ribs are not the result of accidents. Try again.”

He hesitated; his eyes fixed on the floor. “I… fell. A few times.”

“Where?”

Harry glanced toward Voldemort again, the words catching in his throat. “At my relative's house.”

“What kind of falls?” She pressed.

He gave the smallest shrug, hoping it would be enough to end the line of questioning, but she only leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady. “I said honest answers. If you want me to heal this properly – and trust me, you do – then you will give me the truth.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he forced the words out. “They… didn’t like me much. Sometimes they’d hit. Or shove. Sometimes it was worse.”

Her expression didn’t change – no gasp, no visible outrage – but she made a small note on her parchment and straightened, her tone turning brisk again. “Very well. We’ll start with the nutrient restoration, then repair your shoulder. The fractures will be addressed last – they are too old to mend cleanly, so they’ll need to be vanished and regrown with Skele-Gro. You’ll remain here overnight.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “Overnight?”

“It’s either that or risk them setting wrong again. And I don’t redo work.” From her satchel, she drew a slim vial of deep emerald liquid. “This is a concentrated nutrient draught – it will replenish vitamin and mineral deficiencies, restore muscle integrity and support your kidneys. Drink it in one go.”

It smelled faintly of metal and tasted worse, but Harry forced it down, grimacing. Almost immediately, warmth spread through his chest and down his limbs, and a faint, buzzing energy prickled along his skin.

“Good,” she said, already moving behind him. “Now for the shoulder.”

A diagnostic spell lit the area in pale blue. With a precise flick of her wand, the joint shifted – a strange, wet pop as it slid into proper alignment. Harry hissed and clenched the bedsheets.

“Breathe,” she reminded him. “That’s the last of the easy work.”

From the foot of the bed, Voldemort’s voice cut softly into the quiet. “You’ve handled worse pain than that, Harry.”

Harry shot him a wary glance, but Voldemort’s expression wasn’t mocking. “I trust your lessons have been productive?”

“They’ve been… fine,” Harry said cautiously.

Voldemort’s mouth curved slightly. “Only fine? I had hoped they would be better than that.” His tone was conversational, almost light. “I was told you found Gibbon’s teaching agreeable.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. He was good. Clear.”

“And Crouch?” Voldemort prompted.

“Knows his stuff,” Harry admitted. “Explains things well.”

Voldemort inclined his head, as if satisfied. “Good. You should be learning as much as possible – this time is yours, after all. Use it well.”

Before Harry could respond, Carroway set a squat, black-labelled bottle on the bedside table. “We’ll do the ribs first,” she announced. “This salve will weaken the bone enough for the Evanesco charm to work cleanly. After that, you will drink the Skele-Gro. I warn you – it is not pleasant.”

She applied the cool, stinging ointment to his side, murmured the vanishing charm, and Harry felt a horrible hollowness inside his chest, as though a part of him had simply been scooped away. The sensation repeated in his arm, then his hand.

When the bottle was pressed into his hands, the smell alone made his stomach turn. The Skele-Gro was thick, burning down his throat with a taste of rotten calcium and bitterness that clung stubbornly to his tongue. Within moments, a deep, needling ache began where the bones were regrowing, accompanied by twitching in the muscles around them.

“Lie back and keep still,” Carroway instructed. “The potion will work overnight. Movement will only make it worse.”

Harry shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. Voldemort stepped closer, his gaze steady but not cold. “Endure it, Harry. By morning, you will be stronger for it. And strength,” he said with quiet certainty, “is worth a night of discomfort.”

Harry didn’t reply, but for the first time since entering the hospital wing, he didn’t feel entirely alone with the pain.

The hospital wing was dim now, lit only by a few hovering orbs of soft golden light. The Skele-Gro had settled into a relentless rhythm – sharp, needling pain that spiked in waves, followed by deep, throbbing aches as the bones knit together. Harry had given up on sleep, staring instead at the dark outline of the rafters.

Footsteps broke the quiet, slow and deliberate. He didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to.

Voldemort emerged from the shadows between the bed curtains, his robes barely whispering against the floor. He paused at the foot of the bed, eyes flicking briefly to the glass of untouched water on Harry’s table. “You haven’t been drinking.”

Harry winced. “Hurts to move.”

Voldemort reached for the glass himself, setting it within Harry’s reach. “Pain is a poor reason to deny your body what it needs. Drink.”

Harry took a sip, partly out of compliance, partly because his throat felt dry as parchment.

The Dark Lord studied him for a moment before speaking again. “How bad is it?”

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Feels like someone’s carving me up from the inside. Over and over.”

A faint hum of acknowledgement. “It is an unpleasant process, yes. But it will give you back what was taken from you. Whole bones, strong bones.” His gaze was steady. “Not every wound can be undone, Harry. When one can… You should take the chance.”

Harry shifted under the covers, unsure whether to take that as advice or a warning. “And you’ve had this done?”

“More than once,” Voldemort said simply. “For injuries far less worth the trouble than yours.”

For a few moments, they sat in the quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of the floating lights. Then Voldemort’s voice dropped lower. “You will wake tomorrow stronger than you have been in years. Remember how this feels – the pain is temporary; the gain is not.”

Harry huffed a short, almost disbelieving breath. “You sound like you’re giving me a pep talk.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved faintly — not quite a smile, but something close. “If I were, it would be because you respond better to challenge than pity. Rest now. The night will be long enough without conversation.”

He turned to leave, the sweep of his robes trailing behind him, but Harry found himself watching until the dark figure disappeared beyond the curtain.

Somehow, the pain felt a little less heavy after that.

The morning light filtered softly through the windows of the hospital wing as Harry sat up in bed, the aches and dull pains that had plagued him overnight noticeably diminished. He ran a hand along his ribs, surprised at how much lighter his body already felt. The lingering stiffness and discomfort he’d once assumed were normal seemed to be fading.

Healer Carroway entered with a parchment in hand, offering a small smile. “You’re free to go, Mr Potter. You’ll need to continue with a schedule of nutritional potions – one dose morning and evening for the next month.” She handed him the parchment detailing the times and doses before continuing, “I’ve informed the Dark Lord as well; he will oversee your recovery.”

Harry nodded, reeling from a mixture of relief and lingering weakness. He dressed quickly and made his way to the dining hall, where he sat quietly finishing his breakfast.

Just as he was about to take the last bite, a familiar voice approached.

“Good morning, Harry,” came Narcissa’s gentle tone. She stood nearby, her pale features calm and composed. “Your etiquette lesson will be held in the garden today. I thought you might appreciate the fresh air.”

Harry looked up and smiled. “That sounds great, thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

She inclined her head slightly, a faint warmth in her expression. “Very well. Shall we?”

Together, they walked through the quiet halls, the soft click of their footsteps echoing in the cool morning air, before stepping out into the garden’s embrace – sunlight filtering through leaves, the scent of blooming flowers filling the space around them. Narcissa led Harry along the winding stone paths until they paused near a marble fountain, where she gestured for him to sit on a nearby bench.

“Harry,” she began, voice soft but authoritative, “etiquette is not simply about manners or rules. It is the language of respect – for yourself, for others and for the traditions that shape our world.”

Harry settled on the bench, feeling the weight of the words. “I’ve never really had lessons like this,” he admitted.

Narcissa smiled, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Then we shall begin with the foundations.”

She straightened he posture. “First, appearance matters. Wizarding robes are not just clothing; they signify one’s place and purpose. Wearing them properly reflects discipline and pride. A careless appearance invites judgement, whether fair or not.”

Harry tugged on a loose sleeve on his robe. “So, it’s about showing you belong?”

“Precisely,” she said. “It is a signal that you honour your heritage and those who came before you.”

She paused, then continued. “When attending social functions, one must always consider first impressions. Your behaviour, your speech, even your silence – all convey messages. Present yourself with dignity, and doors will open. Be sloppy, and all opportunities may close before you even speak.”

Narcissa gestured toward a nearby table under a blooming arbour. “Let us start with dining. Meals in wizarding high society are as much about ceremony as sustenance.”

Harry watched as she outlined the basics. “Always wait for the host to begin eating before you do. Place your napkin neatly on your lap and use the correct utensils for each course – the outermost utensils for the first course and those closest to the plate for later courses. Forks are on the left, knives on the right, and spoons for soup or dessert.”

She emphasised posture, “Sit straight but comfortably, and bring food to your mouth – not the other way around. Chew quietly and never speak with your mouth full.”

Harry smirked, recalling many noisy dinners with the Weasleys. “Sounds like a lot of rules.”

“Rules, yes,” Narcissa agreed, “but they show respect for your company and yourself. Remember to engage politely, compliment the food, and never criticise.”

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled as she moved onto the next topic. “Conversation is an art. Listen as much as you speak.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Even when people say boring things?”

“Especially then,” she said with a slight smile. “Good manners require patience and tact. Avoid interrupting and respond thoughtfully.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “And never discuss dangerous or divisive topics – like politics or blood status – unless you know your company well.”

Harry nodded, imagining the tension such conversations might cause.

“Humour,” Narcissa continued, “is a powerful tool. Light jokes can ease tension, but avoid sarcasm or anything cruel.”

Harry chuckled softly. “I might need practice.”

Narcissa stood, stretching elegantly. “Finally, social events – balls, dinners, gatherings – are where your etiquette truly shines.”

She swept her gaze around the garden, as if picturing an imagined ballroom. “Arrive on time. Dress impeccably – your robes should be freshly pressed and clean, different robes every time. Greet your hosts and other guests warmly but with restraint.”

Harry frowned. “What about dancing? I’ve only ever been to the Yule ball; champions were required to dance there.”

“Dancing is both tradition and social skill,” Narcissa said. “Know the basics – waltz, foxtrot, or the more formal minuets – and follow your partner’s lead with confidence.”

“Most importantly,” Narcissa concluded, “remember that every action reflects on you and your family. Your behaviour should always be composed, respectful and poised.” She smiled kindly before adding, “A graceful bow when introduced to someone important goes a long way.”

Narcissa rose with her usual elegance. “That will be all for today. I’ll give you time to absorb what we’ve discussed. In our future lessons, we’ll delve more deeply into the intricacies of wizarding culture. Knowledge, Harry, is power – without an understanding of our customs, you’ll have no hope of navigating this world with confidence.”

Her gaze held his steadily. “We will explore the sanctity of soulmate bonds, and even the more difficult topics – such as the tensions surrounding the integration of muggleborns.”

Harry’s expression soured.

“Don’t be petulant,” Narcissa chided gently. “This isn’t about persuading you, but about ensuring you understand. While some prejudices are rooted in ignorance, others stem from genuine concerns – even if those concerns are poorly expressed.”

Her tone softened, “You have much to learn, but you have a good foundation. We will continue step by step.”

Harry nodded, the peaceful garden air settling around them. “Thank you, Narcissa. I think I’m ready to try.”

Harry followed the faint hum of Voldemort’s magic through the quiet corridors, letting it pull him along like a thread. The castle was hushed at this hour, each step echoing softly until he reached a slightly ajar door.

He stepped into the small library – familiar now. Shelves lined the walls, books filling every inch. The heavy oak desk sat in its usual place, and the couches and armchair were arranged in their cozy ‘U’ near the fire. Warm light softened the space, though Harry’s first tense visit here still lingered in the back of his mind.

Voldemort sat in the armchair, a book in hand. He looked up immediately, gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Harry,” he greeted smoothly. “You are out late.”

“I… don’t want to be alone right now,” Harry admitted, stepping inside and shutting the door.

“Not for comfort,” Voldemort said, almost reading his thoughts. “But for company.”

Harry nodded. “Exactly.”

Voldemort gestured to a couch. “Then sit.”

Harry sank into the cushions, the fire’s warmth loosening the tightness in his chest.

“You seem worn,” Voldemort observed.

Harry gave a small shrug. “It’s been a lot. The Carrows. Lessons. Healing from the Dursleys. And… I miss Hogwarts. I keep thinking about what I’d be doing right now – packing for classes, meeting my friends in the common room. Even when things were bad, I wasn’t this alone.”

Voldemort regarded him for a moment. “I understand that,” he said quietly. “Hogwarts was my first real home as well. Leaving it… was a wound I felt for years.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the admission. “Guess we’ve both been homesick then.”

“Home,” Voldemort murmured, “is a difficult thing to replace once you have known it.”

There was a small pause before he continued. “You are not alone here, Harry,” Voldemort said quietly. “You may not believe it yet, but I do not view your presence as… unwelcome.”

Harry almost laughed at that, though it came out more like a huff. “That’s… almost reassuring. Thank you.”

They let the silence settle after that, not heavy but reflective. Harry’s eyes drifted over the shelves. “You’ve read all these?”

“Most,” Voldemort replied. “Some I keep for reference. Others… because they please me.”

Harry smirked faintly. “Guess books don’t argue back.”

“Not unless you choose the wrong authors,” Voldemort said, with a flicker of amusement.

A moment passed. Then Harry hesitated, looking away briefly before meeting Voldemort’s eyes again.

“You know… I realise I might’ve sounded ungrateful earlier,” Harry said quietly. “When I said I missed Hogwarts. Like I was complaining about being here. But that’s not true. I am truly appreciative. Of what you’ve done for me, all of this.” He gestured around the room. “For giving me something I didn’t think I could have.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched in a faint, almost reluctant smile. “It is purely selfish, Harry. I will not have an uneducated soulmate.” He paused, then added, softer, “But… I admit, I have come to value you more than just a means to an end. I want to push you to greatness. You have a strength inside you, Harry. One I believe in.”

Harry blinked, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “That means more than I can say.”

Voldemort closed his book gently. “The path will be hard. I will test you, perhaps beyond what you expect.”

Harry nodded, determination steady in his eyes.

They stayed like that for a while, the fire crackling between them. A quiet understanding settled between them, fragile but real. When Harry finally rose, he felt lighter than when he’d arrived.

“Goodnight, Voldemort. Thank you,” he said.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Voldemort returned, the words unexpectedly soft.

Chapter Text

Thursday morning felt strange – unfamiliar – not because Harry had been here long enough to have a routine, but because he hadn’t yet had a Thursday with lessons. Today would be the first. He sat on the edge of his bed, fastening the buttons on a crisp white shirt. It was smarter than anything he’d usually wear at Hogwarts, but it seemed to suit the house’s atmosphere. Reaching for a dark blue sweater, he pulled it over his head, the fine wool soft against his skin. He tugged the shirt’s collar free, so it lay neatly over the sweater’s neckline, craving the small sense of order and comfort the arrangement gave him. Black trousers and well-polished boots completed the outfit, the whole thing feeling both formal and oddly comfortable.

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he paused. His face had begun to fill out again after the hollowness of the summer, colour returning to his cheeks, and his hair – though still untameable – looked shinier, healthier. There was a liveliness creeping back into his features, though the dark shadows under his green eyes betrayed the truth of his restless nights. No matter how much better he might look on the outside, the nightmares still left their mark.

Ancient Runes. Just thinking about it made his stomach tighten. He had never studied it at Hogwarts, and Hermione’s past descriptions had painted it as a complex, puzzle-like subject that required precision and patience. He wasn’t sure he’d be good at it. But the apprehension was balanced by a flicker of anticipation – Barty would be teaching him, and Harry already liked Barty’s style. Unlike the stiff, rule-bound tutors Voldemort had assigned for his other subjects, Barty had a way of making things feel alive. He didn’t waste time on pomp or ceremony, and he seemed to respect Harry’s ability to think for himself.

Pulling on his robe, Harry left it hanging open at the front and made his way down to breakfast. The long table was set with gleaming dishes, the scent of warm bread and eggs filling the air. Steam curled lazily from the teapot, catching the morning light that filtered through the tall windows. He poured himself tea, letting it sit for a moment as he picked at a slice of toast, his thoughts circling around runes and what the first lesson might hold.

A sharp pop broke his thoughts. He turned to see a house-elf he didn’t recognise – small, with bat-like ears and enormous eyes – bowing low beside him. In its long, bony fingers was a sealed envelope.

“For Master Potter,” the elf said, its voice high and careful, as though this was a task of importance.

Harry set down his toast and took the letter. “Thank you,” he murmured, but before he could say anything more, the elf vanished with another pop.

The envelope was made of thick, good-quality parchment. His name was written in elegant, slanted handwriting he vaguely recognised. His pulse gave an odd jolt as he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Draco.

His eyes scanned the first lines, the familiar precision of Draco’s script almost as striking as the words themselves. The tone was cool, measured – exactly what he’d expect – but beneath the formality, there was something else. A thread of familiarity, perhaps even a faint warmth.

Potter,

I have returned to Hogwarts this week and, as expected, the atmosphere is altogether different without you. It is not simply the absence of your usual chaos (though I confess the corridors are quieter); there is a general air of curiosity and speculation about where you’ve gone. Naturally, I have not been forthcoming with answers.

The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is Professor Dolores Umbridge, sent from the Ministry itself. While she wears the most offensively pink garments I have ever had the misfortune to witness, it is her teaching methods that are the greater offence. She insists that practical magic has no place in the classroom, claiming we are to learn purely ‘theory’. Imagine teaching Defence without wands drawn. It is laughable, if not insulting. I can see the Gryffindors fuming at every lesson; even some of the Ravenclaws are muttering.

As for your absence, it has sent the Gryffindor Quidditch team into a rather dramatic spiral. Word is they are scrambling to find a new Seeker. From what I’ve heard, tryouts have been both frantic and laughably poor in quality. I will admit – purely for my own satisfaction – that I will take great pleasure in beating whoever they put in your place. Not that it will be a challenge.

I have not yet had the opportunity to speak directly with Weasley and Granger. They are often surrounded by others, and it is not my preference to conduct this conversation in public. From a distance, they appear… diminished. The lack of your presence is obvious; the balance of your so-called trio seems off. I suspect they are managing, but ‘fine’ would be an overstatement. I will make an effort to speak with them soon, if only to judge the situation for myself.

Hogwarts is, in short, much the same and entirely different. I find myself missing the predictability of previous years, though I suppose you, of all people, will understand how swiftly such things can change.

With kind regards,

Draco Malfoy.

Harry read it twice, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. The clipped formality was pure Draco, but the barbs at Umbridge and the quiet assurance about his friends were almost… thoughtful. Still, the mention of Hogwarts left a small ache in his chest – the castle, the common room, the pitch, the everyday chaos of classes with Ron and Hermione.

Folding the letter carefully, he slipped it into his pocket and finished the last of his tea. It wouldn’t do to dwell too long; he had his first lesson of Ancient Runes to get to still.

The corridors to the classroom were quiet, the air still cool from the morning. Harry’s footsteps echoed softly off the stone, and he found himself running a thumb along the folded edge of Draco’s letter in his pocket. The thought of starting a subject he’d never studied before made him nervous. But he assured himself he’d be fine; it is no different than him starting Arithmancy. He’d read enough to know that Runes were precise, intricate and steeped in magic far older than anything he’d ever learned at Hogwarts. One wrong stroke of a symbol could twist its meaning entirely, and Harry wasn’t sure how quickly he’d be able to pick it up.

Still, there was something about the unfamiliarity that pulled at him – an itch to know what these strange marks could do, what they meant and how they fit into the vast, hidden patterns of magic. He adjusted his collar as he walked, the fine wool of his sweater warm against the morning chill and let the anticipation settle somewhere between excitement and apprehension.

Harry reached the classroom, its heavy door standing slightly ajar. He pushed it open to find Barty already inside, leaning casually against the desk at the front. The blackboard behind him was covered in neat, angular symbols, some simple, some twisting and knotted like tangled rope.

“Morning, Potter,” Barty said, straightening. “Come in. You’re early.”

Harry stepped inside, taking a seat near the front. “Didn’t want to be late,” he admitted.

Barty’s grin sharpened. “I always appreciate a keen student. Let’s get started then.”

The lesson began with Barty introducing the basics – the structure of the runic alphabet, the way strokes and angles altered meaning, and how each symbol carried layers of magical intent. His voice was animated, his explanations quick but never rushed, and somehow the complexity of the subject began to feel less daunting.

Halfway through, Harry found himself smiling. “You know,” he said, “you’d make a great professor.”

Barty froze mid-sentence – then burst into sudden, unrestrained laughter. Harry blinked at him. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Harry,” Barty said, grinning like the cat that got the cream, “Technically, I have been a professor. Who do you think was the imposter disguised as Moody?”

Harry stared. “That was you?”

Barty nodded, still smirking. “Oh, I appreciate the compliment, though. About time someone recognised my brilliance. I didn’t get twelve OWLs for nothing, you know.”

Harry shook his head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. “Right. Well, I’ll take your word for it.”

Barty winked and launched back into the lesson, chalk scratching quick arcs and lines across the board.

When the lesson finally ended, Harry lingered at his desk for a moment, still thinking about what Barty had revealed.

He was Moody.

Not the real one, of course – but the imposter that was mentioned in the hospital wing back in fourth year. Somehow, that knowledge slotted pieces of memory into place. The strange flashes of darkness he’d caught back then, the way Moody’s gaze had sometimes sharpened too much, like a predator sizing prey. The chilling relish when demonstrating the Unforgivable Curses. The fact that he’d barely flinched at Neville’s distress at the sight of the Cruciatus, only stopping to comfort the boy later. Harry had chalked it up to a hardened Auror’s detachment. Now, it made a grim kind of sense.

And yet… Barty in the here and now didn’t feel like the same man who had once prowled Hogwarts in another’s skin. There was a dangerous edge to him still – that much was obvious – but in the classroom, it had been sharpened into something else. Enthusiasm. Focus. Even humour.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Harry made his way to the library. The familiar hush of parchment and the faint tang of ink settled him more than he expected. He found an empty table tucked into a corner and spread out his assignments.

Ancient Runes homework from Barty was written in looping script on the page: Translate the following five runic inscriptions into English, then research their possible historical and magical significance. Pay special attention to how context changes meaning – for example, a rune for ‘protection’ in a burial site may have a different purpose than in a warded home.

Arithmancy, also from Barty, on another page: Using the Arithmetic conversion chart, calculate the numerical values of your own name and the name of a historical witch or wizard of your choice. Compare the resulting charts and write a short reflection on whether the attributes associated with these numbers seem accurate.

And then his potions form Professor Vale: Research the Draught of Peace and the properties of its ingredients. Look into the specific techniques used in balancing their potency and mitigating the risks. Take notes on common mistakes and how to avoid them.

Harry rubbed his eyes and pulled the Runes work to the top of the stack. It made sense to start with the newest subject – and besides, after today’s lesson, he felt oddly motivated to prove to Barty he could get it right.

Later that afternoon, Harry sat in Voldemort’s private library, Draco’s letter lying open beside him as he dipped his quill. His reply began with a quick thanks for the update – and for making the effort to speak with Ron and Hermione on his behalf. If they don’t believe you when you tell them I’m alright, he wrote, give them the attached letter. It’s for them, so they can hear it from me directly. He folded the page neatly, slipped it into an envelope and sealed it with a firm press of wax before pulling another sheet of parchment before him.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

Draco will have given you this, which hopefully proves that yes – I’m alive, and yes – I’m fine. Actually… better than I thought I’d be. It’s still strange, not being at Hogwarts with you both, but I’m managing.

I’m keeping up with my schoolwork. Lessons here are… different. I’m finally taking Runes and Arithmancy – I know, Hermione, you can stop grinning now. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing yet, but I’m starting to get the hang of it.

If you’d like to, maybe I could see you both on a Hogsmeade weekend? It’d be good to catch up, even if just for a little while.

I miss you both. I hope you’re looking after each other. Try not to get into too much trouble without me – though knowing you, that’s probably impossible.

Lots of love,

Harry.

Harry folded the letter carefully, pressing the seal into the warm wax before setting it aside. He called out softly, “Tilly?”

The house-elf appeared almost instantly, bowing her head respectfully.

“Would you please deliver these to Draco?” Harry said, holding out the sealed envelope.

“Right away, Master Potter,” Tilly replied with a small, knowing smile before vanishing with a quiet pop.

Alone again, Harry exhaled slowly. He adjusted his sweater, tugging the hem straight as if the neatness might somehow relax his frayed emotions, then stood to make his way to the dining hall for dinner.

But tonight, the familiar clinking of cutlery and soft conversation was replaced by a low, murmuring chorus of voices – measured, deliberate and threaded with something darker. As he approached, the scent of burning incense mingled with candle wax and old stone, seeping under the heavy double doors.

He reached the heavy double doors, hesitating at the wrongness. He waited for a heartbeat more before pushing them open.

The long black table gleamed in the torchlight. Death Eaters sat in neat rows along either side; their masked or pale faces turned slightly towards the figure at the head of the table. Voldemort sat with perfect stillness, his hands resting lightly on the table. His sharp cheekbones and angular jaw gave him an unyielding, commanding presence, while dark, faintly wavy hair framed his pale features. He radiated the air of someone towering over those around him, a figure both formidable and unmistakably godlike.

His crimson gaze lifted. “Harry,” he said, tone even and restrained. “You’re here. Would you care to join us?”

The eyes of every Death Eater in the room turned to him – some curious, most openly hostile. Harry felt their stares like a weight pressing down on him, but he straightened his back and lifted his chin, just as Narcissa had taught him. He nodded once and walked forward with slow, deliberate steps toward the chair at Voldemort’s right – the one he had come to think of as his seat. He stopped in front of the man occupying it.

“Move,” Harry said sharply.

The Death Eater glanced at him with open disdain before addressing his Lord. “My Lord, surely this child isn’t allowed to order us about. Would you like him dealt with?”

Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable, but when his eyes settled on Harry, there was a flicker of amusement. “If I wish him punished, I will do so myself,” Voldemort said softly. “You heard him, Yaxley. Vacate your seat.”

Yaxley’s mouth tightened. For a moment, it seemed he might argue, but a flash of recognition crossed his face – reminding him of his place. He inclined his head stiffly. “If that is your wish, my Lord.”

He moved to a chair near the far end of the table, and Harry allowed himself the faintest smirk of triumph before taking his seat.

A glance around the table told him Lucius sat directly opposite, with Narcissa beside him. Barty was on Harry’s right, and Professor Vale was positioned midway down the table. Wormtail lingered at the far end, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The rest were strangers to him.

Voldemort turned smoothly to a man with sharp, angular features and piercing grey eyes. “Continue, Marlowe.”

Marlowe inclined his head. “My Lord, the magical wards around Azkaban are as formidable as ever. Layered enchantments, anti-Apparition barriers, and deep-sea currents to deter any approach. The wards themselves are maintained by the Ministry’s strongest warders, but… there are weaknesses. The storm barriers rely on a central keystone, hidden in the upper tower. If that were removed-”

Harry’s stomach dropped. The pieces clicked together far too easily. “You’re planning to break into Azkaban?” he cut in, turning to Voldemort. “To recover the Death Eaters imprisoned there?”

Voldemort gave a single nod. “Yes. The time has come to reclaim those unjustly imprisoned. Our people will not rot in Ministry cages while we wait for politics to shift.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You’re talking about freeing murderers. They were put there for a reason.”

Voldemort turned his head slightly, his voice calm. “They were punished for loyalty to me, not for crimes you imagine.”

“Some are guilty of more than loyalty,” Harry returned. “You know that.”

He didn’t want to keep pushing in front of the others – it would only sound like whining to the Death Eaters' ears. Instead, he dropped his voice to a low, sibilant hiss that only Voldemort would understand. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing of this? I walked in on it by accident. You’re supposed to tell me about decisions like this – this is war, and a major one.”

Several Death Eaters stiffened at the sound of Parseltongue, though they couldn’t understand it. Voldemort, however, looked almost pleased. “This has been in planning for some time, but it only recently began to take shape. I would have told you soon, once I had a complete strategy. You are not being excluded, Harry.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Then you wouldn’t have had my input, only my reaction. That’s not including me either.”

Switching back to English, Voldemort said mockingly, “Then by all means, Harry – contribute. We are all open to ideas.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “I think you’re going to start a war the moment they’re free. The destruction they’ll bring will be undeniable. They were dangerous before – Azkaban will have broken what was left of their sanity. They’ll be uncontrollable.”

Voldemort’s reply was almost indulgent. “War is already here, Harry. I simply intend to have it on my terms.”

“We are supposed to be bettering the wizarding world, not destroying it,” Harry argued. “My stance on a political war hasn’t changed. It would shift the Ministry from within, weakening them without tearing the whole world apart. Change lasts longer when it’s built into the system, not forced by fire and blood.”

A Death Eater farther down the table snorted. “A political war won’t elevate the Dark. The Light’s influence runs too deep. They must be cut out completely.”

Voldemort raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. “I have considered the merits of a political war,” he said slowly. Then his eyes fixed on Harry. “However, the Dark lacks power and numbers. We must gather every loyal hand willing to fight – including those who wait for us in Azkaban.”

The table was still, the air charged. Harry kept his gaze locked on Voldemort.

“If you do this,” Harry said, his voice even but unyielding, “you have to keep them under control. No raids, no random killings, no purges. If you let them run loose, you’ll be dragging the Dark’s name through the mud before you even have a chance to reshape anything.”

Several Death Eaters shifted in their seats, bristling at the audacity. Lucius’ eyes flicked to Voldemort, gauging his reaction.

Voldemort’s tone was cool. “And what, in your mind, would this control look like?”

“Two things,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. “First – healing. Some of them have been in Azkaban for over a decade. If you throw them straight back into the fight, you’re sending unstable, unpredictable wizards into the field. That’s a liability.”

Across the table, Marlowe scoffed quietly. “They’ll be eager to fight, not sit in therapy sessions.”

Harry ignored him. “Second – tight constraints. They live under strict supervision. Restrictions on where they can go. If they want their freedom, they have to earn it back. You let them start attacking civilians or raiding towns, and you’ll lose any chance at a stable, lasting order.”

A faint smile touched Voldemort’s mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And if I agree to these terms?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Then I won’t oppose you. But if you refuse – and if you let them loose on Wizarding Britain – I won’t stand with you on this. I will not defend it, and I will not pretend it’s a step towards anything but chaos.”

The words hung heavy in the room. The Death Eaters exchanged glances, some frowning, others studying their master for any hint of his reaction.

Voldemort was silent for a long moment. Then he tilted his head. “You speak as though you have the power to stop me.”

“I’m saying,” Harry hissed quietly, “that if you go through with this recklessly, you lose me.”

The statement was a dagger – subtle but sharp. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly, the room holding its collective breath.

At last, he leaned back in his chair, studying Harry as though weighing something deeper than the argument at hand. “Very well,” he said finally. “I will allow them… a period of recovery. You will assist in overseeing it.”

That caught Harry off guard. “Assist?”

“You have made this a condition,” Voldemort said smoothly. “You will see that it is met. Organise the healers, set your constraints. You will report to me regularly on their progress. Discipline and final judgement, however, will remain mine.”

His eyes glinted faintly in the low light. “Those who demonstrate loyalty and capability may rejoin the cause. Those who do not…” His eyes gleamed, “…will be dealt with accordingly.”

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the polished surface of the table. When he finally spoke, it was in the low, sibilant cadence of Parseltongue – a private tongue, safe from prying ears. “I’m not a Death Eater. I won’t be ordered around like one.”

Voldemort’s head tilted slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. He answered in kind, his own voice a soft hiss. “You are not a Death Eater, Harry. Nor will you ever be one of my followers in that sense. But you are capable… and I will not waste capability.”

Harry frowned, unsure whether that was a compliment or a manipulation. Probably both.

“Then why involve me at all?”

Voldemort’s expression barely shifted, but there was a shadow of something calculating in his eyes. “Because if my Death Eaters see you managing this, they will defer to you. They will see you as someone I trust enough to handle matters that affect them. That will give weight to your words… and it will give you influence.”

Harry searched his face for deception, but Voldemort’s tone was even, almost businesslike. Influence was dangerous – but refusing it might be worse. He gave a slow, reluctant nod. Voldemort smiled – faint, calculated – and switched back to English, as though the conversation in Parseltongue had never happened.

“Then it is settled,” he said simply.

Around the table, the Death Eaters murmured, some displeased, others cautiously accepting. Voldemort’s raised hand silenced them. “The liberation of Azkaban will proceed,” he said, voice cutting through the hall. “But under terms. Our ranks will swell; our strength will grow – but our order will remain disciplined.”

His gaze flicked back to Harry, and there was something in his eyes that wasn’t quite triumph but wasn’t concession either.

Harry knew, with a quiet certainty, that the real test would come after the prison wards fell.

The classroom was quiet enough that Harry could hear the faint ticking of the old wall clock, each second dragging him closer to eleven. The chalkboard was clean, and the teacher’s desk – usually cluttered with stacks of parchment – was tidy. The desks were all pushed to the back of the room, and the only chairs left were tucked into the teacher’s desk. The room was bright, sunlight streaming in through the windows, and the air was sharp.

A lesson. At eleven. No more detail than that.

Harry sat back in his chair, running a finger along the grain of the wood, trying to picture what ‘learning from Voldemort’ might look like. Would it be like the Carrows – every correction sharp and laced with cruelty, designed to humiliate as much as to teach? Or would Voldemort’s approach be calmer, measured and clear like Professor Vale’s? Harry doubted it. And he certainly couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord including the kind of unexpected humour Barty slipped into his own lessons, making even the hardest topics feel alive.

No, Voldemort wasn’t a man who wasted words or lightened atmospheres.

Still, their dynamic so far had been… oddly calm. Considering the man had once spent years trying to kill him, Harry had expected constant tension, waiting for the knife to come down. Instead, there had been deliberate restraint. Conversation. Even moments of something that, if he squinted, might almost pass for understanding.

It was unsettling.

What was more unsettling was that, despite himself, Harry had started to care about him. Not trust – not completely – but there was something in their strange truce, about seeing Voldemort outside of war, that had shifted things inside Harry’s mind.

And sometimes – only sometimes – he caught himself wondering if Voldemort might, in some way, care about him too. He couldn’t truly tell. The man’s expression was a mask, smooth and unwavering. No flicker of feeling unless he chose to show it. Yet Harry still remembered that quiet admission, the one that had lodged itself somewhere deep inside him: “You may not believe it yet, but I do not view your presence as… unwelcome.” They were vague, and barely a compliment, but those words still replayed in his head more than he liked to admit.

And then there was the other thing – the bond they shared. Soulmates. Harry sometimes wondered if what they had could ever grow into something resembling the stories, the connections he’d heard about. He knew it would never be the same – not with him. But being around his soulmate sent bursts of want through him at the strangest moments, unexpected and disconcerting, and no matter how he tried to push it away, the thought lingered.

Harry was still turning that thought over when the classroom door opened without sound. Voldemort stepped inside, robes whispering across the stone floor, and the air seemed to sharpen around him.

“Harry,” he said, and there was a subtle warmth in the way he spoke his name – quiet, almost like it was meant for Harry alone. “I trust you are ready to work.”

Harry nodded, his mind still half-tangled in the thoughts he’d been having moments ago.

“We will begin,” Voldemort continued, moving to stand before him.” Tell me – what is the most powerful defensive spell you can perform?”

Harry thought for a moment. “The Patronus Charm,” he said. “I learned it in third year.”

A faint lift of Voldemort’s brow. “At thirteen? That is… unusual. And impressive. Most adult wizards never achieve more than a vapour.” His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary. “You will find it serves you well, but today we focus on another – Protego.”

He paced slowly, his tone measured but intent. “An effective shield can mean the difference between life and death. It must be swift, strong and adaptable. A shield too slow is no shield at all. By the end of this lesson, I want you to conjure one instantly, without a single word.”

The first attempts were clumsy – Harry’s barrier shimmered weakly, dissipating before it could fully form. He’d never tried non-verbal casting before. Voldemort’s shields, by contrast, appeared in an instant: smooth, unyielding and almost visible in the air, like glass catching the light.

“Again,” he said, stepping forward. “Your stance is too rigid.”

Harry shifted his feet, but Voldemort closed the distance anyway. The subtle brush of cool fingers over his hand startled him, turning his mind into mush as a serene feeling flooded him. Voldemort was adjusting the angle of his wand, his voice low and words ghosting against Harry’s ear. “You grip too tightly. Control is not about force. Magic should flow – like water, not stone.”

The scent of parchment and something sharper clung to him, and Harry felt his pulse climb in a way he didn’t want to examine. Voldemort’s hand remained lightly over his, guiding the motion in a slow, purposeful arc.

“Focus,” Voldemort murmured, though there was an edge in his tone that made it feel like a challenge. Why wasn’t he as affected by the touch as Harry? How come only one of them is experiencing the humiliation of their bond?

Harry swallowed, forcing himself to concentrate on the shield, not the press of that presence behind him.

When Voldemort finally stepped back, the absence of his closeness was almost as noticeable as the moment he’d closed in. Harry tried again – faster this time – and the shield snapped into place, solid and steady.

“Better,” Voldemort said, watching him with something that might’ve been approval. “Again. Until you can do it without thinking.”

Twenty minutes later, Harry’s shield was forming in less than two seconds, clean and silent. His arm ached, his focus was frayed, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his chest at having met Voldemort’s standard.

“Acceptable,” Voldemort said at last. “You have mastered Protego well enough. Now, it's a more advanced version. Protego Horribilis.”

Harry frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Few have,” Voldemort confirmed, beginning to pace. “It is a shield against the darkest magic – a barrier capable of withstanding curses that would tear through lesser protections. Unlike its simpler counterpart, it creates a dome, guarding every angle, every approach. Properly cast, it can hold for five minutes.”

He demonstrated without flourish, raising his wand in a sharp, sweeping arc and said the incantation with clear precision. The air shimmered, folding in on itself until a translucent dome enclosed him. Harry felt it at once – a faint hum, like magic thrumming against his skin. The edges were faintly iridescent, yet there was a weight to it, a sense of pressure in the air that made the space within feel utterly sealed.

Voldemort lowered the shield, his eyes on Harry. “Your turn.”

Harry lifted his wand and tried to mimic the motion. The result was a thin, unsteady curve of magic that collapsed before it had even closed overhead.

“Again,” Voldemort said, without a trace of irritation.

Harry tried once more. This time, the dome began to form but left gaps, flickering like a broken film reel. His jaw clenched. “It’s-”

“It is difficult,” Voldemort interrupted smoothly, stepping closer again. “Not because the magic itself is complex, but because it demands unbroken concentration. You cannot picture a shield in front of you – you must imagine yourself entirely encased, every inch of you protected. Feel the boundary, not just see it.”

They worked for nearly an hour. Harry grew frustrated as each attempt faltered – shields too thin, too small, too unstable. Voldemort never raised his voice, never mocked him. His corrections were precise, intentional. Sometimes he adjusted Harry’s stance; other times, he simply stood within arm’s reach, speaking in that calm, almost hypnotic cadence that made Harry focus, despite himself.

Finally, after another failed attempt, Harry closed his eyes before trying again. He imagined the shield as a living thing – wrapping around him, sealing out every threat. His magic surged, and this time, the dome formed in full: a perfect, seamless sphere humming faintly in the air.

Harry opened his eyes.

Voldemort’s gaze swept over the shield, his expression unreadable. “Better,” he said at last, and then, after a beat. “You will hold it for one minute.”

The shield remained steady, and when Voldemort finally allowed him to drop it, Harry’s body ached from exhaustion.

“Few master that spell on their first attempt,” Voldemort said quietly, almost as though he was speaking to himself. “You have done well.”

Harry was still catching his breath, his wand arm aching faintly, when Voldemort’s voice broke through the quiet.

“Sit down, Harry.”

Harry hesitated, then crossed to the chair beside the teacher’s desk. Voldemort moved to sit as well, the black of his robes pooling like ink over the chair’s arms.

“You will learn one more spell today, and after that, we’ll finish. Your core will need rest after so much casting,” Voldemort said, folding his long fingers together. “Now, we begin your education in the Dark Arts.”

Harry’s spine went taut, but Voldemort’s tone was not the cruel edge he’d expected – it was calm, almost steadying.

“Before you attempt any such magic, you must understand it,” Voldemort continued. “Knowledge is power. Ignorance is weakness. And I will not have you defenceless should you meet a practitioner who will not hesitate to harm you. What I will teach you could be the difference between life and death.”

Harry swallowed. “You mean… You actually want me to cast it?”

“Eventually,” Voldemort said with a faint curl of his mouth. “But first – comprehension. Today, we focus on one particular curse. Dangerous, yes, but not one of the Unforgivables.”

He drew his wand, and at the tip, a faint spiral of shadow formed and faded. “This is Vulnero Tenebris. It translates loosely to ‘wound with darkness’. When cast successfully, it manifests as a deep violet light – darker than most offensive spells. On contact, it causes tearing injuries to the flesh, as though clawed open. The wounds bleed slowly, but resist conventional healing charms, draining the target’s energy over time.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Nasty.”

“Precisely. The wand movement is a sharp upwards slash, then a leftward twist. Speed is vital – the curse scatters if cast lazily. Ordinary shields will blunt its edge but rarely stop it entirely. The best defence is the counter-curse Restoro Cutis, cast within seconds of impact. That window closes quickly. Miss it, and you will have to staunch the bleeding by mundane means before magic can take hold.”

Harry frowned slightly. “So, I’d have to recognise it instantly.”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping a note. “Half the art of survival is recognising your enemy’s weapon before they strike. Colour. Sound. Motion. These must become instinct.”

He sat back, studying Harry for a moment, then said, “We will not attempt Vulnero Tenebris today. But we will practice the counter-curse. You will learn it until your muscles remember it without conscious thought.”

The next half-hour became a relentless drill. Voldemort had Harry stand, adjust his stance and repeat Restoro Cutis until the flick and twist of his wrist became a reflex. Sometimes Voldemort moved close – too close – correcting the tilt of his wand or the tension in his arm. Harry felt every instance, every brush of cool fingers against his skin.

“Again,” Voldemort murmured, standing just behind him. His breath stirred the hair at Harry’s temple. “Do not rush the final flick – precision over speed.”

Harry exhaled slowly, repeating the motion. A faint golden light flared at the wand’s tip, stronger than before.

“Better,” Voldemort said. “But your wrist wavered at the end.” His tone was almost clinical, yet beneath it was something else – quiet insistence, as though he truly cared whether Harry could defend himself.

They ran the sequence again, and again, until Harry’s shoulders ached and the movement had burned itself into his muscle memory.

Finally, Voldemort lowered his own wand. “Good enough. For today.” His eyes lingered, unblinking. “You will survive and encounter with Vulnero Tenebris now. That is… reassuring.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded, though inside, the words caught on something deeper. Reassuring – for Voldemort. The thought stayed with him as he left the room, along with the faint, disconcerting warmth of knowing his survival mattered to him at all.

Chapter Text

It had been two days since the meeting in the hall, where Voldemort’s verdict landed with the finality of a sealing charm. Harry would not be in charge – but he would be involved, bound by his own set of conditions.

Now, on Saturday, one of the unused wings of Malfoy Manor stood transformed. Its polished floors and lofty ceilings had been stripped of their opulence; heavy drapes sealed the windows, the doors were bolted, and the furnishings had been removed. The air hung thick with dust and the pungent tang of warding incense, turning the once-grand space into something sterile and purposeful.

“This wing will house the prisoners during their recovery,” Voldemort said, his tone cool and decisive as he moved through the hall with Harry at his side. “Crouch, you will handle the internal security wards. Veyne, you will take the outer perimeter and reinforce the containment seals. Healer Carroway, you will oversee medical assessments. Healer Orellen will assist you.”

Healer Orellen, a tall, dark-skinned wizard with sharp cheekbones and calm grey eyes, inclined his head respectfully. Beside him, Wardcrafter Veyne — a small, wiry witch with pale hair bound in dozens of tight braids — smirked faintly, as if warding a prison wing was just another day’s work.

“And you, Harry,” Voldemort continued, turning to him at last. “You will liaise between the healers and myself. Ensure the prisoners meet the constraints you insisted upon. You will report their progress. You may make recommendations. But the ultimate authority – the decisions, the consequences, the verdict…” His crimson eyes glinted, cold and certain. “…will rest with me.”

Harry nodded, acceptance settling easily over him. He hadn’t wanted control – only to be heard, to be kept informed. And Voldemort had listened, shaping his decision to match what Harry had asked for. It was a small thing, but it left a quiet thread of trust taking root.

The next hours were spent in motion. Harry walked the corridors with Barty Crouch Jr., discussing layered containment wards that would prevent apparition, wandless magic, and coordinated escape attempts. Barty, though clearly amused at Harry’s insistence on non-lethal failsafes, worked without complaint — muttering complex incantations as glowing runes formed along the archways.

Selwyn worked beside them, checking and cross-referencing each rune with brisk efficiency. “If one fails, the others will hold,” she explained, almost approving when Harry suggested a layered alert system to warn healers of mental breaks or sudden illness.

In the makeshift infirmary, Healer Carroway moved like a general inspecting her troops, her dark green robes whispering against the floor. She barely glanced up when Harry entered, having seen him just days ago for his treatment. “I expect full access to their medical histories,” she said without preamble. “If you want them to recover, I’ll need authority to override any Death Eater foolish enough to think their pride more important than my orders.”

Harry almost smiled. “Consider it granted.”

It wasn’t smooth sailing. From the start, several Death Eaters assigned as guards questioned his every instruction. When he suggested a rotation schedule that allowed the healers uninterrupted access, one sneered, “Perhaps we should just let you run the whole place, Potter. Why stop at healer’s aide?”

Harry ignored it, redirecting them to Barty for warding checks. Voldemort’s authority hung over the project like an invisible chain — the guards could grumble, but they obeyed when reminded who had issued the assignments.

Lucius Malfoy appeared briefly, surveying the stripped wing with an arched brow. “You have a talent for turning my home into an institution, Potter,” he drawled.

Harry didn’t rise to the bait. “Better an institution than a battlefield,” he said evenly, moving past him to check the lock charms.

By the end of the day, the skeleton of the system was in place — containment wards humming softly, healer stations stocked, and a detailed schedule drawn up. It was only the beginning, but Harry could feel the tension in the air. The prisoners hadn’t even arrived yet, and already the clash between Voldemort’s loyalists and his own vision for this “recovery” was simmering beneath the surface.

And he knew when they did arrive, that simmer could very well boil over.

The dining hall at Malfoy Manor was warm with candlelight, the long table gleaming beneath the golden glow. Lucius occupied the seat at Voldemort’s left; his expression carved into polite disinterest. Narcissa sat poised beside him, her pale hands resting neatly on the table. Harry slid into his chair at Voldemort’s right, the smooth clink of silverware and soft pops of house elves filling the air.

“Harry,” Voldemort began once the first course was served, “how are you managing your new schedule?”

Harry lifted his soup spoon, careful not to clink it against the porcelain. “It’s… busy,” he said, tone light. “Between classes, training and that little side project you assigned me, I barely have time to breathe.”

Narcissa gave him a faint, approving smile. “Structure is good for young minds. And you seem to be managing it well.”

Lucius’ gaze swept over him, faintly disdainful. “Assuming you are keeping up with your academic obligations?”

Harry met his eyes coolly. “I’ve done all my assignments, if that’s what you mean.”

Voldemort’s voice was mild, but there was an edge of amusement. “I should hope so. You’ll be meeting your new tutors on Monday – the Carrows are no longer suitable.”

Harry’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “New tutors?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said, as though it were nothing more than a change in the weather. “Ones with fewer… excessive tendencies.”

In Parseltongue, Harry muttered, “Translation: they won’t carve lessons into me.”

Voldemort seemed delighted by Harry’s use of the snake language, his lips twitching. “Nor indoctrinate you with their brutish methods.”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed slightly, sensing but not understanding the exchange. Narcissa’s gaze flicked to Harry’s posture. “Straighten your shoulders. Sit tall.”

Harry adjusted without complaint, earning a subtle nod from her.

Conversation drifted to the Manor’s activities. Voldemort inquired after reports from his followers; Lucius answered with clipped efficiency. Harry ate slowly, listening but keeping his focus elsewhere.

When Narcissa passed him a platter of roasted vegetables, she murmured. “Remember, bring the food to your mouth, Harry, not your mouth to the food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice smooth, earning another approving glance from her.

Lucius made a comment about the ‘disruption’ of clearing the unused wing, his tone bordering on condescending.

Harry set down his fork deliberately. “It’s not unnecessary if it’s going to serve a purpose. Besides,” he added, “your Lord approved it. Are you really questioning his judgement?”

In Parseltongue, he added for Voldemort’s ears alone, “Maybe assign Lucius to help? I’ve got a broom and a mop ready.”

“Careful,” Voldemort hissed back, amused, “he might take that as an insult to his dignity.”

“I meant it as one,” Harry shot back, his expression innocent to anyone else watching.

Voldemort turned back to Lucius, “Harry is right, Lucius. I’ve deemed this a worthwhile endeavour. Do you have any further objections?”

Lucius cleared his throat, “No, my Lord.” Without missing a beat, he shifted to a dry report on ward maintenance. Harry tuned him out, turning his attention to Narcissa.

“I did find the wing’s windows,” Harry said to her, “but the drapes were practically welded shut.”

“I’ll see to it they are replaced,” she promised. “And next time, use the salad fork for the antipasti, not the dinner fork.”

Harry glanced at the table setting with a faint smirk. “Right. Forks are treacherous things.”

Voldemort’s voice slid into Parseltongue again, low and amused. “You manage to survive dark curses and basilisks, yet forks defeat you?”

Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Not defeat. Merely… delay.”

Lucius’s brows furrowed faintly, clearly unsettled by their frequent, unintelligible exchanges. Harry seemed perfectly content to let him stew.

As the main course was served – roast pheasant with herbed potatoes – Voldemort shifted the conversation. “You’ll meet the new tutors on Monday morning. I will be there to make sure my expectations of them are clear. They are… unconventional. I expect you’ll find them challenging.”

“Challenging in a good way?’ Harry asked.

“In a way that will test both your skill and your patience.”

Harry smirked faintly. “So, like you, then.”

Lucius’ hand paused on his wine glass, eyes flicking between them at the insolence. Voldemort only inclined his head slightly, the faintest shadow of amusement curling his lips.

In Parseltongue: “Careful with that tongue, little serpent.”

“You like it,” Harry replied, the words carrying an almost teasing warmth.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort allowed, before turning the discussion back to more neutral topics.

Narcissa asked about his recent learning, and Harry answered with polite thoroughness. She seemed pleased, though she corrected him when he reached for the wrong lass. “The smaller one for water,” she reminded.

Harry murmured thanks, correcting the error.

As dessert was brought in – a delicate berry tart – Harry felt the weight of the day pressing in. Clearing and preparing the wing had been exhausting work, even with magic. His movements slowed, though he kept his manners intact under Narcissa’s watchful eye.

“You’re tired,” Voldemort observed, not as a question.

Harry didn’t bother denying it. “I’ve been on my feet since breakfast.”

“In that case,” Narcissa said gently, “you should get some rest. A clear mind and a rested body will serve you better than stubbornness.”

Harry smiled faintly at her, genuine this time. “Yes, ma’am.” He set his fork down neatly, dabbing his mouth with his napkin before standing.

“Goodnight,” he said to her with impeccable manners, then added a curt nod to Lucius. “Lord Malfoy.”

His gaze lingered a fraction longer on Voldemort, a flicker of something almost conspiratorial in his expression. In Parseltongue, just for him: “Don’t stay up too late plotting without me.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes glinted. “Go, before you fall asleep at the table.”

Harry’s smirk returned, fleeting but unmistakable, before he turned and left the dining hall, his footsteps soft against the polished floor. Behind him, the muted murmur of conversation resumed, but Harry let it fade as he headed upstairs, exhaustion finally claiming him.

Darkness hovered at the edges of Harry’s mind, indistinct and shifting like smoke in a breeze. Slowly, shapes began to form – walls slick with moisture, faint echoes of dripping water. Harry found himself standing on a small, rocky island surrounded by a deep, still lake. The air was thick and cold, heavy with the scent of earth and damp stone.

Harry turned slowly, his brow furrowed. He’d just gone to bed. His body should have been warm beneath his blankets in Malfoy Manor – not here in this eerie, subterranean place.

A voice slid into the silence behind him, smooth as silk and cold as ice. “You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting to meet the person who guards my soul so… carefully.”

Harry spun, heartbeat surging.

The figure standing there was tall and unnervingly perfect. Dark hair lay flawlessly in place, his skin pale as porcelain, and his eyes – black and deep as polished obsidian – watched Harry with an intensity that felt like a hand closing around his throat. His robes caught the dim light, shimmering faintly, as though the shadows themselves clung to him.

“Tom Riddle,” Harry said, his voice low but steady despite the pulse thundering in his ears. Recognition was instant – the boy who would become Voldemort, though here he was sharper, younger, untempered by time. The soulmate bond tugged faintly in his chest, unwanted and impossible to ignore.

Tom’s mouth curved in a slow, deliberate smile, as if pleased Harry knew his name. “I am. And who might you be?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter…” Tom repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “The name means nothing to me. What year is it?”

“1995,” Harry answered cautiously.

Tom’s smile deepened. “So far ahead. Interesting.” His gaze sharpened, curiosity curdling into something darker. “Tell me – how did you come to find the locket? It should have been hidden beyond reach.”

Harry hesitated. “In a house. It called to me.”

“In a house?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “The main soul would never have left it lying around like a trinket. I can feel him here. Close. Why does he let you keep me?”

Harry met his stare. “I’m not sure.”

Tom stepped forward – unhurried, but with an intentional closeness that made the hair rise on the back of Harry’s neck. “I’ve been drawing on your magic for some time now,” he murmured, each word deliberate. “Reaching for the edges of your mind. There’s something there.” He tilted his head, studying Harry like an artifact under glass. “Something binding us. It almost feels familiar. I don’t yet understand it. “His tone dropped into something quieter, hungrier. “But I will. I will understand it. And once I do, I’ll know exactly how to use it.”

Harry didn’t move, though the air felt like it was tightening around him.

Tom’s eyes swept over him, lingering with unnerving focus, as if mapping every flicker of breath, every twitch of muscle. “You’re different from the others. You touch my magic without fear, you keep it close to your heart, and yet you think you can keep me caged.” His smile was all sharp edges now. “You’ll learn, Harry. Things that will make you wish you never found me.”

Harry’s unease deepened as Tom’s expression shifted – not hostile exactly, but intent, as though listening to a whisper Harry couldn’t hear. A faint, rhythmic thrum began in Harry’s ears, slow and steady like a heartbeat – but not his own.

Tom stepped closer, close enough that Harry could see the faint shadow of his lashes against his cheek. “Do you feel that? That’s me. My magic inside you. You can’t push me out – not without tearing yourself apart.”

The space between them seemed to contract, the air heavy as stone. “One day,” Tom whispered, “you won’t know where you end, and I begin.”

The thrum in Harry’s ears became a pounding, the cold in the air digging into his bones. Without warning, a crushing pressure seized his lungs. His breath caught, chest tightening as if invisible hands were squeezing the air from him.

He gasped – and the world shattered into waking.

Harry jolted upright, gasping for air as though he’d been dragged from deep underwater. His heart slammed against his ribs; the ghost of that crushing sensation still wrapped around his chest.

His hand shot to his throat.

The locket.

It felt heavy – too heavy – as if its chain were digging into his skin. Panic spiked, and before he could think, Harry yanked it over his head and dropped it onto the bedspread, where it lay innocently still.

He stared at it, breathing hard.

The dream still clung to him, thick and real in his mind. The little island. Tom Riddle’s voice. The way the air had felt wrong. But was it a dream? Or-

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty made his skin crawl.

Before he could steady himself, the connection flared – a cold brush against his mind. Voldemort.

Come to me.

The command was not up for debate.

Harr threw on a dressing gown and padded quickly through the dim halls of the manor. The door to Voldemort’s private sitting room stood open, firelight spilling across the carpet.

Voldemort was already waiting, a tall, dark silhouette before the hearth. His crimson gaze tracked Harry’s every movement as he stepped inside. “You woke suddenly. Your magic spiked.”

“How do you… know?” Harry asked, frowning. “I don’t feel anything from you – not from the soulmate bond or the other connection. Why are you able to feel me?”

“That is not important at this moment,” Voldemort replied, his tone even. “What matters is that you tell me – what happened?”

Harry stopped a few paces from the chair opposite him, unsure where to start. “I had… a dream. Except it didn’t feel like a dream.”

“Sit,” Voldemort said.

Harry obeyed, leaning forward slightly, hands curling together in his lap. “It was Tom Riddle. Not you now – younger. He was… strange. Kept referring to himself as the locket – I think. And he kept talking about souls. A main soul, which sounded like you. He said something about drawing on my magic, like it was feeding off me. And he was asking why the main soul was letting me keep him.” Harry shook his head. “It didn’t make sense.”

“What else?” Voldemort’s voice was quiet but expectant.

Harry wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to the carpet. “He said he’s been taking magic from me for a while. And giving his magic back in return. Like some kind of… exchange. He made it sound like that would change me, somehow. That one day I wouldn’t be able to tell where I ended, and he began.”

Voldemort was silent for a moment, his gaze steady, sharp enough to pin Harry in place. “And what do you make of that?”

Harry frowned. “It sounds like possession. Or something close. Like what happened with the diary Ginny had – only this time it’s happening to me.”

A flicker of something dark passed over Voldemort’s expression. “It is not possession,” he said at last, voice low. “What you encountered tonight was a fragment. A piece of me.”

Harry stared. “A… piece?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said. “It resides within the locket – one of several safeguards I crafted. This is what I spoke of all those nights ago: the result of certain rituals. Such an object is called a Horcrux.”

Harry blinked. “A what?”

Voldemort studied him as though deciding how much to say. “A Horcrux is an object in which a portion of one’s soul is sealed. It renders the creator very… difficult to kill. The fragment you met tonight is bound to the locket, and because you keep it so close, it has been able to reach you. To speak with you. To touch your magic.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “You split your soul? And put it into things?”

“Yes,” Voldemort spoke as if discussing something as mundane as storing valuables.

Harry tried to wrap his head around it. “How many?”

A faint, amused curve touched Voldemort’s lips. “Enough.”

“That’s not an answer,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. “If you’ve got pieces of yourself in different things, does that mean they’re all like him. Talking? Watching?”

Voldemort’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “Some are more aware than others. The locket is… unusually sentient. It would recognise you. And, apparently, take an interest.”

Harry hesitated, then pressed on. “If your soul is split… how does that affect us? As soulmates, I mean. The locket kept going on about a connection, and I could feel the bond in the dream. But you-” he gestured vaguely at Voldemort “-you never seem affected by it the way I am. Is that because you’re split?”

A faint smirk tugged at Voldemort’s lips. “Partially. The fragmentation has dampened the bond on my side. However,” his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “since my return in the graveyard, changes have been occurring. Again, what I told you about. Slowly, the bond strengthens. I feel it more now than I once did.”

Harry frowned. “And what about the other connection? The one that makes us dream of each other, the one that gave me Parseltongue?”

This time, Voldemort’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “That is something I will explain to you soon, Harry. It is… complicated, but you will have your answers. I promise you that.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if ‘soon’ meant tomorrow, next week, or never. A dozen questions clawed inside his skull, but he forced himself to nod. “Alright,” he said quietly, though the unease remained. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved faintly, but he didn’t reply.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the dream still pressing at the back of his mind. “But you just… left him like that? Locked up in a piece of jewellery?”

“I left myself like that,” Voldemort corrected coolly. “Do not mistake him for something separate. He is me – untempered by time, unsoftened by experience.”

Harry frowned, a chill crawling up his spine. “I don’t like that. The thought of… of you – any part of you – trapped like that. And your soul being split – our soul.” He shook his head. “I can’t feel it directly, not like I feel the bond, but now that I know, it’s like an itch at the back of my mind. Wrong. Not meant to be.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes lingered on him, inscrutable. “It is wrong,” he admitted finally, voice lower, almost thoughtful. “A fragment of the soul outside the body is never natural. But some acts, some choices, carry consequences we accept.”

Harry leaned forward, curiosity and unease fighting in his chest. “Consequences for who? For you? For me? For whoever ends up involved with it?”

Voldemort’s lips curved faintly, unnervingly. “For all who interact with it. But especially for me. That fragment is mine. I control it.”

Harry exhaled, the knot in his chest tightening. “Still… it doesn’t feel right. I can feel it in my gut. Something about it – off. Like it’s not whole. Like it’s bleeding wrongness.”

“Your instincts are not entirely mistaken,” Voldemort said quietly. “The fragment carries the essence of a younger me. Unrefined. And it reacts. You feel its presence because you are strong. You feel its wrongness because it is wrong, in a way you would recognise.”

Harry’s head tilted. “So, he’s you when you were younger. The same as the diary?”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened. “Similar. But the diary’s fragment was weaker, dependent entirely on its victim’s mind to anchor itself. The locket needs no such tether – though it benefits from proximity to strong magic. Yours, for example.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “So, he’s been using me to get stronger?”

“In a sense. And in return, you have received some of his magic – my magic. You are stronger for it.”

Harry gave him a wary look. “That still sounds like possession. Or… some kind of slow merge.”

Voldemort regarded him steadily. “If it were possession, you would not be here. You would be him. But you remain entirely yourself – for now.”

Harry latched onto the words. “For now? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that such a link is not without risk,” Voldemort said, his voice calm. “The fragment will test you, push against your mind, and attempt to influence your thoughts. If you are weak, it may succeed.”

Harry swallowed. “And if it does?”

“Then I will deal with it.” Voldemort’s voice brooked no argument. “It will not take what is mine.”

Harry hesitated, fishing further. “You said there are several. Are they all here? In the manor?”

A faint smirk. “No. Some are… elsewhere.”

“And you’re not going to tell me where?”

“Not tonight.”

Harry sat back, frustration curling tight in his stomach. “You could at least tell me how many there are.”

Voldemort’s gaze held his for a long, loaded moment. “Enough,” he repeated.

Harry groaned. “You know, for someone who just told me I’ve been letting a piece of your soul feed off me, you’re being remarkably casual about this.”

Voldemort’s eyes glinted. “Because I am not concerned. I trust you will not disappoint me by succumbing to him. And if you do… well. That is a different conversation.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Voldemort rose, signalling the conversation’s end. “Go back to bed. And if you dream of him again, you tell me. At once.”

Harry stood, glancing back only once before stepping out into the corridor. The firelight faded behind him, but Tom’s voice still clung to his thoughts like damp air in a cave.

Sunday dawned grey and muted, the kind of day where the world seemed to hold its breath. Harry sat alone in his room, staring at the wall but seeing nothing. Yesterday’s conversation wouldn’t leave him – Horcruxes. Voldemort had split his soul, not once but several times. Harry had already suspected they’d never share the full soulmate bond, but now it was confirmed in the most grotesque way. And Voldemort had done it willingly – had chosen to mutilate himself for the sake of living forever. The knowledge left Harry unsettled in ways he couldn’t quite name, and underneath it all was a creeping sense of loss. Whatever they had, it would never be whole.

The thought twisted in his chest until it was unbearable. He shoved his chair back and stalked out, feet pounding down the corridor toward Voldemort’s office. He didn’t knock – just pushed the door open.

Voldemort looked up from his desk, quill poised. “Harry.”

“Is there anything else I should know?” Harry demanded. “About the war. About you. About us. Anything that affects us both.”

The Dark Lord regarded him for a moment before setting the quill aside. “Yes. There is something.”

Harry crossed his arms, bracing himself. “Well?”

“I have been working to obtain the prophecy.”

Harry frowned. “The what?”

“The prophecy made by Sybill Trelawney. It concerns us both.”

Harry’s voice sharpened. “I think I’d remember if anyone had ever told me about a prophecy.”

“Then perhaps you were not told at all. I only ever heard a part of it,’ Voldemort replied evenly. “But it was enough to act on: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.”

Harry stared, the words hitting like a slap. “That’s it? You-” His voice cracked, and he forced it steady. “You tried to kill me. You did kill my parents. Over that? Over some half-heard, cryptic riddle? How did you even know it was me?”

“There were two babies born at the end of July – you, and Neville Longbottom. I had chosen you.” Voldemort’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was a fractional pause. “At the time, it seemed the wisest course. You were… a potential threat.”

“A baby,” Harry spat. “And Dumbledore-” His stomach twisted with fresh fury. “Dumbledore knew, didn’t he? That’s why he never told me. He’s been sitting on this for years.”

“You are angry at both of us, then,” Voldemort observed quietly.

“I’m furious at both of you!” Harry snapped. “You for starting this mess, and him for keeping me in the dark about it.

For a moment, Voldemort’s eyes flickered with something unreadable – cool calculation tempered with something else, thinner and more fragile. “If I could undo that night without undoing what I am now… perhaps I would,” he said at last, almost reluctantly. “But regrets are wasted on the past.”

Harry stared at him, caught off guard by the admission, however small. “You don’t get to just brush it off like that.”

“On the contrary,” Voldemort said, recovering his composure. “It is the only way to continue forward. Regardless of your feelings, the prophecy exists. The rest is in the Department of Mysteries. I intend to hear it in full.”

Harry shook his head. “Divination’s rubbish. Especially anything by Trelawney – she’s a massive fraud. This sounds more like you trying to make it come true than anything else.”

“It has merit,” Voldemort countered. “Fate, if you like, or magic older than both of us.”

Harry met his eyes, unflinching. “No. I’ll prove it’s nonsense. I’ll get the prophecy, and we’ll listen to it together.”

Voldemort considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. We’ll do it today. The Ministry will be quieter on a Sunday afternoon. Lucius can escort you into the building. You will follow him into the Hall of Prophecy; the entrance will be cleared for him. Once there, you must retrieve the orb with your own hand – prophecies can only be claimed by the one they concern. How is your Disillusionment Charm?”

Harry smirked faintly. “I’ve got something better.”

The Ministry of Magic was more imposing than Harry imagined. Its polished atrium stretched high above them, golden light glinting off the fountain at its centre. Even on a Sunday afternoon, the place felt watchful – like the walls themselves were listening. He followed close behind Lucius, the Invisibility Cloak draped over him, taking in every detail. This was his first time here, and the sheer size of it made him feel oddly small.

Lucius moved with practised ease, his every step projecting ownership of the space. He passed the security checkpoint with a smooth flick of his wand and a clipped exchange with the guards, as if this were nothing more than a tedious errand. Harry trailed silently, resisting the urge to gawk as they boarded a lift that rattled and clanked its way downwards.

They stopped at a level marked Department of Mysteries. The air here was cooler, stiller and somehow heavier. A robed figure in black – an Unspeakable – was waiting. They stepped forward. “Business?”

“I’ve come to collect a prophecy,” Lucius drawled smoothly. “One relating to myself.”

Without a word, they gestured for Lucius to follow. Harry stuck close, careful to keep his footsteps light.

They passed through a series of strange rooms until the Unspeakable opened a door into a circular chamber where every wall was lined with identical doors. The figure crossed to one, unlocking it with a tap of their wand.

Inside was a vast, dimly lit space that immediately leached warmth from Harry’s skin. The ceiling stretched high into shadow, and the echo of their footsteps was swallowed by the cold. This was the Hall of Prophecy.

Tall shelves rose in endless rows; each lined with glass orbs glowing faintly blue. A low murmur filled the air – dozens of indistinct voices whispering at once. The Unspeakable turned, their voice muffled under the hood. “You will be escorted to the location. Only the subject may touch the record.”

Lucius inclined his head in polite acknowledgement and followed as they began down the narrow aisles. “Row ninety-seven,” Lucius murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Harry to hear beneath the cloak. “Try not to lose yourself,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with condescension.

Harry bit back a retort and slipped away down the main aisle. He scanned the shelves, and each glass sphere was marked with a small, faded label. He counted quickly – ninety-four… ninety-five… ninety-six – until he reached ninety-seven. There, sitting on the shelf as if it had been waiting for him all along, was the prophecy.

S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D

Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter

He reached out. The orb was icy against his palm, and the whispering inside grew clearer, pressing against his ears with a strange insistence. But he didn’t listen – not yet.

He turned and retraced his steps, keeping his pace steady until Lucius came into view at the end of the aisle. He gave a small tug on the man’s robes to let him know Harry succeeded.

“Let’s be quick,” Lucius murmured. The Unspeakable led them back the way they had come, through the towering shelves, out of the Hall of Prophecy and into the circular chamber.

The moment they cleared the Ministry’s visitor entrance into a shadowed side alley, Lucius gripped Harry’s shoulder, and the world folded away with a sharp crack.

They landed in the quiet grandeur of the manor’s entrance hall; the air was still and faintly scented with polished wood and old magic. Voldemort was already waiting, standing near the foot of the stairs as if he’d been tracking the exact moment they’d arrive. His gaze swept over Harry once, lingering just a second longer on the glass orb in his hand.

“Good,” he said simply. “Come with me.”

Harry followed him to the office. The heavy door closed with a muffled thud, cutting them off from the rest of the house. Voldemort to a small pillow set in the middle of the desk. “Set it there.”

The orb’s glow seemed sharper in the dim light of the room. Voldemort drew his wand and, with a delicate twist, tapped the glass. It cracked faintly – not breaking – before a misty figure swirled inside, taking on the vague form of a woman. Her voice was soft yet carried an eerie resonance as the prophecy spilled into the air.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

Silence stretched in the wake of the words. The voice faded, the mist inside the orb settling back into stillness.

Harry sat back slowly, his stomach twisting. “So… that’s it?” His voice was flat, almost disbelieving. “That’s what you killed my parents over? That’s what’s supposed to define my entire life?”

Voldemort’s expression was unreadable. “It is… significant.”

Harry’s voice sharpened. “Significant? It says one of us has to kill the other! That’s not significant – that’s insane.”

Voldemort tilted his head. “It says must. Which implies inevitability. You can not deny the accuracy of the first part-”

“I can deny all of it!” Harry snapped, cutting across him. “I’m not fighting you. I’m not playing into this. Which means-” he jabbed a finger towards the desk “-the prophecy’s void. Dead. Done.”

A flicker of something – amusement? Annoyance? – passed over Voldemort’s face. “It does not work that way.”

“Why not?” Harry demanded, leaning forward, his hands curling into fists. “If I don’t fight you, it can’t happen. That’s it. End of story.”

The firelight danced over Voldemort’s pale features, highlighting the faint tightening around his eyes. “You think to simply step away from this and have it vanish? The prophecy exists because the conditions for its fulfilment exist. Refusal may delay it, but-”

Harry cut him off again. “But what? You’ll kill me anyway? Is that the plan? Is that what you still want? Because the vow you made says you can’t hurt me. So, what then?”

Voldemort’s gaze locked with his, and for a long moment, there was no answer – just the crackle of the fire and the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than Harry had expected.

“No. I do not want to hurt you anymore… let alone kill you.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He remembers Voldemort promising his protection before, but it hadn’t stopped the uneasy knot in his stomach from forming now. “You said that before. And I still… I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. You're protecting me. You. After everything.”

Voldemort didn’t recoil from the honesty. He leaned back slightly, his long hands steepled in front of him. “It is not something I expect you to accept easily. Nor should you. Trust is not a wand you wave once, and it appears. It must be tested.”

Harry exhaled slowly, still tense. “And why? Why the change? Because I’m your soulmate?’

Voldemort’s eyes flickered – there was something almost uncomfortable there, quickly masked. “That is a part of it. But also… circumstances have changed. I have changed.” His eyes softened, just fractionally. “Hurting you would bring me no gain. It would be,” He paused, as though the word he was searching for was unfamiliar to him. “-distasteful.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, half a laugh and half something closer to disbelief. “Distasteful. That’s your way of saying you care?”

“That you are a person I’ve come to value.”

Harry looked away, heat creeping up the back of his neck despite himself. “You’re making it really hard to keep hating you, you know.”

“I am aware,” Voldemort said, and there was definite amusement in his tone.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the faint glow of the prophecy orb casting long shadows across the walls. Harry ran his fingers along the smooth glass, the weight of what he’d heard pressing down on him.

“Do you believe it?” he asked suddenly.

“I care that it exists,” Voldemort said honestly. “I believe that others may seek to use it. But as for its content…” He shook his head slightly. “I will not act against you because of it. If others try to force its fulfilment, they will fail. I will see to that.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “And you’re fine with me just refusing to play along?”

Voldemort’s gaze was steady. “If that is truly your choice, then yes. I have no desire to force a confrontation that need not happen.”

Harry searched his face for any hint of deception. “You mean that?”

“I do.” Voldemort’s tone was quiet but certain. “There are other battles to fight. Ones that do not require your blood.”

Harry let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “Never thought I’d hear that from you.”

Voldemort’s head tilted, studying him with that same faint warmth. “Perhaps you have changed me, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s lips twitched into something halfway between a smile and a frown. “I don’t even know if that’s a good thing.”

“Nor do I,” Voldemort admitted, but there was the faintest trace of something lighter in his eyes. “And yet… I do not regret it.

That caught Harry off guard. His fingers stilled against the smooth glass of the orb. The words between them didn’t feel like the barbed exchanges they used to trade – this was something softer, something far more dangerous in its honesty.

“You know,” Harry began, eyes on the orb. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? All of this-” he gestured loosely between them “-because of a few sentences from someone who probably forgot them as soon as she woke up.”

“The irony is not lost on me,” Voldemort replied, leaning back with the slow poise of someone who was deliberately lowering his guard. “When I first heard it, I thought of nothing but ending the threat. You were… an obstacle, nothing more.”

Harry looked up at him, trying to read the set of his mouth, the shadows in his expression. “And now?”

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him for a long, almost uncomfortable moment. “Now, I see you.”

Harry swallowed, unsure why those three words made the air between them feel thicker. “That’s… unsettling.”

“Truth often is,” Voldemort said, but his voice was low, lacking its usual cutting edge. “I do not wish to see you destroyed.”

Harry gave a quiet, uncertain laugh. “You make it sound like I matter to you.”

“You do,” Voldemort said, as simply as if he were stating the time of day.

Harry blinked, unprepared for the weight behind them. His chest tightened, and he felt a strange flutter in his stomach that he hadn’t recognised before. “I… I don’t know what to say to that,” he admitted softly, almost whispering.

Voldemort inclined his head just slightly, studying him like he was trying to memories every shift of expression. “Then say nothing. It is enough that you hear it.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to his hands resting on the arm of the chair. He could feel the heat rising into his cheeks. “I’ve never had anyone say it like that before. To me. And not so seriously.”

“I am aware,” Voldemort replied, his voice gentle now, almost careful. “Words of comfort do not come easily from me, but sincerity does.”

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Harry noticed the way the light caught the angles of Voldemort’s face, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his hands rested on the armrests – still and controlled. There was something human in him, something quiet and contained, that he rarely allowed anyone to see through his god-like persona.

“You look… tired,” Harry said eventually.

Voldemort’s gaze flicked down, then back to Harry. “Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I am simply accustomed to maintaining vigilance.”

Harry nodded slowly, feeling a surprising urge to sit closer, though he didn’t move. “I think I get that,” he said quietly. “Being awake all the time, always watching, always planning… It’s exhausting.”

Voldemort’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It is. And yet, you endure it in your own way, Harry.”

Harry’s chest tightened again. “I don’t know if I’m enduring or just surviving,” he admitted. “But it feels… less alone somehow, being here with you.”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair slightly, his long fingers steepled, but his expression was open. “Then perhaps that is enough, for now. To exist alongside one another – without pretence or battle. That is a rare thing.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, soft and unguarded. “Rare is one word for it.”

“And yet… perhaps it is also a beginning,” Voldemort said, voice low and deliberate. “Not of what you might expect, but a beginning nonetheless.”

Harry studied him in silence. There was no threat in the words, no expectation, only the faint warmth behind them. The air between them felt lighter, though it was heavy with something new, something that neither of them had yet dared to name.

For the first time, Harry saw Voldemort not just as someone he had to contend with or understand, but as someone capable of being unexpectedly open – unguarded in a way that made him both fascinating and unsettling, stirring both a tentative curiosity and something softer, fragile and unfamiliar.

And Voldemort, for his part, let the words linger between them, letting the quiet presence of Harry settle into his carefully measured existence.

They sat together, metres apart in the low glow of the firelight, letting the silence speak for them, neither needing to fill it, both aware that something unspoken had shifted.

Chapter Text

Harry stood just inside the classroom, hands clasped behind his back. He’d seen the room before – two neat rows of desks, the blackboard gleaming at the front, the teacher’s desk polished to a shine. What he hadn’t faced yet were the people who would be standing behind it.

Voldemort was there already, waiting as though this were some formal ceremony. He gestured smoothly toward the tall man by the blackboard.

“Harry, this is Professor Selwyn Vale. Once a professor of Transfiguration, later a contributor to… more advanced research.” Voldemort’s red eyes flicked briefly toward Vale, unreadable. “He will provide you with instruction of the highest standard. Professor Vale is precise, and his methods are exacting. Do not expect indulgence.”

Vale inclined his head, every movement controlled. His pale grey hair, tied back neatly, didn’t shift out of place. “Potter.” The single word was delivered without warmth, but not discourtesy either. Harry felt more studied than greeted.

Voldemort’s hand shifted toward the woman by the windows. “And this is Mistress Corvina Ashdown. Her work in Charms has been studied across Europe. She is not here to flatter you or waste time with pleasantries – her results, however, speak for themselves.”

Ashdown inclined her head slightly. Her dark braid slid forward over her shoulder as her sharp green eyes flicked across Harry, weighing him in silence before she spoke. “Consistency, not chance, will be my expectation,” she said evenly. “One success is never enough.”

Harry tightened his grip on his wand.

Voldemort’s gaze settled back on him. “They will act with professionalism,” he assured, his voice smooth, calm. “But you should not expect to be coddled. Challenges are meant to sharpen you, Harry, not soothe you.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to answer. He couldn’t quite tell which unsettled him more – the professor who looked as though he measured flaws by the grain, or the mistress who saw straight through his nerves and said nothing about it.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer, indecipherable, before he turned to Ashdown. “Mistress, I believe you have other matters until this afternoon?”

Her green eyes slid back to Harry, assessing and sharp. “I’ll see you later, Potter,” she said simply, and the faint curl of her mouth made Harry wonder if it was a promise or a warning. She fell into step beside Voldemort, and the two swept from the classroom together, the door closing behind them with a quiet finality.

Silence remained.

Professor Vale stood at the front still, hands clasped neatly behind his back and his steel-grey eyes following Harry’s movements with predatory precision.

“Mr Potter,” he said, voice low but carrying. “You will be punctual in my lessons.”

Harry flicked his eyes to the clock – he wasn’t late. He swallowed anyway. “Yes, sir.”

Vale inclined his head the barest fraction. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, the scrape of his chair far too loud in the stillness. Only then did Vale move, a wand already in hand.

“Transfiguration is an exact science,” he began, tone steady and unyielding. “Precision. Control. Unwavering concentration. You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will not attempt magic until instructed. Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Vale reached into the desk drawer and set down a tarnished silver candlestick with the deliberation of someone placing a weapon. “Transformation into a living form. You will choose the animal. Your work will be judged by anatomical accuracy, behaviour and stability.”

Harry hesitated. “Sir, I’ve-”

Vale’s gaze cut him off, sharper than a blade. “Do not tell me what you cannot do. Show me what you can.”

Heat rushed to Harry’s face. He lifted his wand, focused and cast. The candlestick twisted, stretched and reshaped itself until a small grey cat crouched on the desk, blinking warily.

Vale approached, silent, eyes sweeping over every detail. He crouched, level with the animal, brushing its fur with long fingers. The cat twitched an ear but held still.

“Not bad,” Vale murmured. “But the musculature in the forelimbs is incomplete, and the coat density is inconsistent. Tell me, what spell structure did you use for stabilisation?”

Harry’s mind raced. “Er… the layered Conjunctive Stabilising Charm McGonagall demonstrated-”

Vale straightened. “Then you didn’t stabilise it at all. That creature will revert in under a minute.”

As if on cue, the cat shimmered and collapsed into cold silver.

Vale neither sighed nor frowned. “You will learn my method. Not Hogwarts’ method. And you will repeat until you produce a transformation lasting at least ten minutes without degradation. Understood?”

Harry nodded, jaw tight.

“Again. Copy me.”

The next hour was a blur of corrections so exact they felt like incisions. Vale’s voice never rose, but each adjustment – angle, pressure, phrasing – left Harry raw with the awareness of every flaw. By the time he finally conjured a cat Vale deemed “structurally sound, if aesthetically unremarkable,” sweat beaded Harry’s brow.

Vale gave a single, precise nod. “Acceptable. Next lesson, we will discuss the ethics of transforming sentient beings. Dismissed.”

Harry gathered his things, relief seeping through his exhaustion. As he stepped toward the door, he couldn’t help but replay Vale’s precise instructions, the way every motion, every phrase of his wand mattered. I have to get this right. Every time.

The silence of the classroom pressed in on him, and for the first time since leaving Hogwarts, he truly missed guidance that didn’t cut so sharply – professors who explained patiently, who smiled when things went slightly wrong, who made magic feel alive instead of like a test he could never pass.

He shoved the thought aside as he opened the door, but even as he walked down the corridor, part of him ached for the familiarity, the comfort and the quiet encouragement of Hogwarts professors he’d once taken for granted.

Harry finished the last of his lunch with Narcissa, the quiet conversation doing little to settle the tension still knotting his shoulders from Vale’s lesson. Pushing his plate aside, he rose and made his way back to the classroom, each step heavier with the knowledge that this would be different – demanding in a way that might not even involve harsh words.

Mistress Corvina Ashdown stood at the front, not behind the desk, but slightly off to the side, her posture straight yet relaxed. She regarded him with cool, assessing eyes.

“You’re on time,” she said. Not praise. Not criticism. Just a fact. “Sit where you will.”

Harry took a desk in the middle row, watching as she moved to a side table. From it, she lifted a stack of fabric swatches – neatly cut squares in varying states of wear, some ripped straight through, others frayed at the edges.

Today, we begin with the Mending Charm,” she said. “Reparo. Simple to learn. Difficult to master.”

She placed one of the torn swatches on his desk. “You are not merely joining fibres. You are persuading the fabric to remember what it was before it broke.”

Harry frowned, glancing from the cloth to her. “So, it’s about… convincing it?”

Her mouth quirked slightly, not quite a smile. “If that word helps you, yes. Magic responds to intent, and the intent is sharpened by precision.”

He raised his wand and cast the charm. The tear sealed halfway before the stitching puckered unnaturally.

“Again,” she said evenly. “This time, picture the weave – how each thread crosses the next. Do not force it to close. Guide it.”

On the second attempt, the tear sealed cleanly, but the colour along the seam dulled to a pale grey.

“Better,” she muttered, stepping closer. “But you have mended the structure, not the life. Fabric is more than its threads. Think of the colour, the texture, the way it should feel under your fingers.”

Harry tried again, narrowing his focus to the feel of the cloth – the soft weave, the way the blue threads shimmered faintly in the light. He cast the charm, and this time the swatch looked as if it had never been touched.”

“Good. For a first attempt.”

Harry felt the faintest flicker of pride, though her tone hadn’t warmed at all.

“Keep in mind,” she said, placing another swatch in front of him, “that mending magic will tell you as much about the damage as the repair. If you listen closely, it will reveal how the tear came to be.”

She moved on to prepare a demonstration for the next exercise, leaving Harry with the odd sense that she hadn’t just been teaching him a charm – she had been studying him.

By the time the lesson finally drew to a close, Harry carefully returned the final swatch to the stack, his wand tucked back into its holster. The hour had been demanding, but unlike Vale’s scrutiny, Ashdown’s challenges left him feeling measured and capable rather than tested and exposed. I can do this, he thought, a small spark of confidence nudging aside the tension of the morning.

He gathered his things and stepped toward the door, glancing once at the neat rows of desks and the fabric swatches still spread across them. The classroom felt quieter now, but the lesson lingered in his mind, precise and exacting, yet oddly encouraging.

As he rounded the corner in the corridor, he nearly collided with a familiar figure – Severus Snape, dark cloak sweeping the floor, eyes glittering with venomous sharpness.

“What,” Snape hissed, voice low and sharp as broken glass, “do you think you’re doing here?”

Harry stiffened, every instinct telling him to retreat, but he held his ground. “Learning,” he said flatly.

Snape’s lip curled. “Learning? Do you even know what the Dark Lord has planned for you? You’re a stupid boy if you think you’re safe running into his arms. He’ll grind you down, use you up and toss you aside the moment you stop being useful.”

Harry’s fists clenched. He forced the words back, polite, measured, like he might’ve tried at Hogwarts. “That’s not your concern, sir.”

Snape stepped closer, voice a low snarl. “Not my concern? You arrogant child – you think you’ve found protection here? You think you’re clever, playing at being his protégé? You’re walking blindfolded into your own execution.”

Something inside Harry snapped. He wasn’t at Hogwarts anymore. He didn’t owe Snape respect. Not here.

“You know what, Snape?” Harry shot back, eyes blazing. “I’m done pretending I have to be polite to you. You act like you know everything, but you don’t know me. You never have.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think defiance makes you strong? Defiance will make you dead. The Dark Lord rewards loyalty, Potter – absolute loyalty. And you’ve never been capable of it.”

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. “Loyalty? Coming from you?” His gaze locked on Snape’s, sharp and unflinching. “How loyal can you really be when you’re serving two masters? Maybe you should figure that out before lecturing me.”

For the first time, Snape faltered – but only for a heartbeat. His expression hardened, voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “Careful, boy. You tread on ground you don’t understand. Do you think he doesn’t already know what I am? Do you think he hasn’t weighed the worth of my service a hundred times over? One day, he’ll do the same with you – and when he finds you lacking, he won’t hesitate.”

The words hit harder than Harry expected, a cold dread twisting in his chest. He wanted to throw something back, something cutting, but Snape’s gaze was merciless, pinning him in place.

“Enjoy your lessons, Potter,” Snape sneered, cloak snapping as he swept past. “You’ll need every scrap of them before the end.”

Harry stood frozen, pulse hammering in his ears. The corridor felt darker, smaller, and his earlier confidence guttered into unease. He hated giving Snape the satisfaction, but as he forced himself to keep walking, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, this time, Snape might not have been entirely wrong.

Dinner at the long table felt heavier than usual. Silver platters gleamed, wine poured freely, and Narcissa kept the conversation polite – comments about the day’s progress, inquiries about research, the usual courtesies that held Malfoy Manor in its strange, brittle balance.

Harry barely tasted the food. Snape’s words looped endlessly in his mind – loyalty, two masters, usefulness – and with every echo, his gaze slid sideways to Voldemort. He searched for something, anything: a flicker through their mental connection, a whisper of intent in the back of his mind, the faint pull of the soulmate bond.

Nothing. Just silence.

The absence made him restless. His fork scraped the plate too hard, his posture too stiff, and still the question gnawed at him – What does he really want from me?

“Harry.” Voldemort’s voice broke the hum of polite talk, smooth but edged with curiosity. Red eyes fixed on him. “You are unusually quiet.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He couldn’t answer in front of the Malfoys, not with their eyes watching, waiting. His fingers tightened on the stem of his goblet before he hissed, soft and low in Parseltongue. “We need to talk.”

A spark flared in Voldemort’s expression – not anger, not yet, but interest sharpened into a keen edge. He inclined his head with ease. “After dinner.”

Harry nodded once, forcing himself to eat another bite as if nothing had passed between them. Conversation flowed around the table again – Lucius speaking of Ministry movements, Narcissa gently correcting Harry’s table manners – but Harry barely heard it. Every word, every breath stretched too thin, the weight of the coming talk pressing against his chest.

When the final course was cleared, Voldemort rose smoothly, a command in the simple motion. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, and no one at the table dared question.

Harry pushed back his chair, legs tense beneath him and followed in silence. The halls were hushed save for the echoes of their steps, leading not toward the throne room or study, but deeper until they reached Voldemort’s private wing.

The scent of old parchment and ink washed over Harry as they stepped into the small library. Voldemort gestured him forward, the doors closing behind them conclusively, setting Harry’s nerves thrumming.

Now there would be no interruptions. No witnesses. No excuses.

And no buffer for Harry’s thoughts, either. His chest felt tight, breath shallow as he tried to summon the right words. How could he even say it? If he asked outright, Voldemort might sneer, dismiss him as needy, or worse – see weakness he couldn’t afford to show. But if he said nothing, Snape’s poisonous words would keep festering, and Harry would keep drowning in the silence of not knowing.

They’d been circling the soulmate bond for weeks now, skirting it with careful avoidance whenever the prophecy or Horcruxes intruded. It hung there between them – undeniable, unavoidable – and yet never truly spoken of. Harry needed to know where he stood. Whether Voldemort saw him as a partner… or just another pawn bound by accident.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He told himself it didn’t matter – he could live with any answer, even rejection, as long as he knew. But the truth twisted in his gut: he needed reassurance. He needed to hear that he wasn’t only tolerated until the Dark Lord no longer had use for him.

He needed to know if he should start preparing himself to be discarded.

Voldemort crossed the room unhurriedly, robes whispering across the wood, and settled into the armchair in the sitting area. His crimson gaze flicked toward Harry, sharp and expectant.

“Well,” Voldemort said softly, steepling his fingers. “You insisted we talk.”

Harry lowered himself onto the couch to Voldemort’s side, the cushions far too soft for how taut his muscles felt. He perched on the edge, hands clasped, knuckles white against the fabric of his trousers. Voldemort’s eyes fixed on him, unblinking, as though willing the words to tumble free. But Harry’s throat clenched tight. He didn’t even know how to begin. His nails dug into his palms. He swallowed, opened his mouth, shut it again. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, the firelight flickering across his sharp features. “Well?” he pressed, tone patient in that unnerving, calculating way.

Harry forced the words out. “I want to know if you’re planning to get rid of me.”

The words hung between them like a curse.

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone was maddeningly simple. “No.”

Harry blinked. He’d expected dismissal, derision, or at least a lecture – but not that. Not just no.

“That’s it?” he demanded, leaning forward. “That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, anger spilling over. “That doesn’t explain anything. Why? Why keep me here? Is it just the prophecy? Or because of that… thing inside me? Or is it because of the soulmate bond?”

Voldemort tilted his head, studying him with predatory calm. “A mix of all three.”

Harry’s frustration sharpened. “That’s not good enough.”

His voice cracked through the library like a whip. Voldemort’s gaze cooled, but Harry pushed on, fuelled by weeks of bottled questions. “I need a straight answer. I need to know if I actually matter to you, or if I’m just useful until I’m not.”

Voldemort’s expression thinned, his mouth curving into something crueller. “And what is it you think you are owed, Harry? Certainty? Assurance? A declaration of undying devotion? You overestimate your position.”

Harry’s chest tightened, but anger shoved fear aside. “I don’t want devotion. I just want the truth. You act like this bond doesn’t mean anything, like I’m supposed to pretend it isn’t real – but it is real. I can feel it, and you’ve said you’re starting to feel it too.”

For a long moment, Voldemort was silent, his eyes unreadable. Then his lips twitched faintly, not in amusement but disdain. “You cling to convenient fiction. That bond is magic, yes, but you mistake it for intimacy. Do you truly imagine it means I care for you?”

Harry’s chest squeezed. He wanted to say yes, wanted to throw it back in Voldemort’s face – but the words caught in his throat. He settled for stubbornness. “Then why admit it matters at all?”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened. His words became measured, deliberate. “Because it cannot be denied that you matter more than any other individual alive. The prophecy ties you to me. Your scar ties you to me. And yes – the bond ties you to me. No one else carries that combination.”

The admission twisted like a knife. Harry should have felt relief – finally, words he could hold onto – but Voldemort’s tone was so detached, so clinical, that the truth was soured.

“More than anyone else,” Harry repeated, bitterness roughening the words. “But not because of me. Not because I’m me.”

“Because of what you are,” Voldemort corrected smoothly. “Do not mistake singularity for affection. I have come to respect you – as a mind, as a force, as someone who will not bend as easily as the others. Yet, that respect holds no weight against what you represent. You are valuable because of what you stand for, not because of who you are.”

Harry gritted his teeth. His thoughts spun, colliding into each other. He had come here begging for reassurance, for something real to anchor himself in, and Voldemort offered him only calculations and dismissals.

“So I’m… what? A rare artefact? A curiosity?” His laugh was hollow. “That’s all I am to you?”

“A rarity, yes. A weapon, certainly.” Voldemort’s tone was calm, infuriatingly calm. “But a person I truly care for? No. You confuse indulgence with affection. Do not mistake my interest in your training, your survival, as care. If you believe otherwise, you are more foolish than I thought.”

Harry’s stomach dropped, but his anger flared brighter. “You can’t even admit it, can you? That maybe I matter beyond what’s convenient. That maybe it isn’t all strategy with you.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Do not project your childish need for belonging onto me. I have tolerated your presence more than anyone else’s, granted you freedoms none of my followers would dare request, and still you are dissatisfied. What more do you imagine you are owed?”

Harry’s heart pounded. Every word stung, but the condescension was worse than cruelty. He could handle cruelty; it was expected. This cold, measured dismissal cut deeper.

“I don’t want to be tolerated,” he snapped. “I don’t want to be some project you’ve taken on. I want-” He stopped himself, teeth biting down hard. He couldn’t say it, not when Voldemort’s eyes were waiting to dissect the words, to twist them into weakness.

“You want sentiment,” Voldemort supplied smoothly. “A luxury I neither require nor indulge in. What you feel, Harry, is yours to wrestle with. Do not place it at my feet and expect it to be reciprocated.”

Harry’s breath shook. He hated how small he felt under that gaze, how every word seemed designed to push him back into his place.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’d never give me a straight answer. Never admit anything.”

“I have admitted the truth,” Voldemort replied coolly. “It is you who refuses to hear it.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. Anger fizzed and burned, but beneath it was something worse: despair. He felt foolish for even asking, for exposing his fear like this. Voldemort wasn’t going to give him what he wanted – not affection, not even clarity. Just this cold, distant dismissal.

Fine. If Voldemort wanted him small, he could play small. He forced his tone tight, bitterly polite. “Yes, sir. I apologise.”

For the first time, Voldemort’s composure wavered. His eyes flickered, a faint crack in the mask, though his mouth remained set in that thin, unreadable line.

“Do not be petulant,” he said, voice low.

Harry tilted his head, letting the word drip with mockery. “Of course, sir.”

Voldemort’s expression cooled further, but Harry caught the discomfort lurking beneath. He had struck something – not care, perhaps, but something Voldemort did not want to face.

The silence stretched. Harry’s chest heaved with restrained anger, his fists tight in his lap. Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, unreadable and sharp, before he finally rose from the armchair.

“You will remember your place,” he said softly, the finality in his tone brooking no argument. “And you will learn to live with the truth.”

He turned, robes whispering against the floor, and with a flick of his hand, the library doors opened.

Harry didn’t move. He sat frozen as Voldemort swept out without another glance, the echo of his steps fading into silence.

The doors closed with a heavy thud, leaving Harry alone.

Alone with the shelves towering overhead, the scent of ink and parchment pressing down on him, and the hollow ache in his chest where he had hoped for something – anything – more. He had demanded answers. Voldemort had given them.

And Harry was left devastated, a mockery of respect – sir – still burning on his tongue.

The library doors closed with a muffled thud, and Voldemort stood for a moment in the hallway, letting silence settle around him like a cloak. He did not turn back. He would not. His hand flexed once against the carved wood before he forced himself onward, long strides carrying him through to his office, the doors giving way beneath his touch.

Inside, the fire burned low. The shadows felt companionable here, controlled. He crossed to his desk, fingers brushing across the neat stacks of parchment, the carefully arranged inkpots and quills – order, precision, obedience, all where it should be. Unlike Harry.

Frustration curled sharply inside him.

The boy was never satisfied. The thought rattled through his head as he sank into the chair, crimson eyes narrowing at the hearth. It should have been enough – the concessions, the lengths to which Voldemort had gone. He had given the boy what none of his Death Eaters would ever dare request: tutors, handpicked and instructed to sharpen Harry’s mind without breaking it. He had entertained the child’s moral discomforts about the war, even stooping to measures he would not otherwise have taken – rehabilitating prisoners rather than unleashing them immediately. A strategic delay, yes, but one Harry had pressed for, and one Voldemort had granted.

He had even begun teaching the boy himself. Lessons, personal and direct, instead of leaving him to scrape by with scraps of knowledge.

And still, it was not enough.

Voldemort’s mouth thinned. He had given Harry more than he had given anyone. More access, more truth, more pieces of himself than he should have ever allowed. He had spoken of the Horcruxes, of the anchors to his soul that no one else alive was meant to know of. He had confessed – no, disclosed – the disquiet he felt since his rebirth, the subtle shifts in mind and body that plagued him. Matters that belonged to him alone.

And Harry had not seen this for what it was. Concession. Indulgence. Privilege.

Instead, he pushed. Always pushing. Always demanding to know if he mattered.

Voldemort curled a hand into a fist on the arm of the chair. The audacity of it. As if survival, protection, knowledge and inclusion were not proof enough. As if words – words! – meant more than what had already been done.

That was why he had put the boy back in his place. Firmly and coldly. He had felt Harry’s anger sharpen, had seen the frustration in his eyes when Voldemort denied him what he wanted, denied the tenderness he so clearly sought. It had been necessary. The boy was growing far too comfortable with pressing where he should not.

And yet…

Voldemort’s jaw worked once, silently. He knew the words he had spoken – of not caring, of Harry’s singularity meaning nothing – were not precisely true. Harry was not just another tool in his arsenal, not just another pawn to be shifted across the board. He knew it. He had admitted as much, though in the most sterile of terms. Harry was singular. He was more important than anyone else alive.

And that, apparently, was still not enough.

The boy’s thoughts about the soulmate bond baffled him. Irritated him. That Harry could look past everything – his parents’ deaths by Voldemort’s hand, his own near-murders, the tortures endured – and cling to the words etched into his wrist as if they excused it all. As if destiny, fate, or whatever absurd magic had bound them together, overrode the brutality of their past.

Did Harry not understand how mad that was?

Voldemort had never entertained such nonsense. At Hogwarts, he had dismissed the stammered confession of infatuated classmates with disdain. He had never indulged the pining eyes of his followers; their devotion, their service, that was what mattered. Flesh was easy enough to take when he desired it, and it had never been more than that: a transaction, a clean severing afterwards.

He had never given affection, and he had never wanted it. And he would not start now, simply because a boy with a scar and a name on his wrist thought he deserved it.

Voldemort exhaled slowly, the firelight glinting off his pale skin. Harry’s voice echoed back to him, sharp and bitter: sir.

Voldemort’s fingers twitched against the desk. He did not like it. The word had landed wrong, crawling across his nerves like an irritant. He had wanted Harry cowed, certainly; he had wanted him to back down. But sir was not what he wanted from him. Not obedience, not that kind of deference. It implied distance, hierarchy, and subservience. And despite what he had spat at Harry, Voldemort did not see him so low.

Not as a Death Eater, to be commanded. Not as a servant.

Harry was… not his equal, no, but nearer to it than anyone else.

That, perhaps, was the root of his discomfort. Harry was supposed to push boundaries. Harry was supposed to stand close, unafraid. And yet, when he had called him sir, all Voldemort could feel was the weight of a barrier slammed down between them – one he did not want.

His frown deepened. He had set the boy back in his place, yes. But in doing so, had he pushed him too far?

The question sat, sour and unwelcome, in his mind. Voldemort did not owe Harry affection, declarations, or care. He had made that clear. He would not be cajoled into offering what he did not believe in. But the memory of Harry’s face – closing off, shutting down, masking something raw beneath those green eyes – lingered with a stubbornness Voldemort could not quite banish.

He forced himself to dismiss it. Harry would recover. He always did. The boy was resilient, infuriatingly so. And Voldemort had no intention of apologising, no intention of yielding further ground.

Still, as the fire cracked in the hearth and shadows lengthened across his office, Voldemort found his mind circling back – not to the argument itself, but to the quiet devastation in Harry’s voice, and to that hated word, spat like a curse: sir.

The last thing he wanted from the boy.

And yet it was what Harry had given him.

Voldemort sat very still, his crimson gaze fixed on the darkened glass of the window, and for the first time in many years, he felt the unfamiliar pinch of something perilously close to doubt.

Harry stumbled back to his room, hardly noticing the echo of his footsteps down the darkened corridor. Voldemort’s words still pressed against his chest like a lead weight. Respect. Singular. Valuable because of what you stand for.

The phrases circled in his head like vultures. He had gone in desperate for an answer – any answer that might suggest Voldemort saw him as more than a weapon, more than a bond he hadn’t chosen. What he’d gotten instead was dismissal dressed up as a reason, a cold acknowledgement that Harry was worth more than anyone else because of what he represented.

He shut the door to his bedroom and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to chest. The walls felt closer than they ever had before, the fire in the grate flickering against the stone like a hostile glare instead of comfort.

The manor itself felt hostile now. Every shadow seemed sharper, every corridor filled with the weight of unseen eyes. It was as though the house knew, as though Voldemort’s voice had seeped into the stone and declared Harry unwelcome.

He buried his face in his arms, chest aching. He had no one here, not truly. And Voldemort – Harry squeezed his eyes shut – Voldemort had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that care was not part of the equation.

For the first time in weeks, he thought of Hogwarts without underlying anger or bitterness. He thought of the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, of Hermione’s exasperated lectures, of Ron’s terrible jokes. He thought of Quidditch matches and the rush of wind in his hair, of sneaking into the kitchens with a cloak over his shoulders, of feeling safe even when the world wasn’t.

He thought of Sirius and Remus. Molly and Arthur. His family. His real family.

The ache in his chest sharpened into something close to grief. He missed them so much he could hardly breathe.

The ache sharpened when his eyes flicked toward his trunk, half-hidden at the foot of his bed. A memory surfaced – Sirius pressing a small square package into his hands last summer, the ‘late birthday present’.

The mirror.

Harry froze. He hadn’t looked at it once since arriving here. It was buried under robes, books and things he hadn’t unpacked. Somehow, he’d forgotten it was even there. He’d ignored it, just like he’d ignored Sirius’s warnings not to trust Voldemort, not to throw himself into this bond blindly.

And now what? He was just going to call Sirius and whine that Sirius had been right all along? That Harry had thought he could see something in Voldemort, thought maybe – just maybe – that the man was changing, only to have it ripped away in a handful of cold words?

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. He felt pathetic.

But he needed someone. He needed Sirius.

Harry pushed himself up and crossed to his trunk, kneeling beside it. His fingers fumbled with the latches, pushing aside clothes until he found the mirror, wrapped in a bit of cloth. His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed, rimmed in red from the fight he’d barely survived keeping his composure in.

He swallowed, throat thick. “Sirius Black.”

The glass shimmered immediately, as though Sirius had been waiting on the other end all this time. Sirius’ face appeared, wide-eyed, hair dishevelled as though he’d been pacing. “Harry? Merlin, are you alright?”

At the sounds of his godfather’s voice, Harry’s fragile restraint shattered. He choked on a sob, tears blurring the image in the glass.

Sirius – I – ” His voice broke. He pulled his glasses off and pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I ran into Snape, and then Voldemort – he – ” Harry’s words dissolved into ragged sobs.

“Hey, hey,” Sirius said quickly, his voice full of urgent warmth. “Breathe, pup. Just breathe. I’ve got you. Take your time.”

Harry shook his head, words tumbling out between hiccupped breaths. “I feel so stupid. I actually thought – Merlin, I thought he was changing. I thought he could – care. But it was all – he made it sound like it was all calculation, that I’m only worth something because of the prophecy, or the bloody bond, or that thing inside me. He said – he said respect, but that doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean-” He broke off, gasping for air, his voice raw.

“Harry.” Sirius’ voice cut through his panic, steady and fierce. “Listen to me. This isn’t your fault. None of it. Do you hear me?”

Harry swiped at his face uselessly, tears spilling faster. “But I trusted him! I thought – I thought because of the bond, because of the way he was different around me sometimes-” His voice cracked again. “I thought it meant something more than just my usefulness. And he just – he just dismissed me, Sirius. Like I was nothing.”

Sirius shook his head firmly. “Harry. Look at me.” His gaze held Harry’s, sharp and unwavering. “This isn’t your fault. You’ve got a heart the size of the Black Lake – you’ve always wanted to believe the best in people. You wanted your soulmate to mean something, because of course you did. Everyone wants that connection. That isn’t weakness, and it sure as hell isn’t something to blame yourself for.”

Harry’s shoulders shook. His fists clenched around the mirror so tightly his knuckles ached. Sirius’ words soaked in, but they couldn’t stop the hollow pit opening wider in his chest.

Sirius let him cry, only speaking again when Harry’s sobs had dulled to ragged breaths. “What do you want to do, pup? If you want out, then we’ll get you out. Don’t you dare think you’re stuck there.”

Harry’s chest tightened. For a fleeting moment, the image of running – stepping through the floo, leaving Malfoy Manor and Voldemort behind forever – flashed bright in his mind. But just as quickly came the crushing weight of the magical vow, the one tethered to every person he loved. Sirius. Remus. His friends. If he left, if the vow broke…

“I can’t,” Harry whispered, voice cracking. “If I leave, the vow breaks. It’ll hurt you, Remus, the Weasley’s and Hermione. I can’t risk you for me.”

Sirius’ eyes flashed. “Harry, listen to me. If you want to leave, then leave. We can protect ourselves – we don’t need you putting yourself through this for our sake. Don’t chain yourself there because of us.”

Harry shook his head quickly, fiercely. “No. Sirius, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of me. I’m staying. I just-” His voice wavered. “I just need to talk to you. To have someone real. Someone who knows me.”

Sirius’ face softened, the hard lines of anger easing into something gentler. “You’ll always have me, Harry. No matter where you are.”

Harry bit his lip, hesitating, then whispered, “Could we… meet up? Not now, I know that’s impossible, but… sometime. I miss you so much. I’d give anything to see you in person again.”

Sirius’ expression flickered – pain, then determination. “We’ll make it happen, kiddo. Somehow, some way. I want that just as much as you do.”

Harry’s throat ached. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Sirius said firmly. “You won’t have to go without me forever.”

They fell quiet for a moment, the silence soft instead of heavy now. Harry traced the edge of the mirror with his thumb, grounding himself in Sirius’ steady gaze.

“I should let you sleep,” Sirius said eventually, though his voice was reluctant. “You’ve had enough for one night.”

Harry nodded, eyes burning again but this time from something gentler than despair. “Goodnight, Sirius. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Harry. And remember – you’re never alone. Not while I’m here.”

Harry pressed the mirror to his chest, eyes closing, letting Sirius’ voice echo in his mind. For the first time since the fight, the crushing weight on his lungs eased, just a fraction.

He wasn’t alone.

But as he curled up on the edge of the bed, mirror still clutched in his hands, the manor around him felt colder than ever.

Chapter Text

The days passed in a blur of study, and Harry almost welcomed the numbness it brought. He threw himself into his lessons with a single-minded focus, treating every assignment, every line of notes, as though it could be the thing that steadied him. It was easier to lose himself in the measured logic of recipes, equations and runes than to sit with the hollow ache that seemed to follow him everywhere now.

Tuesday had begun with Gibbon in the dungeons. The man was brisk, sharp, his patience thinning when Harry answered too curtly, but Harry didn’t care. He listened, he wrote, he measured ingredients with meticulous precision, and when he saw the professor’s grudging nod at his results, something in Harry stiffened with satisfaction. Not pride, exactly – just the knowledge he was doing well enough not to be dismissed.

After lunch came Arithmancy with Barty. Unlike Gibbon, Barty was looser in manner, scattering odd metaphors and half-jokes into the lesson as though the subject weren’t bone-dry. Normally, Harry might have at least smirked, but this week he only sat in silence, working through the equations until his temples ached. Barty let it pass without pressing, though Harry caught the flicker of concern in his gaze before the man turned the conversation back to prime factors and runic conversions.

Wednesday’s etiquette lesson with Narcissa was no easier. She was elegant, precise, her corrections as sharp as a knife, and though Harry gave her the same short, polite answers he gave everyone else, he stored her lessons away carefully. How to hold himself when he entered a room, Pureblood traditions that are followed to this day – all of it mattered here, even if he loathed the performance. Still, he complied. He always complied, even when he felt nothing but a creeping sense of distance from every single person in this house.

Thursday brought Ancient Runes again with Barty, another labyrinth of symbols and translations. Harry copied them all down, re-rewriting the more complex patterns again and again until his wrist ached. He didn’t let himself stop. He couldn’t.

Through all of it, he was polite – always polite – but never more than that. A clipped word here, a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ there. No warmth. No curiosity beyond what was necessary to understand the material. He absorbed what they taught him, every word, every scrap of knowledge, but gave nothing back in return. He couldn’t bring himself to.

The truth was, Harry didn’t trust anyone in this place. He hadn’t, not really, even before, but back then he had felt something different – a sense of protection, of safety, however strange it was to admit. Voldemort had been that protection, a looming, dangerous presence that nonetheless made Harry feel shielded from the rest of the world. But now… even that was gone. Voldemort still sat at his side, still spoke to him at meals, still tried – in his own way – to keep up the strange banter they’d once shared, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to answer in kind. He kept his voice clipped, each ‘sir’ like a wall between them, until Voldemort’s attempts fell into silence.

The banter was gone. The quiet, conspirational flickers of Parseltongue were gone. Even the smallest gestures of familiarity had been cut away. Harry kept his head down, eyes on his plate, and stayed at the table out of obligation rather than comfort. He knew Voldemort noticed – the weight of his gaze was impossible to miss – but Harry didn’t bend. He wouldn’t.

By Thursday evening, the rhythm had become suffocating. Wake, study, retreat. Repeat. The silence around him was heavy, pressing in with every passing hour. His tutors noticed his determination, perhaps even admired his drive, but Harry himself felt only emptiness. He was learning, yes, but it felt more like survival than growth.

Now, at last, he broke the routine. The library was silent around him, shelves stretching up into shadows, parchment and books spread out across the table. He should have been working – he had assignments still unfinished – but his attention had drifted the moment he saw the new letters. One from Draco, scrawled and brisk, the other thick with two distinct, beloved hands.

Draco’s was typical of him – short lines of gossip and chatter, the hurried reassurance that he had passed Harry’s letter along to Ron and Hermione. Harry read it with a faint smile at Draco’s scattered energy. But it was the second letter that had taken hold of him, made his throat tight when he saw their familiar handwriting side by side. He unfolded it carefully, as though it might tear if he rushed.

(Ron is in brackets)

Dear Harry,

We can’t tell you how relieved we were to get your letter. You’ve no idea how worried we’ve been – and yes, I know you probably hate hearing that, but it’s true. We had no idea if you were safe, or where you were, or even if you’d ever been able to write again. I think you must have realised that we wouldn’t stop worrying until we knew something.

Ron is also insisting that I write down that he’s particularly cross that it was Malfoy who passed along your letter. (Honestly, Harry, of all people – Malfoy? Couldn’t you have found literally anyone else? Bloody hell.) But for my part, I’m just grateful we heard from you at all, no matter how it got to us.

I’m not sure how much you know about what’s been happening at Hogwarts, so I’ll give you a bit of an update. Hagrid hasn’t been here since the beginning of term. Nobody knows where he’s gone or when he’ll be back, and of course, the teachers aren’t telling us anything. I’ve asked Professor McGonagall several times, but she only says, “he’s away on important business”. The school feels very strange without him, and the first years don’t even realise what they’re missing.

Then there’s Umbridge. She’s the new Defence professor – though I should really say she isn’t teaching us any defence at all. She makes us read out of that dreadful book – the only thing we’re allowed to use, mind you – and insists we’ll never need to do anything practical, only learn ‘the proper theory’. It’s ridiculous, Harry. When I questioned her methods, she gave me detention. (She’s a complete nutter, Harry. You’d hate her. She’s got this awful little smile like she knows she’s driving you mad and enjoys it.)

The detentions are dreadful. She makes us write lines. I won’t go into too much detail through a letter, but there is more you should know about them.

Professor McGonagall has been brilliant, though. She’s the only one openly standing up to Umbridge in lessons. Sometimes I think the only reason I’ve managed to get through the past couple of weeks is because she’s there, reminding us that the whole school hasn’t lost its mind.

It’s strange without you here, Harry. Everyone notices it. People keep asking about you – where you are, why you left – and of course, we can’t say anything. But I feel it every day, even when no one mentions your name. (I keep looking over at the table and expecting you to be sitting there, Harry. Feels wrong without you.)

On a lighter note, I’m absolutely thrilled you’re studying Runes and Arithmancy. It made me smile so much to see that in your letter – you always dismissed them before, but they really are such fascinating subjects. I’d love to know what else you’re learning. (Honestly, Harry – what were you thinking? Running off, and you’re still doing schoolwork? The least you could’ve got out of it was no assignments. Unbelievable.)

We both miss you more than I can say. We’d love to see you again. There’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up on the first weekend of October. If there’s any way you can manage it – even just for a few minutes – we’ll be there waiting. It would mean the world to us to see you in person, to know you’re really all right.

Take care of yourself, Harry. Please. And don’t leave it so long before writing again.

With love,

Hermione and Ron.

Harry sat with the letter spread across his desk, reading it once, twice, then a third time, his chest tight in a way he couldn’t quite put words to. Their voices came through the parchment so clearly that for a moment, it almost felt like he was back at Hogwarts, sitting in the common room while Hermione scolded and Ron grumbled beside her. He smiled faintly at Ron’s irritation over Draco delivering his last note – trust Ron to focus on that. But Hermione’s worry, her steady insistence that he write, cut through more deeply than he liked to admit.

Hagrid gone. McGonagall fighting Umbridge. Detentions Hermione wouldn’t explain properly, but clearly meant something bad. Harry’s stomach twisted. He could picture it all so vividly, and part of him longed to be there – to take his place beside them and fight Umbridge head-on. But another, quieter part of him felt relief that he wasn’t stuck under the Ministry’s thumb.

When he reached the end, where they begged him to meet them in Hogsmeade, Harry’s hesitation evaporated. He would see them. Nothing and no one was going to stop him.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

I don’t even know where to start. Reading your letter felt like I was sitting right there with you both – Ron, I could practically hear you shouting about Malfoy through the page. Believe me, it wasn’t my first choice either, but he’s proven himself to be a slightly reasonable person under the right conditions. (And yes, I can imagine the look on your face when you read this.)

I didn’t know about Hagrid. It feels wrong, him not being there. I keep wondering where he’s gone, and what could possibly be so important that he’s left Hogwarts at the start of term. I hope he’s safe. If you find anything out, please let me know.

As for Umbridge – I can’t believe they’ve put someone like her in charge of Defence. Hermione, you don’t need to spare me details about the detentions. I can tell it’s bad just from the way you wrote it, and that makes me angry enough. Please be careful with her. Both of you. Don’t give her more reasons to punish you if you can help it. (Though knowing Ron, he’ll probably do it without even trying. Sorry, mate, but you know it’s true.)

It's strange to read about McGonagall standing up to her. I can picture it perfectly – that look she gets when she’s had enough. I wish I could see it for myself. I miss her, too.

You’re right, it is odd not being at Hogwarts. I keep catching myself thinking about what I’d be doing if I were there – Quidditch practice, the Great Hall, even Snape’s lessons (well, maybe not Snape.) Everything feels different now, and not always in a bad way. Some of the things I’m learning here… well, I never thought I’d actually enjoy Ancient Runes, but Hermione, you’d be proud. Arithmancy too. (Ron, you’re right though – running off and still ending up with homework sounds mental when you put it like that.) There’s more I could tell you, but not all of it’s safe to put in a letter.

It means more than I can say, knowing you both miss me. I miss you, too. Every day. Sometimes I think about the three of us in the common room, and it’s like there’s this ache I can’t get rid of.

As for Hogsmeade – yes. I’ll be there. Nothing and no one will keep me away. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and I won’t let anyone stop me from making it happen. First weekend of October – I’ll find you.

Please write again soon. It helps more than you probably realise.

Take care of yourselves.

Harry.

Harry folded the letter along the crease, running his thumb along the parchment as if he could smooth away the ache in his chest. He hadn’t realised until now just how much he’d missed the sound of them, the comfort of voices that had always been at his side. For a moment, he just sat there, heart pounding with a mix of guilt, longing and determination.

He would go to Hogsmeade. There was no question.

He wrote a quick note to Draco, thanking him for passing the last letter and asking him to make sure this one got delivered. Folded, sealed and set aside, it felt like the first practical step toward regaining a little control in the manor.

But there remained the more delicate issue: telling Voldemort. Harry straightened, forcing his shoulders back, and left the library. He rehearsed every possible reaction, bracing himself for denial, dismissal, or mockery. And yet, the idea of not asking at all was unbearable.

That done, Harry straightened in his chair, pushing the quill aside. His stomach turned as he thought about the next part. Writing to Hermione and Ron was easy – comfortable even. But asking Voldemort… convincing Voldemort… that was another matter entirely.

He blew out a breath, forcing himself up. He’d have to raise it tonight. There wasn’t time to waste, not with October only weeks away. And if he waited, Voldemort might see hesitation as weakness. Best to strike while the idea of it was still fresh and his own resolve burned sharp.  

As he made his way down the corridors, he thought about every possible way Voldemort could answer. He might laugh – dismiss Harry entirely. He might twist the request into something humiliating. Or he might deny him outright, refusing with that cruel finality that brooked no argument.

But Harry had leverage. He wasn’t here as a prisoner. He’d made that clear before he even set foot in the manor. Voldemort had agreed to certain conditions. And Harry wasn’t about to let him forget it.

By the time he reached the dining hall, Harry’s jaw was tight with resolve. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Everyone was already seated: Voldemort at the head of the table, pale and composed, his hands folded like a king awaiting entertainment; Lucius to his left, ever elegant in his pristine robes; Narcissa at his side, her posture straight and graceful, though her eyes flicked toward Harry with the faintest hint of curiosity.

Harry moved quietly to his seat at Voldemort’s right. As soon as he sat, the dishes filled themselves – roast meats, buttered vegetables, golden potatoes steaming on polished silver platters. Harry reached automatically for the nearest serving spoon, but stopped himself. His appetite wasn’t there, and besides, his mind was fixed too firmly on the conversation ahead.

Dinner began. Knives and forks chimed against fine china. The Malfoys spoke in low, smooth voices – Lucius updating Voldemort on some meet at the Ministry, Narcissa adding the occasional polished comment. Voldemort listened, interjecting now and again with his own thoughts, his tone calm, measured and absolute.

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t even pretend to eat beyond moving a few potatoes onto his plate. He sat still, listening, forcing himself not to fidget under Voldemort’s quiet presence beside him. He was careful not to meet Voldemort’s gaze just yet.

The pause was short. Voldemort’s eyes flicked toward him, the red glint sharp in the dim candlelight. “And you, Harry, how was your day?” His voice was calm, controlled, but there was an edge, a subtle demand for engagement.

“Fine, sir,” Harry replied, curt and clipped. He didn’t elaborate. That would be giving Voldemort an opening he didn’t deserve.

Voldemort studied him for a moment longer, the faintest twitch of his lip betraying the irritation Harry had learned to read over the weeks. He let the silence stretch just long enough to remind Harry that he was the one being observed, the one whose answer mattered. Harry’s fingers tightened around his fork, barely picking at the food in front of him.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice steady. “I would like to visit my friends at Hogsmeade on the first weekend of October.”

The room seemed to still around him. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, scanning Harry as though weighing the implications of the request against every calculation he had ever made. “It is not safe for you to be so close to Dumbledore.”

Harry let a slow smile creep onto his face, bitter and sharp. “Your care for me is noted, sir,” he said, the words dripping with irony. “I’ll admit it’s… amusing to see it in action now – keeping me from Hogsmeade because it’s ‘unsafe’.”

Lucius coughed softly, Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line, but Voldemort’s gaze held Harry’s, sharp and uncertain.

“The conditions upon which I came to this Manor,” Harry continued, “included the understanding that seeing my friends and family would be accommodated. To remove that freedom now would be truly deceiving.” His voice was calm, almost measured, but every word carried a quiet steel.

Voldemort leaned back slightly, studying him. For the first time in weeks, Harry felt a flicker of hesitation cross the other’s face. He had expected resistance, but the look in Voldemort’s eyes hinted at something else – surprise at the audacity, perhaps, or uncertainty about how to respond to such pointed defiance.

After a moment, Voldemort spoke, his tone deliberate and tight. “I will allow it. You may go, but only under such protection as I deem necessary.”

Harry inclined his head, keeping his expression neutral. “Thank you,” he said softly, picking up his fork to take another bite of food before pushing his plate slightly aside. He returned to silence, letting the conversation around him continue while he remained seated, gathering his thoughts and preparing for the discussions yet to come regarding exactly what precautions Voldemort would impose.

He waited patiently until the appropriate moment, then pushed back from the table and stood. The room was still, the others looking to him for some unspoken cue. Voldemort’s eyes met his as he moved toward the door. “Our lesson will begin at nine in the morning,” Voldemort said, voice crisp and without inflection.

Harry nodded once. Without another word, he turned toward the hall leading back to his room. Each step felt lighter than it had all week; the knowledge that he would see his friends gave him a small, stubborn spark of relief.

The manor remained cold and formal, its echoing halls oppressive as always, but for the first time in days, Harry felt a small measure of control returning. He had forced the conversation, held his ground, and secured his own small victory without bending to intimidation or fear. And though the week’s lessons, the tutors, and Voldemort’s unpredictable moods still loomed over him, Harry could allow himself a thought of anticipation for Hogsmeade – a fragment of normalcy in the midst of the storm surrounding him.

Harry’s footsteps echoed faintly down the stone corridor, steady but laden, each one pulling him closer to the lesson he both dreaded and expected. He wasn’t surprised that Voldemort had kept their training sessions scheduled, even after the argument in the library. If there was one thing Harry had learned about him by now, it was that Voldemort rarely abandoned a plan once it was set in motion. Lessons, trainings, preparation – those things were untouchable, because they were about strength, about survival. And if Voldemort had made anything clear, it was that Harry’s safety mattered. His safety – but not him. Not Harry as a person.

That distinction still stung.

Harry adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, his chest tightening as he turned another corner. He didn’t know how to treat Voldemort anymore. Part of him wanted to stay cold, distant, untouchable – if he kept his walls high enough, there would be no chance of getting his hopes up again. No chance of mistaking Voldemort’s tolerance or his rare flashes of attentiveness for something they weren’t. And yet, another part of him, the pragmatic part, knew it couldn’t stay this way forever. He hadn’t come here to sulk or seethe. He was meant to be preventing a war, and to do that, he needed rapport with Voldemort, not silence.

Still, the conflict gnawed at him. He couldn’t really be angry with Voldemort for the things he’d said. In truth, Voldemort had never pretended to offer Harry more than a place by his side in the conflict to come. He had never hinted at affection, never promised comfort. The closest he had come was in that dream they shared, when Voldemort had said Harry would have his own role as his soulmate. Harry had clung to that apparently, taking it to mean there could be something more between them than strategy and necessity. But if Voldemort’s words in the library had been honest, then perhaps Harry had been wrong.

Perhaps Voldemort wanted only the idea of a soulmate without the connection it was supposed to bring. Someone bound to him by fate, yes, but not someone he had to care for. A companion by title alone, a tethered shadow.

Harry’s stomach twisted. That thought felt almost worse than outright rejection.

But then there were the contradictions that unsettled him even more. Voldemort could claim he didn’t care, could insist Harry mistook tolerance for affection, yet his behaviour said otherwise. He showed Harry more tolerance than anyone else – ensuring he had what he needed, granting him freedoms, even listening when Harry pushed too far. He had even revealed the truth about his Horcruxes, containers of his soul, effectively giving Harry the means to kill him. That alone implied trust. And these past days, Voldemort has seemed uneasy under Harry’s cold shoulder. His composure never broke, but there were flickers – tightness at the mouth, sharper glances, faint irritation whenever Harry kept his distance.

Harry almost relished it. He wanted Voldemort uneasy. Wanted him to feel even a fraction of the hurt his words had left behind. To know what it was like to reach for something and only find emptiness. But the longer this continued, the more it tangled inside Harry. Was he punishing Voldemort? Protecting himself? Or just making a rift that would only weaken what fragile understanding they’d built.

The questions followed him right up to the classroom door, loud enough to drown out even the hammer of his heartbeat. He pushed it open, breath tight, and stepped inside.

The room was arranged exactly as it had been last time: student desks pressed neatly against the back wall, leaving the floor bare. The only difference was the training dummy standing towards the back of the room. Again, a single chair stood before the teacher’s desk, stark and solitary, as if it were waiting just for him. Voldemort was already there, seated behind the desk, pale fingers resting lightly against the wood.

The classroom door closed softly behind Harry as he stepped inside. Voldemort’s gaze was already on him, crimson eyes following each movement with a cool, deliberate weight.

And just like that, the debate in Harry’s head went silent, leaving only the sharp awareness of being seen.

“How has your morning been?” Voldemort asked. “You did not attend breakfast.”

Harry hesitated, his mind flicking through possible answers. He could tell the truth – that nerves had knotted his stomach too tightly for food – or he could keep things neutral. Safe. He chose the latter.

“I’m fine,” Harry said evenly. “Just wasn’t hungry.”

For a moment, silence lingered. Voldemort’s expression did not shift, not quite – but once again there was a faint tightening around his eyes, a small press of the mouth. Irritation, restrained but visible if one knew to look for it. Harry did not miss it. He almost welcomed it.

“Very well,” Voldemort said at last, voice smooth, dismissing the subject entirely. He rose from behind the desk, tall and fluid, and moved toward the centre of the cleared floor. “We will begin.”

With a flick of his wand, the training dummy jerked to life, its limbs moving stiffly as it shuffled into place.

“Today’s lesson will focus on chaining spells,” Voldemort said. His tone was calm, but precise, carrying the weight of command. “You will not cast a single spell and pause, waiting for the result. Combat is unbroken. It is rhythm, it is pressure. You will learn to drive an opponent back without giving them the chance to recover.”

Harry shifted his wand into his hand, his jaw tightening. Voldemort continued, “We begin with the basics. Stupefy, then Expelliarmus. Once you are competent, we will progress to more complex sequences. I will also teach you new spells – ones designed for efficiency in a duel.”

Harry nodded once, stepping forward to face the dummy. “Stupefy! Expelliarmus!” he cast in quick succession. The dummy staggered, the Stunning Spell striking hard before its straw wand flew clattering to the floor.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking. A pause, then: “Again. Do not give your opponent space to recover.”

Harry raised his wand and repeated the sequence, sharper this time, his spells snapping into the air. The dummy rocked under the impact.

“Better,” Voldemort said softly, though the faint tension remained in his face, unspoken but present.

The lesson carried on. Stupefy and Expelliarmus became triplets of spells, then longer chains. Voldemort pressed Harry into faster transitions, no hesitation between movements, no slack in focus. He taught him a jinx to unsteady an opponent’s footing, a curse that bound the dummy’s arms tight against its sides, and a defensive charm that could deflect rather than absorb a blow. Again and again, Harry drilled, until his wrist ached from the relentless pace.

Finally, Voldemort lowered his wand, and the dummy froze mid-motion before collapsing limply back into stillness. His eyes turned on Harry, sharp and unreadable.

“That will suffice for today.” His voice was calm, controlled. “The rest of our time will be spent elsewhere.” He turned, sweeping toward the door, the command implicit. “You will accompany me to my office. We will discuss the war – my new plan of attack. A political one, rather than an open battle. I expect your opinion.”

Harry exhaled, chest still tight from exertion, and followed Voldemort out of the classroom. Their footsteps echoed faintly along the quiet corridor, the silence between them taut. Harry’s pulse was uneven, faster than he wanted to admit. The lesson had been one thing – a duel of spells, rules and command – but now they were walking toward Voldemort’s office. Alone.

There would be no training dummy to focus on, no spells to throw between them, no distraction to cling to. Just conversation. Just Voldemort. And there would be no one to save Harry from that but himself.

The corridor seemed longer than usual, each step dragging him closer to what felt like a trap of his own making. His mind twisted in circles – how much should he say? How much should he hold back? Voldemort had kept his word, sharing his plans for the war, but Harry knew better than to mistake that for safety. One wrong word could undo everything.

The office door loomed before them, tall and ark, and Voldemort pushed it open without pause.

The room was the same as before – sunlight pouring in through drawn curtains, falling across dark wooden shelves laden with ancient books and strange artifacts. The desk stood in the centre, its surface gleaming.

But Harry hardly saw the room.

What seized his attention was the enormous snake coiled in the middle of the sunlight, her scales glistening, body shifting with slow, lazy strength. Recognition slammed into him. The same serpent that had circled him at the graveyard.

Harry froze at the threshold, every instinct screaming not to step closer. His hand twitched toward his wand before he forced it still.

Voldemort paused just inside, glancing back with a faint trace of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You needn’t look so sticken. She is mine – my familiar. Her name is Nagini.”

Harry didn’t answer, his throat too dry.

“She will not harm you,” Voldemort continued smoothly, as if explaining something obvious to a child. “Not while I command it.”

That, somehow, did nothing to placate him. Harry’s chest was still tight, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. It was one thing to face Voldemort alone, another entirely to share a room with both him and that monster of a snake.

But weakness wasn’t something he could afford to show – not now, not here. So Harry forced his legs to move. He stepped forward, past the snake, though his eyes stayed locked warily on her shifting coils. He slid into the chair opposite Voldemort’s desk, spine stiff, trying not to look as though he wasn’t rattled to his very core.

Voldemort sank into his own chair with deliberate ease, fingers steepled on the polished surface of the desk. Crimson eyes fixed on Harry, who remained rigid across from him, hands folded tightly in his lap.

“We will speak of the war,” Voldemort began, voice smooth and measured. “And more precisely – its shape. Brute force has its uses, but a war fought solely with blood leaves ashes, not order. Influence is often sharper than any blade. There are… two paths I am considering.”

Harry’s fingers tightened on his knees beneath the desk, but he kept his gaze steady.

“The first,” Voldemort continued, “is indirect. I could place my followers within the Wizengamot, feeding them ideas, shaping policy through their hands. Effective enough, but it lacks precision – and control.” His lips curled faintly. “Dependence breeds failure.”

He let the words linger before tilting his head slightly. “The second option is preferable. I claim the seats myself. The Slytherin line commands eight in total – six from the Slytherin branch, two from the Gaunts. Their weight in the Wizengamot is considerable, even with the Gaunt reputation tarnished.

Harry blinked, caught between curiosity and unease. Voldemort’s tone sharpened, certain.

“I would present myself as a relative returned from abroad. The Gaunt name still ties me to the line – sufficient to make a claim. The Slytherins are older, prouder and more difficult to dispute. With the proper documentation, a history crafted with care, the Wizengamot would have little ground to deny me. I would go by Marvolo Gaunt.” His mouth curved, though not into anything resembling a smile. “It is… close enough to the truth.”

Harry sat very still, mind racing.

Voldemort went on, crimson eyes gleaming with cool intensity. “And you, Harry. You are not without a legacy of your own. The Potters. Perhaps others besides. I would have you go to Gringotts and request an inheritance test. It will reveal every line you may claim, every seat within your reach.”

He leaned forward slightly, the air between them sharpening. “With those, you could push for your own changes within the Wizengamot. Even against mine, if you choose. Though… ideally, our efforts align. Working in concert. Building a new order, not merely from shadows, but from the centre of power itself.”

He paused, then added his first step in the Wizengamot. “I will rally the support of key pureblood families, mainly Dark and Neutral factions. Some old Light families, attached to tradition, will also support initiatives framed as restoration – magical holidays, old customs. It presents as preservation, but it opens the door for controlled, disciplined use of advanced magic. Subtle, precise, effective.”

Harry’s mind whirred. He considered the plan carefully before replying. “It sounds very reasonable,” he said carefully, voice respectful but distant. “I can see the advantage of it. And I appreciate you asking for my opinion. As for the inheritance test, I’d be interested. I’d never even known that was possible.

Voldemort’s lips twitched faintly, irritation flaring ever so slightly at Harry’s measured answer. “That is all?” he asked, his voice low.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s all. I gave my opinion. Isn’t that what matters?” He leaned back slightly, a trace of mockery creeping in. “Or did you expect more from me?”

Voldemort’s crimson gaze sharpened. “I expect you to take this seriously. This was your idea in the first place. If you do not want me to accommodate your requests, then say so. I will not hesitate to revert to old methods. Full-scale war. No subtlety.”

Harry paused, chest tightening, before bowing his head slightly. “I… apologise. I am taking this seriously.” He lifted his gaze, tone firmer. “And my opinion – your plan to claim the seats yourself sounds stronger. It would give you the most leverage and control. The indirect method leaves too much room for error. Political manoeuvring rather than brute force is… pragmatic. It reduces unnecessary conflict and keeps control precise. And the inheritance test will let me prepare my own position if needed.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched faintly. “Very well. Then we proceed accordingly.”

Nagini stirred then, lifting her head and beginning to slither up Voldemort’s shoulders. Crimson eyes on Harry, Voldemort inclined his head ever so slightly.

“And speaking of ideas,” he said smoothly, “have you given any further thought to the curriculum for your school?”

Harry’s eyes flicker nervously to the serpent, then back to Voldemort. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I think students should start with the basics – English, maths and science, like Muggle schools, so they’re prepared for Hogwarts subjects and have a general education. They should learn to write with a quill and ink – I struggled with that at first, so starting early would help. Wizarding history should be introduced as well, so they understand their heritage and customs and integrate better into our world. Flying could be another lesson. And potions for the older students – learning how to chop ingredients, use tools, maybe even make basic potions.”

Voldemort’s gaze held Harry in its intensity. “Practical, structured and progressive. You wish to integrate magical and non-magical education?”

“Yes,” Harry said, nodding. “I want them to have skills and understanding to fit into the wizarding world, while giving them a strong foundation for their future education.”

The snake shifted again on Voldemort’s shoulders, settling more comfortably, and he gave Harry a long, appraising look. “Very well. Your plan so far is thorough. We shall continue to think on it.”

Harry nodded at Voldemort, glancing uneasily at the enormous snake coiled across his shoulder. Nagini’s head lifted slightly, tongue flicking in and out, scales glinting in the sunlight.

“The boy,” she hissed, voice low and sibilant, “he smells of fear. Why is he still here?”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes shifted to Harry, cool and deliberate. “We were just finishing up,” he said smoothly. “Now, do be polite. Say hello.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he forced out a hesitant, “Hello, Nagini,” keeping his gaze on the snake.

Nagini’s eyes narrowed. “Remarkable,” she hissed. “Someone so weak, so runty… yet the gift of Parseltongue flows through him. How… unexpected.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed with indignation. “Oi! I’m not runty!” he snapped, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not like I choose to be small – I’m still growing! Being short or young doesn’t make me weak!”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flicked between them, and for the first time that day, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement curved the corner of his lips. “Both of you,” he said, voice firm but not harsh, “enough. Harry, focus. Nagini, cease your commentary.”

Nagini’s head dipped slightly, coiling more tightly around Voldemort’s shoulders, though her eyes remained sharp and curious.

“You may leave now,” Voldemort said quietly, almost softly, though his tone still carried the weight of authority.

Harry rose carefully, adjusting his cloak, his gaze flicking one last time to the snake coiled around Voldemort’s shoulders. Nagini flicked her tongue in acknowledgment, and he stepped toward the door.

As the office door closed softly behind him, Harry let out a slow breath. Working with Voldemort again after their argument hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. At some point during the lesson, the need to keep his guard so rigid had slipped, and he hadn’t called Voldemort ‘sir’ once – not because he forgave the man, but because he hadn’t felt he needed to maintain that level of distance. The lapse hadn’t caused any trouble, and it left him with a quiet reassurance: despite the tension and past arguments, they could still work together, hold ground and make decisions side by side. For the first time in days, Harry felt a little more secure, imagining that, step by step, they might be able to find a workable rhythm again.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together in the manor. Another week passed much the same as the one before, and Harry was drowning in lessons. His life had shrunk down to little more than study, meals and snatches of rest that never seemed quite enough. It was exhausting, but it left no room for the restless drifting that has so often plagued him at Hogwarts. There, he had always felt like he was running to keep up, never quite learning enough, his attention split between classes, homework, Quidditch and the constant looming threat of danger. Here, there was nothing but the work. And it was paying off.

Every tutor pushed him to his limit. Professor Gibbon allowed no margin for error, his sharp voice cutting through the steam of simmering cauldrons whenever Harry hesitated. Mistress Ashdown’s Charms lessons were relentless repetition, wand movements drilled until Harry’s wrist ached, until the magic felt like an extension of his heartbeat. Professor Vale’s lessons demanded a different kind of focus – shaping objects down to the smallest detail, forcing Harry to hold both imagination and control at once.

Even Runes and Arithmancy left him drained by the end of each lesson. Barty’s energy was tireless, his mind moving quickly through theories, calculations and applications. He demanded Harry keep pace, but there was no cruelty in it – only a constant push forward. Where others would bark criticism, Barty coaxed Harry to try again, grinning when the boy cracked a difficult formula or deciphered a complicated rune. It was strange – comforting, in a way he didn’t entirely trust. But he couldn’t deny he was learning faster under Barty’s guidance than he ever thought he would.

Defence, of course, was Voldemort’s domain. Harry only saw him for their session on Friday – one hour of duelling that left his chest heaving, his arm aching, and his thoughts ringing. Voldemort pushed him harder than anyone else, never accepting hesitation, never tolerating excuses. There was no softness in his corrections, only the demand to be faster, sharper, better. Harry left the lesson exhausted, but exhilarated too. He felt himself improving – reflexes tightening, spells flowing faster, blocks and counters landing true.

He progressed faster than he ever had at school. Perhaps it was the undivided attention, or the fact that each tutor’s pride was on the line when they presented him to Voldemort. Perhaps it was just the suffocating intensity of the manor itself, pressing him to focus. Whatever it was, Harry felt himself sharpening, piece by piece, into something more formidable.

It wasn’t just study that filled his days, though. The wing set aside for the returning Death Eaters had reached its final stage of preparation, and Harry had been pulled into the work. The heavy labour was mostly done – the dust scrubbed from the floors, the walls repaired – but there were finishing touches to see to. He moved from room to room, checking with Barty that the wards still flared strongly across the doorframes, helping stock the makeshift hospital with potions and bandages, preparing the bare stone bedrooms with charmed bedding and minimal furniture. It was work that left his hands sore, but at least it felt purposeful.

The labour was shared – if begrudgingly – between him and the Death Eaters assigned to the task. They had little interest in taking orders from him, though he never actually gave them any. The grumbling was constant, muttered under breath or thrown barbs when they thought he wouldn’t answer back.

Barty was the one who smoothed it over, though ‘smoothed’ wasn’t exactly the right word. His presence was enough to make the others shut up, whether through loyalty, fear, or both. He seemed almost protective of Harry in a twisted sort of way, warding off the worst of the sneers and the more open hostility. Harry wasn’t sure if it was out of genuine fondness or just Voldemort’s command, but he was grateful for it all the same.

The strangest part of the week, though, was Voldemort’s absence.

Besides their lesson, Harry had only caught brief glimpses of him in the past week – at odd hours in the corridors, or gliding silently into the dining hall only to leave after a few words. He offered no summons, no conversation, no return to his office. Their last talk had been there, a week ago, when Voldemort outlined his political plan. Since then, Harry hadn’t been invited back.

The silence left him uneasy. He told himself it was a relief not to be dragged into another sharp-edged debate, but the truth gnawed at him. Voldemort’s presence, no matter how cold, had been steadying. Their talks had anchored him in this shifting, dangerous place. Without them, Harry felt unmoored. He knew Voldemort was working toward his political war – but knowing didn’t ease the hollow space left in his absence.

On the bright side, Nagini had decided to fill the space.

Since their introduction, she had taken to following him with unnerving regularity. At first, Harry had thought it was some sort of test, Voldemort’s way of watching him through the eyes of his snake. But over time, he realised that wasn’t it – not entirely. Nagini sought him out of her own accord, her heavy body sliding along the corridors after him, her tongue flicking the air whenever she caught his scent.

She was terrifying, yes, but not unfriendly. She spoke with him in her hissing tongue, recounting the day’s hunts or observation of the household. Her conversation was simple – food, warmth, territory – but it was strangely pleasant, even grounding. There was no judgment in her words, no veiled barbs like those of the Death Eaters. She was direct in a way humans never were.

And then there was the feeling. The first time he touched her, it had struck him like a shock: the same warmth, the same strangely comforting pulse he felt from the locket. Horcrux. She had to be. The thought chilled him, but it didn’t change the reality – being around her was oddly reassuring. Wrong, perhaps, but real.

Now, on Saturday, Harry was reclined on the couch in the small library, quill scratching across parchment as he worked through a particularly dense set of Arithmancy problems. Nagini was twined loosely around his legs, her scales cool against his skin, her body shifting with slow, subtle movements as she spoke.

“I stalked a hare,” she hissed, voice sibilant and low. “It ran, but not fast enough. The chase was good.”

Harry smirked faintly without looking up. “And did you let it go?”

Her body shifted, almost like a laugh. “No. Too tasty.”

Harry shook his head, quill pausing for a moment. “Of course.” He dipped it again in ink, forcing his attention back to the equations. The symbols blurred for a moment before snapping back into focus.

Nagini shifted her coils, the pressure against his legs oddly grounding. “You are always working. Always scratching marks on paper. Why?”

“Homework,” Harry muttered. “If I don’t, the tutors will keep me locked in lessons forever.”

The snake hissed a note of amusement. “Then better to finish now, yes?”

Harry allowed himself a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence settled back in, broken only by the scratch of his quill and the occasional soft hiss of Nagini’s movements. Sunlight slanted through the windows, casting on dust motes in the air, the glow arm across the couch.

The quiet creak of the door opening was the only warning Harry had before the soft rustle of robes announced Voldemort’s entrance.

Harry’s quill slowed but didn’t stop. He lifted his head just enough to acknowledge him with a polite, “Good morning,” before bending back over his parchment. His voice was measured, respectful, but lacking any warmth.

Voldemort stepped into the library with a certain deliberateness, his presence filling the room even though he said nothing at first. His gaze slid to the snake coiled around Harry’s legs, then back to the boy himself. “You are working again,” he observed.

“Arithmancy,” Harry replied shortly, not looking up.

Voldemort’s expression sharpened, but he let the comment stand. “And how have your studies been this week? You seem… immersed.”

Harry tapped his quill once against the parchment. “They’ve been productive. Exhausting, but productive.”

“And now?” Voldemort pressed, moving closer, his tone deceptively mild. “What are you working on, exactly?”

Harry gave the paper a final glance before answering. “Assignments from Barty. I’d like to get it right – he pushed me, but he notices the effort. I’d rather not disappoint him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught the faintest tightening of Voldemort’s mouth, the flicker of something sharp passing over his features.

Nagini stirred, her head lifting slightly. “Boring,” she hissed with sudden force, her eyes glinting. “The hatchling scratches paper, ignores me. He forgets who keeps him company.”

Harry dropped his quill at once, turning his attention to her with a grin. “Forget you? Never. You’re far more interesting than all these numbers.” He reached down, brushing his fingers lightly over the smooth scales near her head. “What would I do without you keeping me sane, hm?”

Nagini let out a satisfied, rippling hiss and coiled tighter around his legs, clearly mollified.

Harry chuckled softly, teasing, “See? You’re the best part of my day. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Their exchange was easy, natural, and comfortable in a way that contrasted sharply with the figure standing above them.

Voldemort watched, his expression unreadable at first, though there was something in his gaze – a faint furrow of his brow, a stillness that betrayed a kind of internal conflict. He seemed to be thinking through something, silent long enough that Harry finally glanced up from smoothing his hand over Nagini’s scales.

When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried. “Tell me, Harry… what would it take for our relationship to return to what it was? I find I preferred you as you were before – headstrong, irreverent, sharp-tongued. This… coldness does not suit you.”

Harry blinked, his quill lowering slowly to the parchment. For a long moment, he simply studied Voldemort, measuring his words before he let them spill.

“What did you expect?” His tone wasn’t cruel, but steady, almost weary. “Did you honestly think I’d want to sit here and be all friendly when you made it perfectly clear that you don’t care about me?”

Voldemort’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed was heavy.

Harry pressed on, his voice even but tight with controlled frustration. “I don’t see the point of putting effort into a relationship with someone who won’t even try to reciprocate. I’m not asking for miracles – I never was – but I thought I at least deserved to be respected. To be seen as more than a weapon, or a trophy you can polish and set on a shelf.”

Voldemort’s fingers twitched slightly at his side, though his face remained carved in its usual calm. “I understand where you come from,” he said at last. His tone was smoother than silk, but there was no apology in it. “But I will not take back my words. They were true.”

Harry’s lips tightened, and he leaned back into the couch, Nagini’s coils shifting slightly with his movement. “Then you shouldn’t start this conversation until you actually figure out where you’d like me to stand. Because I’m not going to put in more effort than necessary toward how I interact with you, not unless you give me a reason to. I’m not dismissing you, and I’m not trying to be rude. I’m respecting the boundary you set.”

Nagini hissed, low and contemplative, flicking her tongue toward Voldemort as though gauging him.

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened. “That is not the outcome I wanted from that conversation,” he said slowly. “I was merely reminding you not to place such trust in me. I am not a good man, Harry. You must never forget that.”

“I haven’t,” Harry said immediately. There was an edge in his tone, frustration leaking through. “I know exactly what you are. But I’m trying to look forward, not back. Maybe that’s naïve of me, but if there’s any chance of us building something that isn’t just constant hostility, I can’t keep replaying every way you’ve ruined my life.”

He exhaled, running his thumb along the edge of his quill. “I can’t change the past. But I can decide what I do with the future. And whether I like it or not, you’re in it.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, studying him as though he were some equation more complex than the Arithmancy parchment in Harry’s lap. ‘If that is your stance,” he said softly, “why place so much weight on the soulmate bond? Why not disregard it, if you do not wish to forget my wrongs?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he met Voldemort’s gaze without flinching. “Because it’s like I told you during our argument – you are changing. Maybe slowly, maybe in ways you don’t even notice. But I see it. And if there’s even a chance that it’s for the better, I’d rather be here to make sure of it.”

Harry glanced down at his parchment, then back up. “When I first heard about soulmates, I was… honestly, I was enchanted by the idea. That there was someone made specifically for me. Someone who’d take care of me, who’d love me, no matter what. That was what I imagined.” He huffed a short, bitter laugh. “I know now that’s not what I’ll get. I’ve accepted that. But that doesn’t mean I want to completely ignore what this bond means either.”

Nagini stirred, nudging his leg, as if to remind him he wasn’t alone in the confession. Harry reached down briefly, running his fingers along her scales in absent reassurance.

Voldemort was silent for a long moment, his red eyes unreadable. Finally, he spoke, voice softer than Harry expected. “When I was eleven, I thought much the same.”

Harry blinked, startled into stillness.

“I believed,” Voldemort continued, “that a soulmate would be someone who saw me. Who would never turn away, never abandon me. I found the notion almost… comforting.” His lips curled, not quite a smile. “But by the time I made my first Horcrux, I started to dismiss it as an illusion. A weakness I could not afford to indulge.”

Harry said nothing, watching him carefully.

Voldemort’s eyes darkened. “And yet… I cannot imagine anyone but you as my soulmate. The way you stand up to me – no one else has dared. But that does not mean I want what you dream of. That sort of connection… is not what I seek.”

He paused, as though considering his own words. His gaze flicked to Nagini, then returned back to Harry.

“But perhaps… perhaps I might be willing to try something similar,” Voldemort said, “not simply to indulge you. We seem to work better together, and building on our connection may strengthen us.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the admission, though he kept his expression carefully measured. His quill hovered over the parchment before he set it aside.

“I think that makes sense,” he said slowly, his voice softer than usual. “And we don’t have to figure it out all at once. We’ve got heaps of time, don’t we? There’s no need to try to build everything in a day.”

His voice dropped, earnest. “And I’m sorry – for how I reacted. For giving you the cold shoulder for weeks. That wasn’t fair of me. I should’ve been more mature than that.”

For a heartbeat, Voldemort didn’t respond. The silence felt heavy, charged.

Nagini broke it with a flick of her tongue. “Hatchling speaks the truth,” she hissed softly, almost approving. “He does not cower.”

Harry gave her a faint smile, but his eyes never left Voldemort’s.

Finally, Voldemort inclined his head, the smallest of acknowledgments. “Apologies are rarely worth anything. But… I accept yours.”

Harry nodded once, then a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “You know,” he said lightly, tilting his head, “this is normally the part where the other person apologises. Maybe for some harsh words or something.”

A soft huff of air left Voldemort, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. His eyes glinted with something that almost resembled amusement. “Apologies are rarely worth anything,” he repeated, but this time his tone carried the faintest lilt, as though mocking the very idea. “Even mine.”

Harry’s smirk widened, though he wisely let the matter drop.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before he straightened. His robes whispered as he turned, the faint scent of parchment and cold air trailing after him. “Continue your studies,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “We will speak again soon.”

With that, he slipped from the library as soundlessly as he had entered, the door clicking shut behind him.

Nagini shifted, tightening briefly around Harry’s legs before she uncoiled in a lazy ripple. “Strange, yes?” she hissed, tongue flickering. “He circles you like prey, yet he does not strike.”

Harry let out a quiet breath, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Strange is one word for it.”

The days since their conversation had passed with a quiet, steady rhythm. Lessons continued as usual, each tutor keeping their usual exacting standards, though Harry found himself moving through them with a slightly lighter step. Each day blurred into the next, a constant cycle of study, practice and revision.

Yet amidst the discipline, the sharp edge of tension that had hung between him and Voldemort seemed to have dulled. It was replaced with something less hostile – something that Harry couldn’t quite name. Voldemort had not apologised, not with words, at least. But Harry was beginning to notice small gestures that spoke more than admission ever would.

On Sunday morning, a book Harry had been searching for in the manor’s library appeared neatly on the side table beside the couch. Harry was certain he hadn’t left it there. Nagini claimed no involvement, which left only one possibility. Another day, a steaming cup of tea appeared beside his notes without Harry ever having called for an elf. It wasn’t the tea itself that startled him – it was that it was made the way he liked, strong and sweet, the way no one in the manor should have known. A parchment tucked neatly near his chair, filled with notes on a spell he had struggled to cast, had appeared as if by chance – but Harry suspected otherwise.

Voldemort did not soften in words. He did not smile, nor linger in idle conversation. And yet, each gesture, however minimal, spoke of acknowledgement, of attention paid where it mattered. Harry did not mistake it for affection, but it was enough to make him feel steadier in the manor since first arriving. They did not speak of it, and perhaps never would, but in these small, almost imperceptible ways, a bridge of understanding had begun to form.

By Wednesday, Harry finds himself finishing his morning lesson in the gardens with Narcissa. Today’s lesson went beyond cups, bows and polite conversation. She had chosen to intertwine the physical training with a discussion of Pureblood traditions.

“Understanding our heritage,” Narcissa began, “is not simply about etiquette or appearances. It is about knowing what the wizarding world has been, and what it has lost.” She stopped in front of him, eyes sharp. “You must understand, many Pureblood families are concerned with what they see as erosion of our magical culture.”

Harry frowned slightly. “This is what you meant about Muggleborns?”

“Yes,” she said crisply. “Though not in the simplistic sense some may believe. Some Purebloods do, unfortunately, spread nonsense about Muggleborns ‘stealing magic’. Ridiculous as it sounds, yes, some cling to that idea.” She shook her head slightly, the faintest hint of disapproval in her gaze. “But the majority are less concerned with that, and more with the erosion of magical traditions.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

“Consider, for example, Hallow’s Eve,” Narcissa said, sweeping her hand to gesture toward the autumnal trees. “Traditionally, this was a time to honour the spirits and the old magical ways, to reflect and give thanks for the protection and guidance magic affords. Yet now it has largely been replaced with Halloween – primarily a Muggle celebration, full of costumes and meaningless sweets.”

She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. “Yule has been replaced with Christmas, and even older celebrations, such as Eostre, observed during the spring equinox, have largely died out. These were not just dates on a calendar. They were times to recognise and honour magic itself, to connect with its cycles, to teach the young of our heritage and our gratitude. These traditions are crucial to the identity of our world.”

Harry frowned, his quill from earlier lessons tapping absently against his notebook. “But… what about Muggleborns themselves? Surely some families dislike them simply for being Muggleborn, not just because they’re changing traditions?”

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Most Purebloods do not hate Muggleborns personally,” she said firmly. “They object to what they bring into the wizarding world. It is not about the child’s magic, but the child’s influence on our way of life.”

Harry shook his head, feeling compelled to push back. “I’m not sure that’s always true,” he said carefully. “At Hogwarts, I’ve seen students attack Hermione for nothing more than her blood. They’ve said cruel things, targeted her personally, and not just because she was changing traditions. Sometimes it felt like hatred just for who she is.”

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened. “That is… unfortunate. It is true that the hatred has increased in intensity over the years. Many families have lost sight of what they truly object to – the erosion of traditions – and instead, focus their ire on individuals. It is regrettable, but it is a consequence of fear and misunderstanding spreading faster than reason.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So they’ve lost perspective?”

“In many cases, yes,” Narcissa replied. “Some families focus more on punishing Muggleborns than preserving what they are meant to protect. That is why proper education, proper guidance, is so important. Etiquette is only a small part of it; understanding context, history, and the meaning behind actions matters far more.”

Harry exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance as he processed her words. “I get that. But it still feels like punishment for something they didn’t do. It’s hard to see it as anything else when it’s personal.”

Narcissa inclined her head slightly, acknowledging his perspective. “Perhaps. But know this: knowledge and reason are the tools that allow one to see beyond the surface. If you are to navigate this world successfully, you must recognise both the truth and the misperceptions that surround it.”

Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of her lesson, the practical grace of his stance in the garden now entwined with the lessons of history and perspective.

A soft pop of magic interrupted the stillness. A house-elf appeared, bowing so low its nose nearly brushed the grass. “Master Potter,” it whispered nervously, wringing its hands. “The Dark Lord requests your presence. He is holding a meeting and has invited you to attend.”

Harry straightened, blinking. He had been to a Death Eater meeting before – walked in nearly blind to the room and the attention of others – but now he had been summoned properly. There was a relief in that, however small.

“Thank you,” Harry said, inclining his head before glancing at Narcissa. “Will you be coming too?”

“In time,” she replied smoothly. “I have not been summoned yet personally, but I expect I will be. If the Dark Lord wishes you there early, however, you should not keep him waiting.”

Harry nodded, shouldering his things. “Thank you for the lesson today,” he said sincerely.

Narcissa’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “You are most welcome. Remember, Harry, context matters as much as conduct.”

With that, Harry followed the elf into the manor, his footsteps echoing along the marble floors until they reached the dining hall. The chamber was empty save for Voldemort himself, standing at the head of the long table, his pale hands clasped behind his back.

“Sit,” Voldemort said, motioning to the chair at his right. “Today’s meeting will be of some importance.”
Harry slid into the chair, posture straight. He waited, alert, as Voldemort began to speak.

“I intend to set into motion the plans for Azkaban,” Voldemort said, voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity. “The renovations on the east wing are satisfactory. We are prepared enough to move forward. Two weeks from today – October 8^th – the breakout will occur. That time will allow me to make the necessary adjustments to Azkaban’s guard schedules and ensure the participating Death Eaters are properly prepared.”

Harry’s brow drew together. “That… sounds solid,” he admitted. “But what about the dementors?”

Voldemort’s lips curved faintly. “In the last war, I had an arrangement with them. I intend to renew it.”

Harry hesitated. “Was the arrangement to let them loose?” he asked cautiously.

“That was the agreement,” Voldemort confirmed, his tone even. “A necessary evil, nothing more.”

“No,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “That can’t happen. We can’t just release soul-sucking monsters on the world, magical or Muggle. If Muggles start losing their souls, they’ll investigate – and they might stumble across us. And even for wizards… how are we meant to rebuild a stronger Britain if everyone’s living in fear of dementors on their doorstep?”

Voldemort regarded him with cool patience. “What would you suggest then?”

Harry leaned forward. “A different kind of bargain. Offer them sanctioned feeding in exchange for loyalty to you instead of the Ministry. Azkaban itself is enough to sustain them, isn’t it? They don’t need to roam Britain; they need a steady supply. They get what they want, you keep control, and no one else has to suffer.”

A flicker of interest passed over Voldemort’s expression. “You would make cattle of Azkaban’s captives.”

“They’re criminals,” Harry said firmly. “They’ve already been condemned. At least this way, no innocents are caught in the crossfire.”

For a long moment, Voldemort was still, fingers lightly tapping the back of the chair. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips. “Pragmatic. Very well – we will approach them on those terms.”

“I should come,” Harry insisted, leaning forward. “If the dementors turn or something goes wrong, a Patronus could make the difference.”

“You will not,” Voldemort said flatly, his eyes gleaming like cut garnets.

Harry refused to look away. “You can’t keep me out of everything. I’m not helpless.”

“I will not have you near creatures that would drain the soul from your body,” Voldemort hissed, voice low and sharp. “Your presence is not required.”

Harry clenched his jaw, but he forced his voice even. “Maybe not required, but useful.”

“I decide what is useful,” Voldemort replied. The finality in his tone was like the snap of a lock.

Harry fell silent, but not in surrender. He let the matter drop for now, yet a thought burned in the back of his mind: he’d change Voldemort’s stance, somehow. He just had to find the right angle.

The door opened with a groan, and Death Eaters began to file in, silent as shadows. Their presence shifted the air, oppressive and heavy. Harry sat stiffly in his chair at Voldemort’s right, a place of honour that offered little comfort.

The thought of sharing the manor with newly freed prisoners sent a cold knot through his chest. These weren’t the cool, calculating figures that stood in the room now; Azkaban would have hollowed them out, left only fanatic loyalty and madness behind. Harry imagined the echo of their laughter in the corridors, the fever-bright eyes watching him, and the constant hum of danger pressing against the walls of his supposed home.

He glanced at Voldemort from the corner of his eye. The Dark Lord had placed him under his protection, a fact that had made the manor bearable. But would that shield hold once a crowd of unhinged followers filled these halls? Harry couldn’t shake the worry that Voldemort might withdraw his subtle softness when surrounded by those who worshipped him without question.

The meeting itself unfolded without surprises for Harry. He already knew the plan, had already argued through the details with Voldemort. The discussion tonight was not for Harry’s benefit but for the others. He was simply there to watch how the Death Eaters absorbed the information.

It was a strange experience, sitting silent while robed figures leaned forward with keen attention, listening as Voldemort laid out the plan to storm the prison and reclaim the loyalist who had rotted behind its walls. None of them bore the haunted look of men and women scarred by Azkaban; none had yet known its bite. They sat eager, sharp, their eyes alight with the prospect of swelling their ranks again.

Harry found himself unsettled by the hunger in the room. Too many of them seemed feverishly eager, their whispers vibrating with anticipation when Voldemort finished speaking and dismissed them to prepare. He shifted in his chair, resisting the urge to sink further into the shadows.

The Death Eaters rose in unison, heads bowed as they filed toward the door. Harry moved to stand with them, but before he could push back his chair, cool fingers closed firmly around his wrist.

The bond ignited instantly, a wave of unnatural calm threading through his chest, but Harry shoved it down, acutely aware of how many still lingered. Those who were slower to rise now lingered with sharper gazes, interest plain in the way they flicked their eyes toward the hold Voldemort had on him. Harry tried to jerk his wrist free, subtly at first, then with a sharper tug. Voldemort didn’t so much as shift.

The minutes stretched, unbearably heavy, until the final black-cloaked figure bowed out and the doors closed. Only then did Voldemort turn toward him, eyes gleaming with quiet intent.

“Stay,” he said, the words wrapping around Harry like a command threaded with something softer.

Harry stilled. “What is it?” he asked cautiously.

Voldemort did not release him. “I intend to declare you as mine. Publicly. To the inner circle first, then the rest.” His voice carried a chill steadiness. “You will have your place at my side. I considered other names, other titles to mark your position. None are sufficient. You will be known as what you are – my soulmate.”

The words landed like a stone in Harry’s chest. He blinked, startled, heart hammering. “What – now? Why? We’ve only just… started trying to work this out. What made you change your mind?”

Voldemort’s gaze narrowed faintly, crimson eyes thoughtful. “You may not like my reasoning.”

“Try me,” Harry muttered.

There was a pause. Then Voldemort said, “I am not yet certain what I want from this bond. But I do know this: I will not have my followers – or anyone else – wondering if you can be touched, questioned, toyed with. I want it known you belong to me. That mark on your wrist says my name, but…” His lips twisted faintly. “It says Tom Marvolo Riddle. That presents… problems in the future.”

Harry frowned. “Because you're claiming yourself as Marvolo Gaunt?”

“Exactly,” Voldemort replied. “Too many will wonder why the mark does not match what I call myself. It will require management. I will find a solution.”

Harry sat silent for a long moment. “So what you’re really saying,” he murmured, “is that you want to make sure everyone knows I’m untouchable. Because of you. Not because of me.”

Voldemort inclined his head slightly. “Yes.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, struggling to settle the rising unease in his chest. He hated this. The idea of standing above anyone set his teeth on edge. He didn’t want their power, their deference, their fear. He had spent his entire life being compared, being shoved onto pedestals he never asked for. And now, here was Voldemort – offering, no, declaring – that Harry would be placed even higher, not because of what Harry wanted, but because Voldemort wanted it.

His fingers flexed against the hold on his wrist. “I don’t like this,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t want to stand above anyone. I’m not interested in power, and this feels like – like you’re dragging me into it whether I like it or not.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “And will you defy me? Will you refuse?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to sit above Death Eaters, didn’t want their resentment or suspicion. But if he refused – if he openly said no – he could feel the crack it would dive through whatever fragile bridge he and Voldemort were trying to build.

So he swallowed hard and forced the words out. “No. I won’t refuse.”

Voldemort’s lips curved faintly, satisfied, though Harry thought he glimpsed something sharper beneath the expression. “Good.”

Harry sighed, shoulders sagging. “Just… don’t expect me to like it.”

“You need not like it,” Voldemort said smoothly. “You need only accept it.”

Harry stared at him, uneasy. He felt cornered, but he forced himself to push the thought aside. “So… what then? You’re going to tell them at the next meeting?”

“No.” Voldemort shook his head. “Not yet. The Azkaban raid comes first. The weeks ahead will be busy. When all the inner circle are gathered again, then we will speak of it. Not before.”

Harry exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of him, though not entirely. “That’s good. I could use the time. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”

“Nor was I,” Voldemort admitted, though his tone carried no apology. He hesitated, then added, almost grudgingly, “Thank you… for hearing me.”

Harry couldn’t help it; laughter slipped from his throat, light and quick. “You don’t have to force a thank you. I get it anyway. “He tilted his head, lips quirking faintly. “But you’re welcome.”

Voldemort’s face shifted, some of its sharpness softening. For a moment, Harry could see Tom Riddle beneath the mask – handsome, composed and smiling without cruelty. It startled him, tugged his thoughts dangerously close to places he didn’t want to go.

He cleared his throat. “Right. I should go. I’ve got homework. Runes tomorrow.”

Voldemort’s lips curved further, a deliberate gleam in his eyes now. “Dutiful,” he said, voice carrying a silken edge. “It suits you. I am… pleased, Harry. More than you know.”

Heat rushed up Harry’s neck before he could stop it. He hated how easily those words, spoken in that tone, slipped past his guard. “Don’t-“ he began, flustered.

Voldemort’s smirk deepened. “Don’t what? Compliment you? You deserve it.”

Harry scowled, shoving his chair back and standing far too quickly. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, ignoring the way his pulse refused to settle.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort replied smoothly, his voice following Harry like silk as he moved toward the door.

Harry paused at the threshold, his back still to Voldemort. “Dinner?” he asked, forcing his voice into something steadier.

“Yes,” Voldemort answered simply, but with a weight that made Harry’s skin prickle.

Harry nodded quickly, not trusting himself to linger any longer, and slipped out. The door closed softly behind him.

In the empty corridor, he pressed a hand to his wrist where Voldemort’s grip had been, the ghost of calm still tingling there.

Chapter Text

The library stretched endlessly around Harry, a labyrinth of towering shelves and hushed shadows. The air smelled of old parchment and candle wax, heavy with a kind of stillness that clung to his skin. He stood in the middle of the room, his back to the books, every direction lined with shelves that rose like watchful sentinels. It was familiar – too familiar. He had walked these aisles before, had sat at those tables and traced the spines with restless fingers. But this time was different.

Harry frowned, glancing around. He didn’t remember coming here. He hadn’t chosen this. The conclusion settled over him like a fog: this wasn’t real.

It’s a dream.

He turned slowly, unease crawling up his spine. He didn’t know what he expected – maybe an empty room, maybe silence – but what he got was far worse.

“Hello, Harry,” came the voice. Smooth, cultured and familiar in a way that immediately made his stomach drop.

Harry spun around.

Tom Riddle leaned lazily against the side of a bookshelf, arms crossed, every inch the picture of composed arrogance. He looked as he did last time – early twenties, dark hair, perfectly styled, features so handsome they seemed sculpted. His eyes gleamed, sharp and predatory, the way a serpent might watch a mouse.

Harry’s pulse spiked. His last encounter with this version of Voldemort had left him shaken – the way Tom had studied him, intrigued in a way that was far too personal, far too invasive. This wasn’t the Voldemort he’d grown begrudgingly used to over the past month. This Tom was something else: curiosity wrapped in menace.

“You again,” Harry muttered, wary.

Tom’s smile widened as if pleased by the recognition. “Me again.” He lifted his gaze, letting it wander over the endless shelves before them. “I must say, I much prefer this to that damp little cave. Dark, cramped, dripping with water – it hardly suited me.” He gestured lazily to the library around them. “But this? This has potential. Familiar, isn’t it?”

Harry stayed silent. He hated the way Tom spoke, as though they were sharing some private joke.

“Ah, Malfoy Manor,” Tom continued smoothly. “So my little gambit with Abraxas bore fruit. How convenient. You’ll have to tell me what it’s like, living among the pureblood aristocracy. Though, if I’m being honest…” His smile thinned into something colder. “I loathed them. All of them. Proud little lords who thought the world owed them something. Everything was handed to them – wealth, prestige, power – while the rest of us clawed for scraps.”

His eyes flicked back to Harry. “But that doesn’t sound like you, does it?”

Harry stiffened at the weight of Tom’s gaze.

“You have the look,” Tom said softly, almost gently. “Someone who was born to fight for every scrap, every moment of recognition. Someone who had to shove his way up from the dirt just to survive.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to be at the top. I don’t care about that.”

Tom’s laugh was low and mocking, though his expression remained smooth. “Oh, Harry. Denial doesn’t suit you. I can see it – you remind me of myself. And I could help you, you know. All you would need to do is open yourself to me. To the locket. Let me strengthen you. I could help you overcome everything stacked against you.”

There it was – the manipulation. Harry’s jaw clenched.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said flatly. “And the answer is no.”

Tom’s smile faltered, but only slightly. His eyes sharpened, calculating. “So stubborn. But whether you open yourself willingly or not, it hardly matters. Haven’t you noticed? That’s why we are here now. Not the cave. Not shadows. This place. What I’ve been drawing from you, Harry – your magic, your emotions, your thoughts – has made me more aware now, more… alive. I can taste the world again through you.”

He stepped forward; his presence felt like it was pressing against Harry’s chest. “And with that awareness comes clarity. Your name, for instance.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Harry James Potter. Your name written on my skin. I’d nearly forgotten about soulmates – it’s been so long since such things mattered. But I see it now. I see exactly what ties us together.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Tom’s expression softened into something like false sympathy. “And I see something else, too. That connection we spoke of? I’ve identified it. And do you know what’s most delicious? Voldemort hasn’t told you.” His voice dropped, silky and cruel. “That must sting, doesn’t it? All that trust you’ve given him, and he keeps this from you.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “He’ll tell me,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “We’re… working on things. He promised he would. I know it’s important to him – it’s not easy to share something personal. I can respect that.”

“Respect?” Tom’s brow arched. “Harry, you have as much right to this truth as he does. More, perhaps – it affects you most directly. And yet he withholds it. Why?”

Harry swallowed hard.

Tom’s smile sharpened. “I’ll tell you why. Because knowledge is power. I was never one to give someone else an advantage over me, and he is no different. He will happily keep you in the dark if it benefits him. You think he’ll give you the truth if it risks driving a wedge between you?”

Harry opened his mouth but closed it again. His thoughts spiralled, chasing themselves into knots.

Tom stepped closer, voice low, coaxing. “I’ve seen your thoughts, Harry. I’ve felt your emotions. That little spat you had with him? That was the most honest he’s been with you yet. Do you think he actually cares?” His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “I can’t imagine it. Soulmate or not, I could never care for someone, least of all a fifteen-year-old boy still stumbling through school. If I can’t see anything in you worth more than amusement, why would he?”

Harry’s chest tightened. This was Voldemort – just younger, sharper. He would know. Wouldn’t he?

But no – Voldemort had changed. Hadn’t he? Harry remembered the vow to protect him, remembered the way Voldemort had told him about the Horcruxes, had included him in important decisions, even admitted some personal concerns. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Yet Voldemort had also said, more than once, that he liked having his soulmate close. Soulmate, not Harry. Was that all Harry was? A convenience? A mark of possession?

Harry tried to push back. “He’s training me. He sees potential in me.”

Tom’s voice slid back in, soft and insidious. “He trains you, yes. But do you really think you’re the first? Back in Hogwarts, I had my Knights of Walpurgis. Promised them power. Trained them, taught them. There’s no use in uneducated followers, after all. Do you see? He’s doing the same thing now. The same script, the same promises. You’re just another pawn, Harry. Dancing to his tune.”

Harry’s mouth was dry. “That’s not- “

“Isn’t it?” Tom cut in. “You think he cared about your little silent treatment? Please. You gave in far too quickly. One show of false remorse, and you rolled over for him.” His lips curled. “Pathetic.”

Harry flinched. Because it was true. Voldemort hadn’t apologised – not really. And Harry had caved anyway, too desperate for approval, too eager to believe in something he shouldn’t.

His voice cracked as he muttered, “I know. I know I caved too quick. But I don’t hold grudges. I was… happy enough with what he gave me.”

Tom’s pitying smile made Harry’s skin crawl. “You crave affection, Harry. From anyone who offers it. Even from him. But you won’t be happy with him for long. Not once you know what ties you together.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?’

Tom tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin, then tilted his head as though considering a mercy. “I could tell you. Free of charge. After all, it doesn’t affect me.” His smile widened. “Would you like to know?”

Harry hesitated. His gut twisted, screaming not to trust him. But his voice betrayed him. “… Yes.”

Tom leaned in close, his breath ghosting across Harry’s ear. “You’re a Horcrux, Harry. His Horcrux. A fragment of Voldemort’s soul is lodged inside you, bound to your own. That’s what ties you. That’s what makes you his.”

The world seemed to tilt. Harry’s knees threatened to buckle.

Tom stepped back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened, but I know it’s true. Think about it, won’t you? You have much to discuss with him.”

The dream began to blur, the shelves fading, Tom’s figure dissolving into shadow. His voice lingered, echoing through the dark.

“I’ll see you again soon, Harry.”

Harry woke with a start, his chest heaving, sweat cooling against his temples. The library bled away into the dim canopy of his bed curtains, but Tom’s words clung like burrs to his skin. You’re a Horcrux.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the echo, but his mind betrayed him, rushing to make connections he’d ignored or refused to see before. His scar – the white lightning bolt carved into his forehead – how it had burned in Voldemort’s presence for years. It hadn’t in a while, but the memory was too telling. Their strange bond – the way dreams had carried Voldemort into his own head. How the flashes of violence and cold laughter that had once split his nights turned into full conversations between them. He thought of the locket itself, how it pulsed with warmth when he held it, how it called to him, the same pull he’d felt with Nagini.

Every piece fell into place, jagged and inevitable.

Harry rolled onto his back, staring up at the darkness. Fury simmered hot in his chest. Voldemort knew. And he kept it from him – kept this from him, while demanding Harry’s trust, while pulling him deeper into plans, conversations, even something resembling… companionship.

Harry’s fists tightened in the sheets. He didn’t want to see him. Not now. Not ever, if he was honest. The thought of stepping into Voldemort’s presence with this revelation still ringing in his ears made bile rise in his throat. But alongside the anger was another worry: the locket.

The locket was feeding from him, heavily. In only a few short weeks, it had learned too much – the soulmate bond, the Horcrux connection, even his thoughts and emotions. That kind of growth came at a cost. His cost.

Harry bit his lip, remembering the conversation they’d had weeks ago, Voldemort’s voice like cold stone: The fragment will test you, push against your mind, and attempt to influence your thoughts.

And wasn’t that exactly what Tom had tried to do tonight? Turn him against Voldemort, chip at the fragile trust Harry had been building? For what end, Harry didn’t know, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think it was harmless.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered into the silence.

He needed to tell him. He knew it. Voldemort had been clear: if the locket reached him again, Harry was to come to him. Not later. Not eventually. Immediately. Ignoring that order would be a mistake. Voldemort would take it as defiance, maybe betrayal.

But it was the middle of the night. Harry reached for his wand, muttered “Tempus,” and a faint shimmer formed in the air: 2:34 a.m.

Harry groaned. The Azkaban breakout was only two days away, and Voldemort was consumed with planning. Every hour was accounted for – maps, rotations, wards, orders. Did the man even sleep? Harry wasn’t sure. He’d never seen him stop. And was this really the time to drop such a truth on him? To admit that Tom had reached him again, had told him the very secret Voldemort was withholding?

Harry pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, debating. If he waited, Voldemort would be furious. If he went now, Voldemort would still be furious. The only difference was which choice meant Voldemort’s wrath fell harder.

And Harry knew the answer.

With a resigned sigh, he pushed the blankets back and swung his legs onto the cold floor. He grabbed his robe, tied it loosely, and slipped into the hallway. The manor was silent, shadows stretching along the walls like ink. His bare feet made no sound as he padded down the corridor, the oppressive hush making every step heavier.

At the door, his hand hovered for a moment, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He didn’t want this. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He almost turned back. Sure, Voldemort and he have been finding steadier ground between them, but Harry wasn’t foolish enough to throw himself straight into the man’s ire just to test how far their progress would hold.  So, before he could lose his nerve, he knocked.

The silence stretched. Then, with a faint hiss, the door opened on its own.

Voldemort was standing near the hearth, robes shedding firelight as if he commanded it. His eyes cut immediately to Harry. “You should be asleep.”

Harry swallowed hard, then stepped into the room, the door shutting with a quiet click behind him. He felt like he was crossing into the lair of a predator – yet one he was tethered to, bound to face whether he wanted to or not.

“You said,” Harry began, his voice coming out rough, “that if I dreamed about the locket again, I was supposed to come to you.”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, curiosity sparking in his gaze. “Ah. And you did.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry nodded. His fingers clenched at his sides, nails biting his palms. “Before we talk about the locket… we need to talk about this.” He gestured sharply to his scar, then to his chest where the locket rested. “You knew, didn’t you? That I’ve been carrying part of you around all this time.”

Voldemort’s expression didn’t flicker, but the air thickened, oppressive. “I knew.”

The simple admission ignited the fury Harry had been holding back. “You promised me you’d tell me the truth. You said I’d have answers, but you kept putting it off like it didn’t matter. It does matter, Voldemort – it’s my life! My body! And you just decided for me that I didn’t need to know?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, assessing Harry’s words. “You are alive. That is what mattered.”

“That’s not enough!” Harry snapped, heat rushing to his face. “You had so many chances – when we talked in the library, after everything you admitted – hell, you could’ve told me the second you realised. But no. You kept it to yourself. Do you know what that feels like? Finding out something this important from the locket, when it should have come from you first?”

For the first time, Voldemort’s composure cracked, just faintly. His gaze sharpened, a thread of unease curling at the edges. He stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Do you think it was easy for me to speak of it? That I could hand you such knowledge without weighing what it would do to you?”

Harry’s anger faltered, replaced by something raw and wounded. “It doesn’t matter if it was easy. You promised. And it’s just as important to me as it is to you. More, even – because I’m the one stuck with it inside me.”

A long pause stretched, filled with the crackle of fire and Harry’s harsh breathing. Then Voldemort inclined his head slowly. “You are right. I did not honour my word.” His voice dipped, almost reluctant, but the words were there. “I feared what it might change between us.”

Harry blinked at him, startled at the honesty. He wasn’t sure if it was an excuse or a confession, but it was more than he expected. “I don’t need you to protect me from the truth,” he said quietly, though his voice still shook. “Not if we’re supposed to trust each other.”

Voldemort’s eyes held his, unwavering. “Then I will not again.”

Some of the fury drained from Harry’s chest, though the sting of betrayal lingered. He nodded once, a stiff motion. At least it was something.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not unbearable. Harry broke it with a different thought gnawing at him. “Is this why you didn’t want me going to Azkaban?”

“Yes.” Voldemort’s answer came without hesitation. “I do not know how a dementor would respond to someone carrying two souls. I will not gamble with that unknown.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “My safety – or the horcrux’s safety?’

Voldemort considered and then said, “Both. Your well-being is the Horcrux’s survival. But…” His voice shifted, quieter, almost unfamiliar. “I find I am becoming more concerned with you.”

Harry swallowed hard, unable to form an answer. He gave a small nod instead, though the words echoed inside him.

Voldemort’s eyes, sharp and steady, did not leave him. “What happened in the dream?” he asked, his voice calm but with an undertone that made it clear he expected nothing less than the full truth.

Harry hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t easy to speak of the dream – of Tom Riddle in that locket form, circling him like a predator and prying at every insecurity. But the expectant silence stretched, and Harry knew avoiding the question would only make things worse.

“He was there,” Harry said finally, his voice low. “Tom Riddle. He… he said he preferred the library we were in to the cave from last time. He guessed we were at Malfoy Manor now. And then…” Harry clenched his fists. “He started talking. About me.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Harry drew a shaky breath. “He said I look like someone who had to fight for every scrap. He said he saw himself in me – and that he could help me, if I let him in. Tried to convince me to open myself to the locket’s magic more. I told him no.”

The room fell quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire. Voldemort’s expression didn’t shift, though Harry thought he glimpsed something flicker in his eyes.

Harry pressed on, the words tumbling out now. “He said he didn’t need my permission anymore. That’s how we ended up in the library – he’s still feeding from me, pulling from my magic, my emotions. He’s learning the world through me, he said. And then… he said he recognised my name. He remembered soulmates. He realised I was his.” Harry’s voice faltered. “And then he told me he finally figured out what the connection was. He didn’t explain it – just hinted. But he knew.”

Harry hesitated again, but this time it wasn’t because he didn’t want to speak. It was because of the storm roiling in his chest. He lifted his gaze, meeting Voldemort’s crimson eyes. “He said things. Things I can’t get out of my head. That all of this-” he gestured vaguely between them “-is a manipulation. That you’d keep me in the dark if it gave you the advantage.”

For a moment, Voldemort was silent. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool but edged with a gravity Harry hadn’t expected. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Harry admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “He made it sound so obvious. That I’m just dancing to your tune. That you’d say anything to keep me here.”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened, though his words, when they came, were measured. “I told you before – I have come to care for you, more than I expected, more than I intended.” He paused, almost as if the admission weighed on him. “But I will not deny what I was when I first realised the truth. When I entered your mind last summer, when I figured it out, my first thought was not you. It was the Horcrux. My instinct was to secure it at any cost. And yes – I thought of offering anything that would win you over, keep you from Dumbledore. That was my concern.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I doubt Dumbledore would have done anything to me – if he even knew.”

“Perhaps,” Voldemort allowed. “But I did not – and do not – trust him with something so valuable.”

Harry drew in a breath, steadying himself. “Look, I don’t like that you lied. Or that you manipulated me. But… I see your side of this, too. If I were carrying a piece of your soul, then of course I would’ve been valuable to you – one of the most valuable things in the world. I can’t pretend I don’t understand why you’d say anything to make sure I stayed with you.”

He paused, frowning slightly before continuing, in a quieter tone. “The only reason I can move past that is because you’re different now. While I know you were putting on a front, the shift between that dream and the next was obvious. Since I’ve been at Malfoy Manor, it’s been even clearer. You’ve been more honest with me. More… real. Especially after we stopped fighting.”

Voldemort tilted his head, regarding Harry with something unreadable.

“I know it might be naïve,” Harry went on, his voice steadier now. “And maybe the locket’s right, and you are manipulating me. But we’ll get nowhere if neither of us is willing to be open with each other.”

For a moment, Voldemort simply studied him. Then, to Harry’s surprise, the man inclined his head in something almost like agreement. “I am not a nice man, Harry. Manipulation is woven into me as deeply as magic itself. But…” His eyes softened by the smallest fraction. “I find myself less inclined to use it on you. I like the fire in you – the way you refuse to bow, the way you fight for what you believe in, even against impossible odds. I would rather see what kind of man you become with my guidance than reduce you to a puppet under my control.”

Harry’s breath caught, warmth prickling under his skin. He glanced down, flustered, before muttering, “Well… I do appreciate what you’ve given me. The chance to learn. To… to do something that matters.”

A faint, amused curl touched Voldemort’s lips.

There was a moment of silence before Voldemort broke it. “So, how do you feel about the Horcrux?”

Harry froze. He hadn’t expected Voldemort to ask outright, and the words tangled in his throat before he managed to speak.

“I…” he cleared his throat, stalling for time. “I haven’t really had much chance to think it through. Everything’s been moving too fast. But if you want the truth – honestly, I don’t mind. I’ve known for a long time now that I’d be tied to you one way or another. Being soulmates already made that unavoidable. This just feels like… another chain added to the ones I already had.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but in curiosity, as though weighing the honesty of every word.

Harry pushed on, anxiety pressing at his ribs. “But I do worry. The locket – it feeds on me. Twists my thoughts, tries to turn me against you. And if it can do that from around my neck, then… what about this fragment? It’s inside me. Does that mean it could change me too? Feed off me like the locket does?”

Voldemort shook his head, calm and absolute. “No. The fragment in you is very small. Dormant. It lacks the power to act as the locket does. It will not whisper in your mind, nor sap your strength, nor warp your will. It is only significant in that it binds us more closely together.”

Harry let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, his shoulders sagging a little. “So it’s just… there. Quiet.”

“Yes,” Voldemort said. His tone had softened, almost imperceptibly. “It has always been so. You lived fifteen years unaware of it, untouched by it. That will not change.”

His gaze dropped to the locket again. It felt heavier with every breath. “Then what do I do about this? I never thought it would start knowing things I didn’t. It’s… dangerous.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked to the chain at Harry’s throat. “You may return it to me. Or you may keep it. The choice is yours.”

Harry imagined unclasping it, imagined the cold weight gone from his chest – and immediately a wave of wrongness swept through him, as if he were imagining cutting off a limb. His hand clenched around the locket protectively. “I can’t,” he admitted, voice raw. “It feels like a part of me. Taking it off – it’d be like losing myself.”

Voldemort’s expression softened by the smallest margin. “Then keep it. But you must learn to defend your mind against it.”

Harry frowned. “Defend it how?”

“Occlumency,” Voldemort said smoothly. “A branch of the Mind Arts. With practice, it will shield you from intrusion. Perhaps not from the locket entirely, but enough to keep your thoughts your own.”

Harry nodded, hesitant but willing. “Alright. I’ll learn.”

“I will see to it you have the correct text,” Voldemort said. Then his gaze turned unreadable, lingering on Harry. “But now – you need rest.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, the weight of exhaustion suddenly pressing down on him. “Yeah. You’re right.” He turned toward the door, muttering, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Voldemort replied, his voice softer than Harry had ever heard it. “I appreciate you coming to me.”

Harry froze mid-step, those words tugging something deep inside him. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder – not quite meeting Voldemort’s eyes, but close enough. “… You’re welcome,” he said quietly. After a beat, he added, “And thank you. For helping me. For explaining.”

A faint curve ghosted Voldemort’s mouth, too subtle to call a smile but near enough to unsettle Harry all the same.

Harry quickly looked away, giving a short nod before stepping into the corridor. The door shut behind him with a muted thud, leaving him with the echo of Voldemort’s voice – and his own reluctant gratitude – still tangled in his chest, heavy and unsettling, and against his will, strangely comforting.

The morning of October eighth dawned grey and damp, rain sliding sluggishly down the tall windows of the manor as if the world itself knew something monumental was about to shift. Harry sat at the long dining table, poking absently at his eggs while his thoughts spun tight and frantic. A letter had gone off to Rone, Hermione and Sirius late last night, folded with hurried words telling them not to worry, that something was about to happen, but he was fine.

He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Every bite of food felt heavy in his stomach as his mind churned through last-resort ideas to convince Voldemort to let him come to Azkaban. He had already tried every angle – reason, persuasion, stubborn determination – but nothing cracked Voldemort’s resolve. It was only after their conversation a couple of nights ago that Harry fully understood why.

Voldemort didn’t want him near dementors.

Harry couldn’t even argue with the logic. His third year still haunted him – the way he’d collapsed helplessly in the presence of the creatures, how his worst memories had been wrenched to the surface, leaving him exposed and weak. At the time, he’d thought it was just the trauma. Now… now he wondered if it had always been the Horcrux inside him, drawing the dementors like moths to a flame.

The thought made him sick.

And yet, despite his own reluctance, Harry was still worried. Voldemort had never once mentioned he would cast a Patronus. Harry didn’t know if that was because he couldn’t or because he refused. Neither option made him feel better.

He’d already promised he’d stay out of the way, that he’d only act as back-up if things went wrong. He’d argued that having one more wizard capable of a Patronus might be the difference between success and disaster. He’d even boasted – embarrassingly – about driving off a hundred dementors in his third year. None of it had mattered. Voldemort hadn’t even pretended to consider his pleas.

Harry stabbed at his toast, chewing on ideas along with the crust, when the doors at the end of the dining hall opened. Voldemort entered as if the day was nothing extraordinary, his gait smooth, his posture controlled. There was no tension in his face, no sharpness in his features. He looked calm – disturbingly so – for a man who was about to tear a hole in the highest security prison in Britain.

Harry glanced up and forced himself to mimic that calm, returning Voldemort’s greeting with a nod before shoving another bite into his mouth. Voldemort sat at the head of the table, a newspaper and steaming mug appearing as soon as he settled.

For a few minutes, Harry managed to keep up the charade. But then his nerves cracked, spilling words out of him faster than he could check them.

“Look, you should really reconsider not bringing me,” Harry blurted, his voice quick, almost desperate. “There has to be some use for me there – I can help, I can keep back, I’ll only act if you need me, but please, Voldemort-”

“Harry.” Voldemort’s voice sliced through his rush like a blade. He didn’t raise it, didn’t need to. “Yes, you would be helpful. But you are not needed. I would prefer you to be safe.”

Harry clenched his jaw, trying not to let the sting of dismissal show. “But-”

“No.” Voldemort cut across him again, sharper this time. “I have another task for you. The healers in the prisoners’ wing will need support. Despite all our planning, the newly freed will be unpredictable. They will require immediate stabilisation, both magical and physical. You will go to the wing and assist.”

Harry deflated in his chair. He could see the lost cause staring back at him in Voldemort’s unwavering gaze. His fists clenched around his fork, and with a heavy sigh, he nodded. “…Fine. I’ll help in the wing.”

Voldemort inclined his head once, as if sealing the agreement, and returned to his mug.

The conversation shifted after that, light and surface-level. Harry picked at his breakfast while Voldemort mentioned timing.

“We leave at two, when the afternoon shift changes over in Azkaban,” Voldemort said evenly. “The manor will begin filling at noon. Death Eaters will gather here before departure. They will remain contained either in the dining hall or the east wing. Keep yourself out of trouble.”

Harry managed a crooked grin, forcing humour into his tone. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

One dark brow arched, but Voldemort let it pass.

When breakfast ended, they went their separate way. Voldemort disappeared down the corridor, and Harry drifted toward the library, clutching his stack of books like a shield.

Narcissa’s etiquette lesson had been cancelled – she was already lending her aid to the healers. That left Harry with hours to fill and nerves too frayed to sit still. He tried to study, flipping through Charms and Arithmancy texts, but his focus slipped from the words as quickly as he found them. Even the Occlumency book Voldemort had given him couldn’t hold his attention for long. He skimmed the opening chapters about clearing the mind, about erecting walls of thought – but all the while his stomach twisted with unease.

The hours dragged until the clock struck just past noon. Harry closed his book with a snap and headed for the prisoner’s wing, figuring he might as well be useful before he went mad pacing.

He wasn’t even through the door before Healer Carroway spotted him. “Potter. Good. Gloves, apron – quickly now.”

Harry barely had time to tug the apron over his head before he was thrust into the chaos. Potions were being laid out in neat rows on long tables – calming draughts, restorative elixirs, concoctions he didn’t even recognise. Bedding was being prepared, charms humming over each cot to stabilise temperature and detect signs of magical depletion.

“Sort those!” Carroway barked, pointing to a cluster of potion vials. “Strengthening solutions together, mind you don’t mix them with blood-replenishers.”

Harry obeyed, falling into the rhythm of work. Hours blurred past in a haze of rushed preparation. He fetched ingredients, stirred cauldrons, charmed linens and organised racks of vials until his arms ached.

Every so often, Harry’s thought would slip. He’d picture Voldemort at Azkaban, striding through the prison halls with the dementors swirling around him. Would he even attempt a Patronus? Did he need one? What if the dementors turned on him – or worse, what if they overwhelmed the Death Eaters before the breakout succeeded?

Harry shook the thoughts away, forcing himself back to his task.

And then it happened.

A heavy thud reverberated through the wing, rattling the potion racks. Another followed, then another – the distinct sound of bodies landing hard by a portkey. Shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the shuffle of boots and the clamour of voices too loud, too raw to belong to anyone calm.

The prisoners had arrived.

Harry’s breath caught, his hands stilling on the vial he’d been setting down. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow, every sound sharpening into unbearable clarity. The Azkaban prisoners were here – murderers, torturers, people whose names had filled the Prophet’s darkest headlines.

He swallowed hard, forcing his legs to move, forcing himself to be ready as the first of them were guided, staggering and half-collapsing, through the door.

Chapter Text

The sounds of the portkeys landing had been jarring, a heavy thud of boots and bodies reverberating against the stone floors of Malfoy Manor. Harry froze with a vial still in his hands, his breath hitching in his throat. For hours, he’d been swept up in the frantic preparations, but now, now they were here.

The Azkaban prisoners.

Followers of Voldemort who had been locked away for years in the darkest, coldest place in Britain. Harry had read their names in the Prophet, overheard snatches of conversation, and heard stories whispered in the common room at Hogwarts. He had thought those names would stay in stories, distant shadows locked behind iron bars. But now those shadows were walking, stumbling, into the same room as him.

The smell hit him first – damp, mould, unwashed bodies and something sour like rot. Azkaban clung to them in a way soap and potions would never quite cleanse. Their eyes darted wildly, hollow and frantic, some blinking against the light as if they’d forgotten brightness existed at all.

Harry shoved the vial onto the table, his hands clammy, trying to focus. He was just here to help. Just assist. Healers swarmed forward with practised urgency, catching prisoners as they sagged, pouring restorative potions past cracked lips, stabilising them with quick diagnostic spells.

“Get those into order!” Healer Carroway snapped at him again, thrusting a tray of blood-replenishers into Harry’s arms before turning back to a gaunt wizard whose hands shook too badly to hold the cup he was being given.

Harry moved quickly, setting the vials down, but his ears strained toward the rising noise at the far end of the wing. A commotion. Shouts, sobbing, laughter – high, cracked, unsettling. Harry turned, craning to see over the shoulders of the bustling healers.

And then he saw her.

A woman was forcing her way through the others, all bone-thin limbs and tangled black hair that fell in greasy clumps around her sallow face. Her skin was stretched tight, waxen, like parchment clinging to sharp cheekbones. Azkaban had etched deep lines into her, hollowing her cheeks and darkening her eyes into bottomless pits of mania. And yet – despite her ruin, despite the trembling weakness that clung to her – her smile was wide, unhinged, her laugh slicing jagged through the air as she dropped to her knees before Voldemort.

Harry's stomach churned.

She clutched at his robes like a drowning woman clutching driftwood, pressing her cracked lips against his arm, muttering broken praises. Her voice wavered between laughter and sobbing as she babbled, “My Lord, my Lord, you came, I knew you would, I never doubted-”

Harry’s gut twisted hotter, darker. Disgust clawed up his throat at her fanaticism, but beneath it, something else simmered, sharp and furious. Her hands – dirty, shaking – were stroking along Voldemort’s arm. She touched him so easily, so brazenly. Harry had never touched him like that. He was Voldemort’s soulmate. If anyone had that right, it was Harry.

But Voldemort didn’t shove her off.

No, instead, he grasped her hands, curling his pale fingers firmly around hers. Harry stiffened, betrayal coiling through him, until he realised – Voldemort wasn’t indulging her madness. He was guiding her up, moving her towards one of the beds.

“Bella,” Voldemort said smoothly, his voice low and commanding. “You will allow yourself to be treated. I will have no use for you if you are unwell.”

Bella.

Harry’s stomach clenched tighter as the woman – Bella – giggled, still clinging to his sleeve even as healers rushed forward to stabilise her. She obeyed only because Voldemort guided her down, not because she cared about her health. Her eyes never left him, adoration wild and unbroken even through years of Azkaban’s decay.

Harry barely registered the shove at his shoulder until he stumbled, nearly toppling into a table. A healer brushed past, muttering an apology, and Harry wrenched his eyes away from Bella’s cloying devotion.

“Potter!” Healer Orellen called. “Here. Assist me with this one.”

Harry hurried over, hands fumbling as he steadied a frail wizard onto a bed while Orellen poured restorative draughts between his lips. He tried – he really did – to keep his attention on the man before him, but Bella’s laugh still echoed, shrill and scraping, across the room. Every time Harry dared a glance, he saw her eyes locked on Voldemort, saw Voldemort still at her side.

Unease sank into his chest like lead.

One by one, prisoners were stabilised enough to be moved. Harry was tasked with guiding them down the rows of the wing, showing them into rooms where they could recover. He repeated the instructions like a script, his voice steady even when his heart wasn’t.

Until one man stopped him.

“Rookwood,” one of the healers said, pushing a greying wizard toward him. “Take him to room six.”

Harry nodded, slipping an arm under the man’s elbow to guide him. Rookwood’s steps were unsteady, but his eyes – sharp, too sharp for someone so depleted – fixed suddenly on Harry’s face.

His grip shot out, seizing Harry’s arm with surprising strength.

Harry froze, startled, as Rookwood yanked him to face him fully. The man’s gaze zeroed in on Harry’s forehead, his breath hitching.

“That scar,” Rookwood rasped, voice rough from disuse but cutting all the same. “I thought – I thought I saw right. You’re Potter.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget the baby who brought down my Lord,” Rookwood snarled, spittle flying. His grip tightened, bruising. “What are you doing here? Helping him? Betraying him? If you’re a traitor, boy, I’ll kill you myself!”

Fear spiked, fierce and overwhelming. Rookwood’s eyes were crazed, unstable from Azkaban – or perhaps he had always been like this. Harry’s mind raced. What was he supposed to say? The truth? That he was Voldemort’s soulmate? That he’d been dragged into this mess of horcruxes and manipulation and reluctant bonds?

No. No one here would accept that.

“I don’t owe you explanations,” Harry said, forcing his voice steady even as his stomach knotted. “My reasons are private. I wouldn’t be here if the Dark Lord didn’t trust me entirely.”

Rookwood’s lips curled back in a sneer. “I’ve heard that before. Not good enough.” His hand shot for Harry’s wand.

Instinct screamed, and Harry twisted, shoving back, the two of them scuffling awkwardly in the hall. Rookwood’s weakened state worked against him – his grip faltered, his movements sluggish. Harry seized the chance, yanking his wand free.

“Stupefy!”

Red light flared, and Rookwood crumpled instantly, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Harry stood there, chest heaving, staring down at the unconscious man. For a long, shaking second, all he could think was: What the hell am I doing with my life?

But there was no time. Shoving the thought down, Harry flicked his wand, levitating Rookwood’s limp form, guiding him the rest of the way to the room. He deposited him onto the bed, hands trembling, and forced himself to breathe evenly.

When he returned, his eyes caught again on the far end of the hospital room. Voldemort was still there, still at Bella’s bedside, her cackles ringing like nails down a slate. Fury twisted in Harry’s chest before he could stop it, and his feet carried him forward almost without his consent.

“Voldemort,” Harry said bitterly as he approached. His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “I’m being recognised. By the prisoners. Rookwood attacked me.”

Voldemort’s gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing in focus, lips parting as if to answer-

But Bella cut across, her voice shrill and possessive. “Who is this brat, daring to speak to you like that, my Lord? Who does he think he is?”

Harry’s pulse thundered.

“Silence, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said, his tone like ice, silencing her instantly. He turned back to Harry, expression unreadable. “Once the prisoners are stable, I will address them. I will explain your presence here then. For now, keep your head down.”

Harry swallowed hard, nodding. He wanted to ask more, to press, but not here – not in front of her. Not while her eyes still gleamed with fanatical devotion.

“Potter!” Healer Orellen’s voice cut across the room, calling him to another cot.

Harry steadied himself, forcing his shaking hands still, and started turning away with a “Coming!” as he braced himself to dive back into the chaos.

The manor felt different with the prisoners inside it. Even though they were being kept in their wing, Harry could feel them – like a low, buzzing weight in the air that clung to him no matter how many corridors he put between himself and them. The healers were competent, and Voldemort had stationed guards to stand watch, but Harry still couldn’t shake the sense that the manor itself had shifted to accommodate its new occupants.

By the time evening fell, his nerves were strung tight. Dinner was the last thing he wanted, but his body ached with the exhaustion of the day, and he knew skipping it would only make things worse. At least, he thought with relief, the prisoners were being served in their wing for now. He needed a break from their hollowed faces, their rasping voices, the unsteady mix of cackling laughter and guttural weeping.

Bellatrix’s laughter lingered the loudest.

Harry scowled faintly as he made his way down the hall, steps echoing against the stone. He didn’t know what to make of her. She was clearly obsessed – throwing herself at Voldemort with a desperate sort of worship, clinging to him like he was air and she’d been drowning. Her hands on his arm, her voice pitched high with wild devotion… it made Harry’s skin crawl.

And yet Voldemort hadn’t shoved her away. He hadn’t encouraged her either, not really – he’d called her ‘Bella’ when ordering her to allow treatment, but his tone was commanding rather than fond – but he had stayed at her side. He’d stood there longer than Harry thought necessary, his presence steady beside her bed even as she writhed and simpered.

Harry couldn’t tell if it was a personal preference or just calculation because she was so obviously unhinged. Still, something in the way they moved around each other tugged at him – something that hinted at a bond deeper than Lord and follower. The thought stuck in his throat like a thorn.

The dining hall was unusually still when Harry entered. No hum of house elves moving about, no Lucius or Narcissa at their usual places. Just the long polished table glowing in candlelight, and at its head, Voldemort, seated with effortless composure. The silence carried weight, pressing against Harry’s ears as he crossed the threshold.

“Tonight,” Voldemort said, his voice smooth as silk, “we dine alone. Narcissa and Lucius are attending to Bellatrix.”

Harry blinked, then frowned. “Why?”

A faint smile touched Voldemort’s lips as he swirled the stem of his goblet, watching the deep red wine shift like blood in the glass. “Because Bellatrix is Narcissa’s sister. Both were born Black.”

It clicked like puzzle pieces snapping into place – aristocratic features and pale, elegant faces framed with striking eyes. “That’s who she reminded me of,” Harry said, more to himself than Voldemort. “Bellatrix – she looked like Narcissa.”

Voldemort inclined his head as if Harry had just answered a particularly clever riddle. ‘Correct.” He gestured languidly to Harry’s chair. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor. The table filled itself: platters of roasted pheasant, bowls of potatoes glistening with butter, carrots glazed with honey. The scents rose warm and comforting, almost mocking in their domesticity.

For a few moments, Harry let himself eat in silence, though his thoughts roiled. He couldn’t stop picturing Bellatrix in her bed, eyes wild, voice shrill with devotion. The memory itched under his skin, burning with something sour and uncomfortable.

When he finally set his fork down, he cleared his throat. “So… how did it go? The breakout, I mean.”

Voldemort looked up, eyes glittering in the candlelight. His expression honed with interest, pleased by the question. “Efficiently. The wards crumbled faster than expected. The dementors were less disciplined than I’d hoped, but they obeyed well enough. The outcome was precisely as I intended – my followers are free.”

Harry prodded at his potatoes, thoughtful. “And… the evening after? With them back?”

“Chaotic,” Voldemort admitted, though amusement curled in his tone. “Some are… less stable than I hoped. Azkaban corrodes the mind. They will need to be guided, restrained. But it is nothing I cannot manage.”

Harry thought of Bellatrix and Rookwood, their eyes glistening with madness. He grimaced. “Yeah. I noticed.”

They fell into a rhythm then, Voldemort occasionally offering some detail about the breakout, Harry listening more than speaking, his mind picking at the threads. It wasn’t until they were halfway through the meal that he set his knife and fork down again, pulse quickening.

“There’s something else,” Harry said. “This Saturday is the Hogsmeade weekend. The one I told you about. I know you had rules. Protections. I want to hear them now.”

Voldemort’s lips curved, dangerous and knowing. ‘Very well. You will be accompanied by guards at all times. A tracking charm will be placed on you before you leave the manor. And you will-”

“No.” Harry cut him off, shaking his head firmly. “That’s ridiculous. If those are the only options, I’d rather bring you yourself.”

The spark in Voldemort’s eyes lit instantly. Triumph. Satisfaction. His smile unfurled like a serpent uncoiling. “A much better option. I am more than happy to meet your demand.’

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? No! I wasn’t – Merlin, I wasn’t serious! I can’t actually bring you to Hogsmeade!” His hands flailed helplessly. “I’m trying to have a good time with my friends, not terrify a village full of school children with – you!”

Voldemort leaned back, impossibly composed. “Do not be absurd. I am a Dark Lord, not a terrorist. I would never attack a school child.”

Harry stared, aghast, before slapping a hand to his chest. “Hello! School child here! Did you forget the half-dozen times you tried to kill me at Hogwarts?”

A delicate wave of Voldemort’s hand dismissed the accusation. “Irrelevant. Circumstances have changed. I intend to step into politics now. Public appearance will become… useful. Hogsmeade is hardly the worst place to begin.”

Harry gawked at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. “The whole reason I even need protection is Dumbledore! You think he won’t recognise you? Or that he’ll just let it go?”

“I doubt Dumbledore will leave the castle,” Voldemort said, as if it were already decided. “And even if he did, I doubt he would risk confrontation among innocents. Besides, no one believes my return. If Dumbledore accuses a mere stranger in Hogsmeade of being Lord Voldemort, it is his credibility that will suffer, not mine.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, suspicion hardening. ‘You’ve thought this through really well for someone who didn’t even suggest it.”

Voldemort’s smile widened, infuriatingly handsome. “You had an excellent idea. I am simply intelligent enough to seize it.”

Harry stabbed his fork into a carrot. “No – you’re just fast at twisting my own words against me.”

The Dark Lord’s smile only turned more charming, like Harry had handed him another victory.

Harry groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Are there any other options?”

“None,” Voldemort said smoothly, “that are as good as yours.”

Harry rolled his eyes skyward, muttering under his breath, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. Whatever. You win. But if you do anything – and I mean anything – like scaring my friends, I’ll deal with you myself. And you don’t want me angry.”

For once, Voldemort didn’t laugh. He inclined his head, tone solemn but eyes glinting. “Then I shall be on my best behaviour.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, weary sigh. He picked at the last of his food, the candlelight flickering over his face as his thoughts spun wildly. This Hogsmeade trip had disaster written all over it.

The days had passed quickly and chaotically since the Azkaban breakout.

Harry had lost track of how many times he’d been called to the prisoner’s wing to help the healers, or had been yanked into the middle of some frantic argument between gaunt-faced ex-prisoners and the staff trying to keep them from tearing one another – or themselves – apart. They were furious at the arrangement: bitter, restless, livid at being forced to ‘recover’ when their only hunger was to return to the fight. Their skeletal hands clawed at air, at doors, at anything they thought might bring them back to their Lord’s presence.

And their minds… Harry wasn’t sure they could ever be whole again.

Even the ones who had regained some strength enough to shuffle about were brittle, erratic. Most were trapped in a haze – wild emotions bursting without pattern, raving speeches that made little sense, their eyes hollow but fever-bright whenever they spoke of Voldemort. Their obsession was suffocating, sickening. Some had tried to storm the corridors, determined to show their ‘gratitiude’ in ways that made Harry’s stomach churn when the healers muttered about what exactly they had in mind.

It left Harry with the gnawing doubt they might never recover.

The healers worked tirelessly. They’d begun administering mind-soothing potions, bitter-smelling concoctions designed to counter Azkaban’s rot, and were treating the long-term effects of dementor exposure as best they could. The smell of pepper-up and calming draughts clung to the east wing like fog. But still, progress was glacial.

Chaos. Nothing but chaos.

And in the midst of it, Voldemort had not yet addressed Harry’s presence to the freed prisoners. He claimed they were too unstable, too rash still. He told Harry to give them another week, then they will see.

So the days crawled toward Saturday – the Hogsmeade trip.

Harry’s nerves had been gnawed raw long before morning came. Voldemort had refused every suggestion Harry had thrown at him. No changes to his appearance, insisting that this – his current face, sharp and regal – was precisely how Marvolo Gaunt was to present himself. No hiding under the invisibility cloak. No lingering on the outskirts of the village. Voldemort’s response to each of Harry’s frantic compromises had been the same refrain: protection. Politics. Public presence.

Harry had given up on trying to change his mind. Now, all he could do was damage control.

So here they were.

Harry sat stiffly on a bench outside Hogsmeade’s post office, the brisk autumn air tugging at his cloak. The cobbled street bustled with villagers, chatter ringing through the air, the scent of fresh bread drifting from Honeydukes down the lane. Beside him, Voldemort sat with infuriating ease, legs crossed elegantly, expression unreadable. If anyone had told Harry a year ago that he’d be sitting on a bench in Hogsmeade with Lord Voldemort at his side, he would’ve thought them mad.

Now he just thought he was mad.

His anxiety pressed heavily against his ribs as children darted past, scarves fluttering. Every innocent passerby made his throat tighten. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that every single one of them could somehow see, could know who sat beside him.

Students had begun to spill in from the castle now, groups in scarves of red, green, blue and yellow crowding the street. Harry ducked his head lower, praying no one would look closely enough to recognise him.

Voldemort, on the other hand, looked entirely unbothered. If anything, amused.

Harry shot him another furtive glance. To his horror, Voldemort met it, and instead of saying something terrifying or cruel, he began telling a story. A short, almost casual anecdote about a day he’d come to Hogsmeade during his own Hogwarts years, when one of his housemates had tripped headfirst into a snowdrift outside Zonko’s and lost his wand for an hour.

Harry blinked, then burst into a shocked laugh. He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately, but the laughter still slipped through, unbidden. Voldemort’s lips curved, pleased, and Harry found himself reluctantly drawn into conversation.

Small talk. Of all things, here and now.

It felt surreal, but it settled him. Just enough that when he spotted the familiar figures approaching through the crowd, he nearly leapt to his feet in relief.

Ron. Hermione. And – Harry blinked – Draco?

Excitement surged in his chest. He waved furiously, a grin breaking wide across his face.

The trio turned toward him, Hermione’s eyes widening, Ron’s face lighting up. But Draco froze, his grey eyes locking on Voldemort. He stopped short, stiff as stone, muttering something to Ron and Hermione when they questioned him. Then, carefully, he continued forward with them.

The moment they reached Harry, Hermione flung herself at him, arms tight around his back. Her words tumbled out in a rush, questions rapid-fire about his health, safety, everything.

Ron snorted. “Give him a second to breathe, will you? You’ll crush him.” Still, he pulled Harry into a hug himself, patting his back firmly. “Missed you, mate.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Missed you both so much,” he said, his voice a little raw. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

When he turned to Draco, he stuck out his hand with a grin. “Long time no see.”

Draco eyed him, then clasped his hand, grip firm. “Potter.”

“Thanks for passing on my letters,” Harry added with a smirk. “Must’ve been torture having to lower yourself enough to speak to Gryffindors.”

Draco rolled his eyes but smirked back. “It was. But I persevered.”

They both laughed, and for a moment, the tension lifted.

Then Draco’s gaze flicked past Harry to the bench. His expression shifted – hesitation, worry, the tiniest flicker of fear. “I should probably go.”

Harry caught it instantly. He dropped his voice. “It’s fine. I’ve got it handled. But… I get it. Go on.”

Draco gave a quick nod, the briefest squeeze of Harry’s hand before he stepped back. “Stay alive, Potter.”

“You too.”

Draco turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Harry faced Ron and Hermione again, trying to mask his nerves. “Up for a walk?”

They both agreed immediately, eager to leave the busy street. They fell into step, chattering, relief and warmth flooding Harry’s chest – until he noticed Voldemort rising gracefully from the bench behind him.

Ron and Hermione both stiffened. Their eyes darted to Harry, then back to the man following like a shadow.

“Who’s that?” Hermione hissed, eyes narrowed.

Harry swallowed. “Not here. I’ll explain at the cave.”

Unease lingered in their steps, their voices quieter as they wound through Hogsmeade. Harry tried to keep up with the conversation, nodding as Ron described Umbridge’s latest monstrosity, forcing smiles as Hermione ranted about OWL prep, but his nerves were fraying.

Because people were staring.

Not at him. At Voldemort.

Pointing, whispering, glancing sidelong with wide eyes. At first, Harry panicked, certain they somehow knew. His stomach dropped – until he caught a giggle from a group of girls, their eyes following Voldemort as they passed.

“Did you see him?” one whispered. “So handsome-”

Harry nearly choked. Handsome. Handsome.

The irrational urge to seize Voldemort’s hand and drag him out of the village surged hot in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice broke through. She peered at him. “What’s wrong?’

“Nothing,” he said too quickly. “Let’s just… hurry, before anyone notices me.”

She gave him a dubious look but nodded, and they pressed on.

The chatter resumed – Ron going on about Quidditch practices, Hermione reminding him that’s not what he should be focused on this year, both voices warm and achingly familiar. Harry forced himself to focus, to drink it in, but part of his mind was always on the figure trailing behind them, smooth and unruffled, drawing whispers and stares with every step.

Finally, mercifully, they reached the cave. It was the same one Sirius had hidden in back in fourth year, just outside of Hogsmeade.

They had only taken a few steps inside when a familiar, strong pair of arms crushed Harry against a chest.

“Harry!” Sirius’ voice cracked with emotion. He held him so tight that Harry could barely breathe, his scruffy hair brushing against Harry’s cheek. “Merlin, I’ve missed you, pup.”

Harry clung back, throat aching with the swell of relief and love.

The cave smelled of damp stone and old ash, but to Harry, stepping into it was like stepping into the warmth of home. Sirius still had him in a crushing hug, and Ron and Hermione hovered nearby with wide smiles, the cave suddenly filled with voices that tripped over each other in eagerness.

“Now we can talk – how have you been, mate?” Ron asked, clapping him on the back hard enough to jostle him free from Sirius’s grip. ‘You look – blimey – you look good. Not half-starved for once!”

Hermione nodded fervently, eyes darting up and down as though cataloguing every visible inch of him. “You do. You look… healthy. Honestly, you’re glowing.”

Sirius tilted Harry back by the shoulders, squinting at him. “And dressed like a lord,” he teased, tugging at the rich dark fabric of Harry’s sleeve. “What is this? Silk? Don’t tell me you’ve gone posh on me.”

Harry flushed but laughed. “Oh, shut it. I didn’t exactly pick the wardrobe.”

Sirius barked a laugh, pulling him in again. “Merlin, it’s good to see you.” His voice cracked, betraying the rough edges of worry he’d carried since their separation.

For a blissful few minutes, it was nothing but warmth. Harry drank in every sound – Ron’s good-natured grumbling, Hermione’s long-winded rants and Sirius’ sharp jokes that made them all snicker. Harry’s chest ached with it, the joy of being here, of being with them again.

But then Hermione’s word faltered. Her brow furrowed, gaze snagging on the mouth of the cave.

Ron followed her eyes. His face froze.

And Sirius’ body stiffened like iron.

Voldemort was still there, framed in the cave’s entrance. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, just stood with his back straight, robes dark against the daylight. Watching.

“Harry,” Sirius said slowly, “who is that?”

Harry blinked, scrambling. “Oh, er – don’t worry about him-”

“Who is he?” Sirius cut across, stepping subtly in front of Harry, his hand twitching near his wand.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, Hermione’s eyes narrowing. “Harry-”

“It’s fine,” Harry insisted quickly. His nerves prickled hot. He turned halfway. “Could you at least stop blocking the entrance?”

Voldemort inclined his head, amused, and stepped aside with deliberate grace. The faintest smile playing at his lips, like a cat humouring a restless mouse.

Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I really did try to get someone else to come. I tried to get him to give us space. Believe me.”

Sirius’ gaze was still flint. “Harry. Who is that man?”

There was no avoiding it.

Harry’s throat bobbed. “It’s… Voldemort.”

The cave erupted in motion.

Sirius shoved Harry behind him with a growl, wand flashing into his hand. Ron and Hermione yanked theirs free as well, their faces white with horror.

Harry stumbled, then surged forward, planting himself between Sirius and Voldemort before a spell could fly. “Stop! Don’t – please, just listen-”

“Harry, get back!” Sirius barked. His stance was taut, and his face was twisted with fury Harry had rarely seen. “Why is he here?”

Ron’s ears were red, his wand shaking in his grip. Hermione’s lips were pressed tight, knuckles white around her wand handle.

“No one’s in danger!” Harry said desperately, spreading his arms as if he could hold back both sides. “I would never put you at risk. You know that.”

“Harry-” Hermione’s voice cracked, her eyes flicking from him to Voldemort and back.

“I’ve been living with him,” Harry pressed, forcing them to hear. “And he’s under a vow, remember? A vow that protects you. He can’t hurt you without hurting himself.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt him,” Sirius growled, his wand unwavering. His voice was rough, breaking under the weight of old pain. “He murdered James. He murdered Lily.”

Harry’s heart ached, but he forced the words out. “I know. I know what he did. But Sirius – I said it in third year. My parents wouldn’t want you to be a murderer for them.” His voice trembled. “They wouldn’t want you to avenge them like that.”

Sirius’ breath caught, fury and grief clashing raw in his eyes.

Harry seized the moment. “He’ll stay away from us. He’ll let us talk. You won’t even know he’s there.” He turned sharply, pinning Voldemort with a glare. “Right?”

The Dark Lord leaned one shoulder against the stone wall, eyes glinting in the cave’s dim light. He hadn’t even drawn his wand. “Of course. I shall not interrupt your reunion.”

His tone was light, mocking, but the words were given.

It wasn’t nearly enough. Hermione’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion etched deep. Ron’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. Sirius’s wand arm shook, tension screaming through every muscle.

But Harry wouldn’t let it spiral.

“Come on,” he urged, turning back to them. His voice softened, coaxing. “Please. Just – ignore him. Let’s go deeper in.” He glanced at Hermione, desperate for any anchor. “Hermione – actually, I’ve been stuck on something in Arithmancy. Can I ask you?”

Hermione blinked, clearly torn between a dozen instincts. Her gaze darted from Voldemort to Harry, her brows knit. But the moment Harry mentioned academics, her lips parted. “Well – what is it?” she asked cautiously.

Relief surged in Harry’s chest. He guided her further into the cave as he described a tricky equation he’d been puzzling over, his voice steady though his pulse thundered. Hermione, ever Hermione, slipped seamlessly into lecture mode, explaining with earnest detail, even as her eyes flicked nervously toward the entrance.

Ron followed, muttering under his breath but unwilling to leave Harry’s side.

Sirius lingered, stiff and unmoving, eyes still locked on Voldemort like he could burn holes straight through him.

Harry stopped, turned, and grabbed his godfather’s arm. “Please,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

For a long moment, Sirius didn’t move. Then, with a grunt, he allowed himself to be tugged further into the cave, his glare never leaving Voldemort until the shadows swallowed them.

Hermione’s explanation carried on, her voice echoing off the stone, Harry nodding along, clinging to her words like a lifeline.

But before turning fully away, he glanced back once more.

Voldemort stood as he had, expression coolly entertained. When he caught Harry’s glare, he lifted his hands in mock surrender, a silent gesture of “see, I behave.”

Harry rolled his eyes hard, then resolutely turned his back and focused on his friends. He sat cross-legged on the floor opposite Sirius, Ron and Hermione, trying to force normalcy into his voice.

Ron was the first to break the fragile silence, leaning forward. “All right, mate, enough dancing around. What the bloody hell is happening? Azkaban? Those maniacs running free? Is You-Know-Who gearing up for war again? Do we have to prepare?”

“No. No war.” His voice was steady. “I promise. Voldemort and I have already talked about it.” He raised a hand when Sirius looked ready to argue. “I can’t tell you everything, but I can promise you this: there’s not going to be another war. Not like before.”

Hermione frowned. “Then why release them? Why free the escapees if Vol– he isn’t going to use them?”

Harry glanced toward the shadow in the corner. Voldemort didn’t stir, but Harry could feel the sharp focus of his attention. Harry dragged a hand through his hair and said, “Honestly? It’s… empathy. Extremely reluctant and misplaced empathy, but it’s there. He doesn’t like that his followers went to prison for him. It bothers him.”

Sirius’ bark of laughter was bitter. “They went to Azkaban for a reason, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said quickly. “Believe me, I know. I’m reminded of it every time I see them. They’re all… unstable. Some more than others. And I’ve already had run-ins with a few. But the goal isn’t to arm them for war. It’s to rehabilitate them.”

“Rehabilitate Death Eaters?” Hermione repeated, incredulous.

“That’s the point,” Harry said firmly. “Not to send them back into battle.”

No one looked convinced, but after a pause, Ron cleared his throat, threw a nervous glance at the shadow in the corner, and leaned closer to Harry. “So… what’s it like? Living with – y’know, him?”

Harry let out a soft laugh that even startled himself. “About as bad as you can imagine,” he said lightly, smirking. “But… actually – it’s been stable, especially the last couple of weeks. I’m fed as much as I want, given clothes that actually fit, a big room and a proper education. I’ve never once felt in true danger since the first week. And most of that was just me – my feelings, not reality.”

Harry decided to leave the Carrows incident out of his summary.

Ron’s brows shot up. “That’s the least he could do after everything he’s done to ruin your life.”

Harry huffed a laugh, nodding. “I know.”

He leaned forward. “Anyway, what about Hogwarts? I’ve heard bits about Umbridge but not much. Fill me in.”

That was all it took. Hermione launched into a furious tirade about Umbridge’s teaching methods, her decrees, her cruelty. Ron added colour with snide remarks, and Harry’s jaw tightened as he listened. When Hermione mentioned detentions, Harry cut in sharply.

“Wait. You mentioned something bad about the detentions in your letters.”

The two of them exchanged a look. Slowly, they extended their left hands. Both were swaddled in bandages.

Harry’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”

Hermione’s voice shook with restrained fury. “She uses a quill that carves the words you write into your skin. No ink. Just blood. It heals slowly, leaves scars.”

Harry and Sirius exploded at the same time.

“What?” Harry shouted. “She’s carving into you? And Dumbledore’s just – just letting it happen?”

Sirius swore loudly, fists clenched, pacing the narrow space.

Harry raked his hands through his hair, furious. “This – this is insane.” He stopped, then winced. “You’re going to hate this. But… Voldemort could stop it.”

Every head whipped toward him.

Ron’s face was pale. “What do you mean, stop it?”

Harry hesitated. “I can’t fully explain without talking to him first. But… do you want me to? He may be the last person you want help from, but you can’t deny he’s powerful.”

Ron said flatly, “We’re not asking him to kill her.”

Harry waved his hands. “No! No, that’s not what I’m saying. There’s another way – one that will most likely get her kicked out of Hogwarts.”

Hermione and Ron looked at each other again. After a long pause, Ron muttered, “Fine. Give it a shot.”

Harry was already on his feet. He crossed the cave to where Voldemort stood, shadows draped over his form, and launched into a quick, heated explanation. Detentions, blood, quills, scars. Voldemort listened in silence, eyes glinting.

When Harry finished, breathless, Voldemort’s head tilted. “And what solution do you envision?”

Harry licked his lips. “You’re planning to step into politics. Use that. Get Umbridge out.”

Voldemort hummed. “That is one option, though slow. Another: Lucius Malfoy. He holds influence in both the Ministry and the Board of Governors. A word of disapproval from him, voiced in the right place, will achieve results more swiftly than my gradual ascent.”

Harry blinked, then grinned. “That works. Can I tell them?”

A brief pause. “You may.”

Harry’s smile widened. “Thanks.” He turned back to his friends.

When he relayed the plan, Sirius made a disgusted sound. “Lucius Malfoy? Of all people?”

Harry grimaced. “I don’t like him either. But if Lucius stalls, I’ll go to Narcissa. She’s the only sane one in that house.”

That, Sirius allowed with a grudging nod.

“Speaking of Malfoys…” Sirius’ tone sharpened. “How’s Bellatrix?”

Harry groaned aloud. “Don’t get me started. She’s – awful. Completely insane. Always hanging over Voldemort, fawning, touching him constantly-” He made a face. “She thinks she can talk for him, like she’s his mouthpiece. It’s unbearable. Not even considering-”

Ron snorted, trying to smother his grin.

Harry glared. “What?”

Ron burst out laughing. “Merlin, Harry – all you’ve talked about is how much you hate her being near him. You sound jealous.”

Hermione’s laugh rang out. “You do!”

Harry’s ears burned. ‘I was describing her being insane!”

Sirius, lips twitching, leaned in. “Bellatrix is insane, yes. Insane for him. And that’s what’s bothering you.”

Harry’s mouth opened and shut. His eyes flicked instinctively to Voldemort. The man was watching him, lips curved into a smirk that made Harry’s stomach twist.

Harry flipped him off, scowling. “You’re all impossible.”

But the laughter wouldn’t stop, even as Harry spluttered and tried to argue his way out of it. In the end, he gave up, muttering darkly under his breath.

When the noise died down, Hermione asked softly, “Is Voldemort… accepting you? As his soulmate?”

Harry made a so-so gesture. “Kind of. We’re taking things slow. But he’s planning to announce me as his soulmate to the Death Eaters soon.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “That’s huge, Harry. Are you ready for that?”

Harry hesitated. ‘Sort of. But if we don’t start moving forward, we’ll just… stay stuck.”

Hermione gave him a gentle smile. “You know best what you’re ready for. Don’t let anyone rush you – but don’t hold yourself back either.”

Harry smiled back. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

He turned to Sirius. “How are you and Remus?”

Sirius’ face brightened. “Better than ever. Though worried sick about you.” His eyes softened. “And you’ve barely used the mirror.”

Harry grimaced. “Sorry. Things have just been so crazy. I promise I’ll use it more.”

“See that you do.”

The conversation eased then, moving to lighter topics – Ron’s family, Hermione’s plans for a study group, Sirius’ blunt advice. Harry was laughing at one of Ron’s complaints as the group’s faces paled. A tall shadow fell over them.

Harry tilted his head back, looking up at Voldemort upside down.

“Students will be expected back at Hogwarts in fifteen minutes,” Voldemort said coolly. “Unless you wish to be late, you should leave soon.”

Harry sighed. “Thanks for the warning.” He turned back. “We should get going.”

They all stood. Sirius caught Harry in a fierce hug, pulling him close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know it’s not all sunshine living with him. I heard enough in the mirror call. If you ever need to come home – just say the word. I’ll be there.”

Harry nodded against his shoulder. “Thanks. I’ve got it sorted for now. But… I’ll keep that in mind.”

They broke apart reluctantly. Together, they walked out of the cave, Voldemort following at a distance. At the entrance, Sirius squeezed Harry’s shoulder, then threw one more withering glare at Voldemort before disapparating with a sharp crack.

Harry’s chest ached.

The rest of them trudged toward Hogsmeade, conversation subdued. Then, just as they passed the Three Broomsticks–

“Harry!”

Harry stopped abruptly, his head snapping up. Cho Chang was weaving her way through the crowd, scarf in Ravenclaw colours trailing behind her.

Before he could react, she wrapped her arms around him. Harry froze, startled by the sudden contact, and awkwardly patted her shoulder. Her grip was tight, almost desperate, and he felt her trembling against him.

“You’re alive,” she whispered, pulling back to look at him, her dark eyes glossy with unshed tears. Her voice cracked, soft and raw, as if she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Harry nodded, trying to find words. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough. “I’m okay.”

Cho let out another shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s… that’s good. Everyone was so worried when you just disappeared after–“ She stopped abruptly, biting her lip. The name hung between them like a ghost: Cedric.

Harry’s stomach knotted. He shifted his weight, glancing briefly toward Voldemort – Cedric’s killer – who was standing only a few feet away. No one here knew who he really was, but Harry did, and the knowledge burned like ice in his gut.

Cho seemed to follow his gaze but misread the tension in it. She gave a shaky sigh, swiping at her eyes. “I’ve been… better since Cedric,” she admitted quietly, voice low enough that only Harry could hear. “But I still miss him. Every day. I think about him all the time – like maybe I’ll turn a corner at school and he’ll be there. Smiling. Waiting for me.” Her voice trembled. “It doesn’t go away.”

Harry’s throat closed around a lump of grief. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, meaning every word. “Cedric was incredible. He deserved… so much more than what happened. And you– ” He hesitated, but pushed through. “You’re strong for carrying on. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop hurting. But I hope it gets easier.”

Cho sniffled and gave him a small, watery smile. She reached up to brush her fingers against his cheek, a fleeting, tentative touch. Harry stayed still, his polite smile unchanged. Before he could step back, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For saying that. For…” She shook her head, unable to finish.

Then, hesitantly: “Did you lose your soulmate too? I never heard about them.”

Harry froze. He looked at Ron and Hermione in panic. He opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort’s arm settled around his shoulders. Harry felt himself drawn subtly closer, Voldemort’s touch calm yet firm.

“Myself,” Voldemort said smoothly. His voice was soft but carried easily over the crowd, an unmistakable note of claim in every syllable. “I am Harry’s soulmate.”

Cho blinked, startled. Voldemort extended a pale, elegant hand, his expression polite but cold. “Marvolo Gaunt,” he said evenly.

Cho slipped her hand into his, clearly unnerved, and Voldemort’s grip lingered a fraction too long before releasing her.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said softly, offering him a small, careful smile. “I didn’t know.”

Harry forced a weak smile back. “It’s alright.”

Voldemort’s arm stayed firm around his shoulders, holding him close, and Cho’s smile faltered slightly at the sight. She nodded politely. “I hope to see you back at Hogwarts soon. Goodbye, Harry.” She slipped away.

Harry stared after her, still in shock. Voldemort’s hand slid down from his shoulder, coming to rest against the small of his back, a guiding pressure that set Harry in motion. He followed the subtle push without resistance, letting himself be steered down the bustling street.

As they walked, Voldemort kept his hand steady against Harry’s back, claiming space around him with every step. Ron and Hermione trailed beside Harry, whispering urgently, their eyes flicking between Voldemort’s hand and Harry. He tried to silently tell them he hadn’t planned for this either.

The village air felt colder now, whispers from passersby curling through the crisp autumn breeze. Harry was suddenly grateful for Narcissa’s endless lessons in poise; every bit of that training kept him upright as people’s gazes lingered on him and Voldemort. Word had spread that Harry Potter was here.

Voldemort’s touch never left him. It was firm and possessive, a silent warning to anyone watching that Harry was under his protection. And for some reason, Harry didn’t mind it. The weight of that hand was grounding in a way he couldn’t explain.

At the village edge, Harry turned to Voldemort. “I’ll need to say goodbye.”

Voldemort inclined his head, his hand slipping away.

Harry immediately turned to Ron and Hermione, pulling them both into a tight hug. His throat ached as he whispered, “It was great seeing you. I’ll write.”

“We’ll write too,” Hermione promised, her eyes glistening. She hesitated, flicking a cautious glance over Harry’s shoulder at the tall figure watching them. “We miss you so much. And… it’s good to see you happy. Even if– ” Her voice softened. “Even if it’s complicated.”

Ron gave a crooked smile, trying for levity. “Just don’t turn into some posh ponce, yeah?”

Harry let out a wet laugh. “Promise.”

They exchanged a few last words, the goodbyes reluctant, dragging out in half-whispers and lingering touches. When Ron and Hermione finally turned to head back toward Hogwarts, Harry stood rooted in place, watching them grow smaller against the cobblestone path, their figures silhouetted by the golden glow of the sun. The sight of the castle’s distant towers against the sky hit him with a pang so sharp it made his chest ache. Homesickness rolled over him in a wave, strong and bittersweet.

Then–

A warm hand caught his. Voldemort’s fingers curled around his, and the soulmate bond flared to life through Harry’s skin, a pulse of calm that surprised him with its gentleness.

Harry froze, breath catching. He looked down at their joined hands, startled by how natural the gesture felt despite everything.

“Come,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a low command softened only by its intimacy. ‘We should return.”

Harry nodded, still staring at their entwined fingers as Voldemort began to lead him away from the village. The older wizard didn’t release him.

Harry cast one last look over his shoulder. The path to Hogwarts stretched out behind them, glowing faintly in the sunlight. For a moment, the castle seemed like an anchor, a reminder of safety and childhood innocence. But when he looked back at Voldemort, at their clasped hands and the unwavering calm radiating through their bond, Harry felt another kind of safety – different, strange, but no less real.

Maybe, he thought with a strange twist in his chest, he’d found another home.

Voldemort’s fingers tightened briefly, as if in response to the thought, before he swept them both into shadow.

Chapter Text

The days following the Hogsmeade trip blurred together, but Harry couldn’t stop replaying them in his head.

He didn’t know what to feel about it. Seeing his friends again had been like breathing for the first time after weeks underwater – warm, anchoring and safe. Hugging Sirius, hearing Ron’s jokes, listening to Hermione’s endless chatter – it had filled an ache in Harry’s chest he hadn’t even realised was gaping. Yet tangled among that joy was confusion, brought on by Voldemort of all people.

Cho had been the spark. She had flung her arms around Harry, her soft voice filled with grief and yearning. Harry hadn’t missed the loneliness in her eyes, nor the subtle hope that he might be someone who could share in her loss. Maybe, Harry thought privately, she had wanted more than friendship. But before he could truly process it, Voldemort had swept in.

The Dark Lord’s arm had settled around Harry’s shoulders, possession clear in his action, his voice smooth as silk as he introduced himself. He had pulled Harry close, publicly, and for the first time in front of strangers, made it clear that Harry was his.

Harry still wasn’t sure he believed his own memory. Voldemort had never before acknowledged their bond so openly. Certainly never initiated touch like that. And it hadn’t stopped there. On their walk toward Hogwarts, Voldemort had kept Harry close, as if shielding him from the world – or staking a claim Harry couldn’t ignore.

It might have ended as a fluke, one uncharacteristic display that faded once the moment passed. But in the days after, the contact only grew. Voldemort had brushed Harry’s hand when passing him a book. He had adjusted the fall of Harry’s robes with a critical but careful touch. Once, in their library, Voldemort had even reached forward to sweep a stray lock of hair from Harry’s face, his long fingers grazing Harry’s temple with a gentleness that left Harry frozen in shock.

And it did not stop there. A hand at the small of his back as they entered a room. The pressure of fingers at his elbow, steering him out of the way of a floating stack of books. At dinner one evening, Voldemort’s thumb brushed slowly across his lip and chin, a faint murmur about spilled food following – though Harry couldn’t decide if it was truth or excuse, the touch leaving his skin tingling for long after.

It was absurd. Terrifying. Pleasing.

For the first time since all this started, Voldemort was showing Harry that he wasn’t a nuisance, wasn’t a burden. He wasn’t tolerated out of obligation. He was wanted. Voldemort wanted to be near him. And Voldemort wasn’t playing his usual manipulative games, either – there was no baited hook behind the touches, no obvious power play. It was something different. Something closer.

And Harry didn’t know what to do about it.

He was terrified to push too fast, to misstep and send Voldemort back behind his icy wall of politeness. He wasn’t ready to lose this new warmth. So he kept his responses small – leaning back slightly into the touch, smiling when their hands brushed, meeting Voldemort’s eyes with more steadiness than before. Subtle, careful reciprocation.

The Prophet had only added to the mess.

Someone had managed to snap a photo of Harry and Voldemort walking together through Hogsmeade. The next morning, the paper blared: Harry Potter Returns! Who is the Mysterious Man at His Side? There was speculation about Harry’s health, his education, about his soulmate and whether the figure in the picture was his partner. Voldemort had seemed almost pleased at the article, lips curling faintly as he scanned the headline. Harry, on the other hand, had wanted to sink into the floor.

The real danger came when the Prophet reached the prisoners.

Harry’s face stared back at them from the front page. At the bottom corner: Information on Harry Potter, Our Boy-Who-Lived, Turn to Page 4! His whole life was laid out in a neat, sensationalised summary, labelling Harry as the symbol of their downfall.

The east wing had erupted.

Prisoners who remembered Harry as a baby shouted their recognition, promising vengeance once they recovered enough to act. Others raged at the idea that the boy who had ruined them was now the one overseeing their ‘care’. Bellatrix’s shrieking had echoed through the manor, manic laughter breaking into screams of outrage. Harry’s safety could no longer be guaranteed. Voldemort had forbidden him from setting foot in their wing, citing the prisoners’ instability.

Harry hadn’t even argued. He’d been relieved.

Instead, his days shifted back into lessons. The familiar routine grounded him, gave him something to cling to when the manor’s atmosphere threatened to overwhelm him. His tutors didn’t treat him differently now that the Prophet had spread his name again – if anything, they pushed harder, determined not to let his new notoriety distract him from his studies. And Harry found himself thriving under the pressure. His wandwork sharpened, his potions grew precise, and he even continued to make sense of the maddening logic of Runes and Arithmancy. Once again, learning magic felt like a joy instead of a burden.

Which was how he found himself waiting eagerly on Friday afternoon, pacing lightly across a cleared space in the classrooms. His Defence lessons with Voldemort were always intense, but they were also his favourite. Voldemort had a way of teaching that made the most complex spells feel attainable; his explanations were precise, his drills relentless.

The door opened. Voldemort swept inside, a casual wave of his wand sent the desks skidding neatly against the far wall.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” he said warmly.

Harry’s breath caught. The warmth wasn’t new this week, but it still startled him every time. Voldemort, who had once looked at him with nothing but disdain, now greeted him like – well, almost like a friend. Or something deeper, something Harry wasn’t yet brave enough to acknowledge in case he was wrong.

“Good afternoon,” Harry returned, just as warmly, unable to stop the smile tugging at his lips.

“Shall we begin?” Voldemort said, his wand poised loosely in his hand, as though it were an extension of his will rather than a tool.

Harry nodded, pulse quickening.

Voldemort turned and flicked his wand again, summoning the training dummies. They stood stiffly in the cleared space, faceless and waiting. Harry eyed them warily.

“They look worse every time,” he muttered.

“They look precisely as they should,” Voldemort replied, his tone cool but not harsh. He gave the faintest tilt of his head, as though indulging Harry’s complaint amused him.

Harry snorted. “You’ve got a real eye for creepy décor, then.”

A flicker of a smile touched Voldemort’s mouth. “If it unsettles you, they are serving their purpose.”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. He had been catching more of these moments over the last few days – Voldemort’s amusement breaking through, his genuine reactions being openly displayed. It still surprised him, but he’d grown used to it enough that the shock was giving way to something warmer.

Voldemort lifted his wand. “Today begins with offence. The incantation is Confractus Nerva. It floods the nervous system with magical interference, overloading it. The body becomes its own prison – paralysed by spasms. Less elegant than other methods, but effective for incapacitation.”

With a precise flick, Voldemort demonstrated. “Confractus Nerva.”

A lance of violet struck a dummy square in the chest. It convulsed horribly, limbs jerking though strings pulled them at random, before crashing to the floor.

Harry grimaced. “That’s vile.”

“Efficiency often is,” Voldemort said, unconcerned. He turned to Harry. “Cast.”

Harry raised his wand. “Confractus Nerva!”

His spell clipped the dummies shoulder. It twitched but stayed upright.

Voldemort’s voice dropped into something almost patient. “Breathe. Focus on the channel of the magic, not merely the target. Drive through it.”

Harry exhaled, levelled his wand, and tried again. This time the jet hit centre mass, dropping the mannequin instantly. Harry’s grin was involuntary.

“Well done,” Voldemort said, approval ringing clear. No restraint, no withholding. Just praise.

Harry felt a stupid glow in his chest. “I’ll take that as high marks coming from you.”

“Do not let it make you arrogant,” Voldemort warned – but there was no bite to it.

They worked until every dummy lay crumpled on the floor, battered from the numerous spells they drilled. Harry’s arms ached, sweat dampened his fringe, but he pushed through. Voldemort’s steady voice, instructing, correcting, praising, kept him going.

At last, Voldemort held up a hand. “Satisfactory. We move now to defence.”

Harry groaned. “I’ve got to say, your version of defence usually feels like attempted murder.”

Voldemort’s lips curved. “Then you had best be attentive.”

With a flick, he cleared the room until there was only Harry – and Voldemort opposite him.

“This will be closer to a duel,” Voldemort said. “I will strike. You will respond with the proper counter or shield. I will only use spells we have covered. But if you hesitate, you will be struck.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Great. No pressure.”

“Begin,” Voldemort said, and without warning, slashed his wand. A jet of orange fire erupted toward Harry.

Harry barely had time to think. “Aguamenti!” he shouted, and a surge of water burst from his wand, colliding with the flames and hissing them into steam.

Voldemort’s brow arched. “Correct. Fire quenched by water. Quick reflexes.”

Harry flashed him a grin. “Bet you thought you’d get me on the first one.”

“I rarely think so little of you,” Voldemort replied, and there was that unmistakable note of truth in his voice.

The next spell was a bone-shattering curse, streaking white toward him. Harry snapped, “Protego Ossis!” A translucent shimmer rippled in front of him, absorbing the impact with a crack like stone.

“Good,” Voldemort said, pacing lightly, his eyes fixed on Harry. “The shield is precise to skeletal cruses. General shields would have fractured.”

Another spell came – a curse that buzzed with sickly green light. Harry’s mind scrambled. He remembered Voldemort’s previous lesson. “Reversus Motum!”

The curse ricocheted away, shattering against the far wall.

“Excellent,” Voldemort praised, openly now. “You remembered.”

Harry panted, heart hammering. “Is this the part where you admit you’re trying to kill me a little bit?”

“Had I wished to kill you,” Voldemort said smoothly, “you would already be dead.” But the quirk of his mouth told Harry he was enjoying the exchange.

Spell after spell followed – binding hexes, piercing curses, disorientation charms. Harry countered most, missed some, staggered more than once. But every time he landed the right defence, Voldemort’s praise came unrestrained: “Well timed. Precise. Very good.”

When Harry botched one entirely and ended up trussed up in ropes, Voldemort gave a genuine laugh. “You look ludicrous.”

Harry scowled from the floor, though his heart fluttered in his chest. Voldemort’s face was transformed by the sound – sharp features softened, pale lips curved, eyes alive with a spark of something unguarded. For just a breath, he looked impossibly human.

And far too attractive.

Harry yanked his gaze away and huffed, heat crawling up his neck. “Glad I could entertain you.”

A flick freed him, ropes dissolving into smoke. Voldemort extended a hand without hesitation, and Harry blinked at it before grasping it. Voldemort hauled him to his feet with surprising strength.

Harry muttered, “Finally. You’re almost being nice to me.”

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed, his voice pitched low. “Almost?”

Harry’s stomach flipped, and he quickly looked away.

By the time Voldemort called a halt, Harry’s limbs shook with fatigue, his shirt clinging to sweat. His wand felt welded to his palm. But there was pride in Voldemort’s face – unhidden, free. And Harry couldn’t help but soak it in.

“Now,” Voldemort said, voice shifting, “for one of mine. A creation you will learn, though you may never use.”

Harry stiffened. He knew what was coming.

“Corruptum Vitae,” Voldemort intoned, and a streak of black burst out, slamming into a dummy he conjured anew. Veins of rot spiderwebbed across its body, wood sagging, crumbling inward.

Harry swallowed. “That’s… disgusting.”

“It unravels vitality at its root,” Voldemort explained, almost lecturing now. “Not immediate death, but inevitable collapse. You may hate it – as you should. But to know is to survive.”

Harry’s wand trembled faintly. “And if I don’t want to– ”

“Then you will never need to,” Voldemort interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was steady, low. “But if cornered, better to command it than fall ignorant. Cast.”

Harry locked eyes with the man, and reminded himself this wasn’t about twisting him into a Dark wizard – Voldemort had made this clear. This was simply another weapon for his arsenal, Voldemort’s own way of protecting him.

Harry exhaled shakily. “Corruptum Vitae!”

The black jet hit. The mannequin sagged, black veins creeping across its torso.

His stomach churned. “I hate it.”

“Good,” Voldemort said softly. “Hatred keeps the weight in place. You did well.”

Harry blinked at him, startled by the gentleness.

They repeated until Harry could perform both the curse and its reversal with precision. By the end, his magic throbbed, but Voldemort’s approval never wavered.

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the stone. Voldemort finally lowered his wand. “Enough. You have surpassed expectations today.”

Harry gave him a crooked grin. “That’s what, three compliments in one lesson? I should write this down.”

Voldemort chuckled – actually chuckled – and the sound startled Harry more than any curse.

“You are improving quickly,” Voldemort said. “Faster than I anticipated. You especially excel in defensive magic, which is not surprising.”

Harry blew out a breath, grinning despite himself. “If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like teaching me.”

A faint curve touched Voldemort’s lips, more smirk than smile, but genuine nonetheless. “Perhaps I do. You are less insufferable when you succeed.”

Harry barked a laugh, the sound too bright for the dim classroom. “Whatever you say.”

A silence stretched between them – strangely easy. Then Voldemort turned, his robes whispering over stone. “We will move to the dining hall.”

Harry blinked. “For… food?”

“For clarity,” Voldemort said, tone deliberate. “The prisoners and the inner circle must be reminded of their place – and of yours. Tonight, there will be no more doubt of your position at my side. You will be declared as my soulmate, making sure they know your place is above them.”

Harry’s heart lurched. Every Death Eater, every prisoner in this manor knowing that Voldemort and he were soulmates. The secret he had guarded so fiercely for years was about to be laid bare before strangers and enemies alike. The thought twisted in his stomach, a tight knot of dread and disbelief.

And yet, threaded through the anxiety was a strange steadiness, because Voldemort would be there. By his side. The very idea of it settled like an anchor in his chest. Over the past weeks, almost without realising, Harry had grown used to reaching for that presence, leaning into it the way one leans into solid ground after stumbling. The thought was disorientating, unnerving even – but it was also a relief. He didn’t have to face this alone. Not anymore.  

He swallowed, nodded. “All right. Let’s do it.”

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him for a moment – something almost like uncertainty in his eyes – before his face softened almost imperceptibly. “Good. Come.”

Harry fell into step beside him, exhaustion thrumming through his body, nerves winding tighter with every stride.

Voldemort walked beside him in silence, his long strides measured. For once, Harry found himself grateful for the quiet. His nerves were already close to snapping.

Two corridors away, Harry broke it. “So… what exactly are you going to say in there?” His voice betrayed more anxiety than he’d meant it to.

Voldemort’s crimson gaze flicked to him. “The truth, Harry. Stripped of ambiguity. They will learn you are mine, and I will tolerate no argument.”

Harry’s pulse quickened. The bluntness of it should have made him bristle, but instead it grounded him. Still, the dread clawed higher. “And if they don’t take it well?”

Voldemort slowed his pace, forcing Harry to stop with him in the dim hallway. The flickering sconces painted sharp shadows across his pale face. “Then they will be silenced. You are under my protection. I will not permit anyone to harm you – not with words, nor with action. That is not up for negotiation.”

The firmness, the certainty, should have reassured Harry. In a way, it did. Voldemort didn’t deal in platitudes or half-truths; when he said something, he meant it. Harry nodded, though his hands still twisted restlessly at his sides.

Finally, they reached the massive double doors to the dining hall. Harry’s heart hammered so loudly it drowned out everything else. Voldemort pushed them open with a wave of his hand.

The room was already full. Every Death Eater who frequented the manor, every freed prisoner strong enough to sit upright, sat crowded along the long table. Their conversations died instantly at the sight of Voldemort entering, and the silence thickened further when their eyes caught on Harry.

The prisoners’ stares burned with open hostility. The Death Eaters’ faces were a mixture of curiosity, suspicion and disdain. Harry’s stomach dropped.

He forced himself not to fidget, not to let them see how much it rattled him. He walked beside Voldemort towards the head of the table, gaze fixed forward, when his steps faltered.

The chair to Voldemort’s right – his chair – was already occupied.

Bellatrix lounged in it, gaunt and wild-eyed, her lips curved in a faint smile as she gazed at her master. She hadn’t even noticed Harry’s hesitation, so intent was she on drinking in Voldemort’s presence.

Harry’s teeth clenched. Of all people, it had to be her. And there was no way he could win that fight – not here, not in front of a room full of Death Eaters to tear him down. If he made a scene, he’d look petty. Small.

So he did the only thing left to salvage his pride: he straightened his back, lifted his chin and turned as if he had intended to walk down the length of the table anyway. Maybe there would be an empty seat by someone halfway sane.

He had barely taken two steps when Voldemort stopped him.

With a sharp swipe of his wand, a second chair materialised at the head of the table. The conjured wood gleamed darkly in the candlelight, an exact mirror to Voldemort’s own seat.

Harry froze.

Voldemort leaned toward him slightly, his voice dropping into the fluid hiss of Parseltongue. “We need to present a united front. Your place is above them, and they will know it.”

Heat crawled up Harry’s neck. Voldemort’s words sent a strange thrill through him, equal parts reassurance and something heavier. He managed to keep his expression neutral as Voldemort added, tone just lighter, “I do, however, recommend you sit in the one furthest away from Bellatrix.”

Then Harry’s lips twitched. “Fine. I’ll just have to put up with Lucius, then.”

Voldemort didn’t laugh – he never did, not in public – but Harry had spent enough time near him to read the subtle curve of his mouth, the faintest crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

The knot in Harry’s chest loosened. He stepped forward and took his new seat at the head, directly beside Voldemort.

The room buzzed with whispers. Some Death Eaters were openly shocked, while others muttered furiously among themselves at the blatant display of favouritism. A few prisoners looked stricken. Harry’s use of Parseltongue had not gone unnoticed.

Harry sat with his spine rigid, aware that every eye was on him. This was not the Voldemort they knew. The Dark Lord didn’t share power. He didn’t place anyone at his side. But here Harry was, conspicuously equal, seated shoulder-to-shoulder with the most feared wizard alive.

Bellatrix’s face twisted with rage, though she managed to school it into a smile for Voldemort. She didn’t look at Harry – yet.

When Voldemort called for silence, the whispers instantly died.

“You all know the name Harry Potter,” Voldemort began, his voice carrying easily across the room. “You know the stories, the titles given to him, the role he has played in events past. This gathering is to establish the truth of his place here. With me.”

“Yes,” Voldemort continued calmly, “it was Harry Potter who vanquished me on Halloween night, 1981. That much is true. It was old magic, ancient and unexpected. Magic I had not foreseen.” His eyes glinted bright red in the candlelight. “But it was not his victory. It was fate. And fate has its own designs.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He knew what was coming.

“On the night of my resurrection,” Voldemort said, “I came to a revelation. Harry Potter is my soulmate.”

The hall exploded.

Shouts of disbelief, gasps and curses spat Harry’s way. The noise swelled to a roar, every hateful word directed at him.

Harry’s instinct was to shrink back, to fold in on himself under the weight of their scorn. His leg bounced wildly under the table, betraying his nerves even as he kept his face carefully blank.

Then, firm pressure on his knee. Voldemort’s hand.

The grip was just enough to stop his jittering, then it relaxed, palm resting there as if it belonged. Voldemort didn’t so much as glance at him, all his attention on the crowd, but Harry’s chest loosened fractionally.

The noise died again when Voldemort lifted his hand for silence.

“Harry Potter is under my protection,” Voldemort said coldly. “He has proved his loyalty and is working to strengthen our cause. He stands at my side. An insult to him is an insult to me. An attack on him is an attack on me. Such things will be punished swiftly.”

“It is not his fault what occurred that night,” Voldemort went on, his voice silk over steel. “All consequences of it have been resolved between us. He had my full trust. And so he should have yours.”

Murmurs rippled again, though softer now, more cautious.

“If you have any concerns, now is the time to voice them.”

A tall man near the middle of the table stood – one of the inner circle. Harry didn’t know his name.

“My Lord,” the man said, bowing slightly, “with respect… this boy has been the very symbol of the Light for years. He was raised by them, steeped in their ideals, worshipping Dumbledore as a saviour. How are we expected to trust him now? How do we know he does not still?”

Harry’s throat tightened. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Snape watching him carefully, expression unreadable.

Before Voldemort could reply, Harry found himself speaking. “They didn’t raise me,” he said, his voice firm despite his racing heart. “I grew up in the Muggle world. I didn’t even know magic existed until I was eleven.”

The room rustled with whispers. Harry pressed on. “I didn’t choose how people saw me. I didn’t ask to be their symbol. And yes, I was under Dumbledore’s thumb for years – but I’ve begun to see his true colours now. I agree that he’s not the man people think he is.”

The Death Eater sneered. “And yet you expect us to believe you abandoned your beliefs overnight? That you are not still a muggle-lover like the rest of them?”

Heat flared in Harry’s chest. Voldemort stirred, but Harry spoke first. “I fight for what I believe in. That doesn’t mean blindly following one side or the other. And I can see the need for Dark wizards to have the right to their magic. For our traditions to be valued. I will fight for that and more.” His chin lifted. “I may not have grown up with that understanding, but I’m learning. From all kinds of wizards. I won’t let myself stay biased.”

Voldemort’s voice cut in, smooth and commanding. “He speaks truth. Harry has already supported many of our beliefs and is bettering our cause. He has aided me in shaping policies that will restore the rights of our people. His perspective is unique – and useful.”

Harry nodded. “And I’ve seen what cruelty muggles are capable of. Voldemort and I are working on a resolution together. I won’t ignore the danger they pose.”

Some heads nodded grudgingly. The suspicion in the room dulled, though not completely.

Then Bellatrix’s voice rang out, shrill and venomous. “He is still just a Half-blood brat! He’s weak! Inexperienced. An enemy. Why do you waste yourself on him, my Lord? There must be another option. Someone more powerful, more devoted. You deserve better!”

Harry’s spine locked. He didn’t expect Voldemort to defend him here, not publicly, and not against her.

But Voldemort’s thumb pressed against the tense muscle of his thigh, a silent reassurance. Then his voice lashed out, sharp and unyielding.

“There is no one else,” he said flatly. “There never could be. Our bond is unlike any other – it ties us closer than blood, closer than any vow. He is my soulmate. That alone makes him more than worthy.”

Bellatrix’s face crumpled, shock and devastation warring in her eyes. Voldemort didn’t let her speak.

“Harry has proved his worth a hundred times over, though it was never required. He belongs to me, as I belong to him. In every universe, in every possibility, it would be the same. There is no other match.” His gaze swept the room, burning. “Again, I will make this clear. Insult him, and you insult me. Harm him, and you will answer to me. We are one and the same.”

The words thundered in Harry’s chest, so unexpected, so fierce, that his heart nearly burst. Voldemort had defended him – claimed him – without hesitation.

Bellatrix sat back, chastised but trembling with fury, her glare stabbing at Harry. He ignored it. His heart was too full, his thoughts running wild. Voldemort had spoken of him warmly, protectively, with a certainty that stole his breath. He couldn’t believe how far they had come; how natural it was beginning to feel.

The meeting continued. More questions, more reassurances. Voldemort and Harry answered in tandem, their words weaving together in union. Plans for the prisoners’ recovery were laid out, and conditions to earn freedoms were explained. The air grew calmer, settled, though tension still simmered at the edges.

At last, Voldemort dismissed them. Death Eaters and prisoners filed out, murmuring, their gazes darting back to Harry as if they couldn’t stop themselves.

Harry let out a breath, his shoulders aching from the strain of holding himself taut.

Then he noticed Snape approaching, his expression conflicted.

“My Lord,” Snape said smoothly, bowing his head. “Might I have a word with Mr. Potter? Privately.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

Before Voldemort could answer, Harry spoke. “Yes.” He stood quickly, almost eager to move, to breathe.

But before he could step away, Voldemort caught his hand. The hiss of Parseltongue slithering low between them. “Be careful. He does not have my full trust.”

Harry softened, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the audience. “I’ll be careful. If anything happens, I promise I’ll run screaming for you.”

Voldemort’s thumb brushed over the inside of his wrist, warm and deliberate. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Reluctantly, he released him.

Harry turned to Snape, motioning for him to lead the way out. He guided Harry through the corridor in silence, his robes billowing behind him. Harry kept pace, trying not to look like he was rushing for air.

When they reached an unused study, Snape’s voice cut the silence. “Have you given thought to our previous conversation?”

Harry startled, glancing up at the man’s impassive profile. The question dredged up the memory of their terse exchange weeks ago – Snape’s warning, the conviction in his voice that Voldemort would discard him the moment he wasn’t useful.

“Yes,” Harry said evenly.

“And?”

“My usefulness isn’t the issue,” Harry replied. His voice steadied as he spoke, certainty crystallising in his chest. “It’s not even a factor in why I’m here. You heard him yourself tonight – proving my worth is not required. Maybe you should worry about your own duties instead of mine.”

Snape’s mouth twitched, the smallest ripple in his perpetual mask. “Still as sharp-tongued as ever.” He was quiet for a beat, then gave a weary sigh. “Dumbledore asked me to make contact. To see if there were… possibilities of returning you to Hogwarts. To your friends.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to speak with Dumbledore. And I’m not going back.” His words were firm and unwavering. “I’m staying with Voldemort.”

Snape’s eyes flicked away from him, then back. “I can see that decision has already been made,” he said. “It is strange. I have never seen the Dark lord defend someone so fiercely before. Certainly not over something as trivial as soulmates.”

Harry bristled. “Trivial?”

Snape’s eyes glimmered with a fiery edge. “Did you think this through, Potter? Truly? You are binding yourself to the man who murdered your parents. Placing your hope in the monster who destroyed your family.”

Harry’s chest constricted, but he forced himself not to look away. “It was rushed, yes. The Order left me no choice. But it was the best decision I could’ve made. And every day since, I’m reminded why I gave him a chance.”

Snape’s nostrils flared. “You are a fool if you think him changed. He is a master of the mind arts, of manipulation. He could be toying with you, dangling just enough to make you believe he’s genuine.”

“I know what he’s capable of,” Harry said, voice harsher now. “But I’ve seen enough of him to tell when he’s real. He’s been trying – with me, with everything. He’s listened, Snape. He’s taken my advice. I’ve tempered some of his worst ideas. Why do you think the war hasn’t broken out again?”

Snape’s expression flickered, just barely, but he said nothing.

Harry pressed on, conviction surging. “I’m not going to abandon him for Dumbledore. Not when he’s putting in this much effort. That wouldn’t be right. I’ll stand by him, keep working to bring out the good in him. Because I know it’s there.”

Snape stared at him, something haunted in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “Lily Potter thought like that. Believed she could find good where others only saw ruin. And look where it got her.”

The name hit Harry like a blow, but he clenched his fists and stayed firm.

“This is your best chance to get out,” Snape said harshly. “Now, before there are consequences you cannot undo. The Dark lord corrupts everything he touches. You are a fool to think you can bring light to him.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not leaving him.”

The room rang with silence. Snape’s eyes bore into him, cold and searching, as though trying to peel back his skin and see the truth beneath. At last, Snape curled his lip, the familiar sneer sliding back into place.

“Very well,” he said icily. “I will inform Dumbledore of your answer.”

He turned, sweeping away down the corridor, robes swishing behind him.

Harry stood rooted in place, confusion tangled with defiance. Why had Snape seemed… almost concerned? Why did he care now, when he never had before?

The question lingered, but Harry shook it off. He had made his choice. Whatever Snape thought, whatever Dumbledore plotted, he wasn’t turning back.

He turned toward the hall, steadying his breath. Voldemort would be waiting, and Harry wanted nothing more than to take his place at his side.

Dinner awaited – and so did the man he had chosen.

The private library had always been one of Harry’s favourite places in the manor. The air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of aged parchment, and the lamps cast a golden glow over the towering shelves. The walls muffled the outside world, creating a cocoon of silence that felt sacred. Here, it was easy to forget that beyond these doors stretched a household full of Death Eaters and endless tension. Here, it was only him and Voldemort.

Tonight, it felt even more so.

Harry sat curled in his usual spot on the couch, quill hovering uselessly above his parchment. He’d been working on a Transfiguration essay – well, pretending to. His notes had trailed off half a page ago, his eyes skimming the same sentence three times without comprehension.

Across from him – no, beside him now – Voldemort was bent over his own work. For once, the armchair at the head sat empty. Instead, the Dark Lord had taken the cushion at Harry’s side, a neat stack of documents balanced on one knee, quill tapping lightly as he read.

The nearness was… distracting. Comforting too, though Harry was still learning how to name that feeling.

He should have been writing about human transfiguration. Instead, his thought circled back to the meeting and then to Snape. He’d told Voldemort everything. He’d had to. Even if part of him had worried it might put Snape in danger, the urge to be honest with Voldemort had outweighed it. And Voldemort hadn’t cared – not really. He had only nodded, asked whether Harry had refused Dumbledore’s offer, and when Harry said yes, had looked perfectly satisfied. He had even said, with a calm certainty that steadied Harry’s nerves, that he trusted Harry to bring such things to him again. Voldemort would dismiss them without concern.

The trust still hummed in Harry’s chest, warming something inside him.

He risked a glance sideways. Voldemort’s head was slightly bowed, his pale fingers smoothing the corner of the page he held. His profile was sharply outlined by the firelight: the high line of his cheekbones, his mouth drawn in concentration.

Harry knew he should stay quiet. Voldemort hated being interrupted mid-thought. But the questions gnawed at him, louder than the scratch of quills or the crackling of the fire. He needed to hear it again, even if it made him sound foolish.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry said softly.

Voldemort didn’t lift his eyes from the parchment. “You may.”

Harry’s fingers worried at his quill. “What you said earlier, in the meeting… that there could be no one else but me. That we belong to each other.” His throat felt tight. “Was that true?”

The Dark Lord’s eyes flicked to him, gleaming with interest. The question didn’t seem to startle him. Instead, his lips curved, faint but certain.

“Of course it was true,” he said smoothly. “I do not waste breath on false promises, Harry. You should know that by now.”

A little breath escaped Harry, almost a laugh but not quite. “Oh.”

He stared down at his parchment, cheeks warming.

He felt Voldemort’s gaze linger, then drop back to his page.

Harry shifted, restless. “I… I really appreciated what you said. And not just tonight, but also in general.” His voice was low, but the words tumbled out faster now. “I’ve noticed you’ve been trying. To move forward. With us. I know it can’t have been easy, letting me closer.”

Voldemort made a so-so gesture with one elegant hand, quill still balanced between his fingers. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “It has been surprisingly simple, once I allowed myself to cast aside old reservations. Once I admitted that I wanted you – as my soulmate, with everything that entails – my actions followed naturally. I want to be close to you. Physically. Emotionally. And I am not a man who denies himself what he wants.”

Harry blinked at him, heartbeat picking up. “What made you realise that?”

This time, Voldemort did not look at him directly. A rare softness ghosted through his expression. “Hogsmeade.”

“Hogsmeade?”

“That girl.” Voldemort’s mouth thinned. “Cho.”

Harry felt his ears heat at the memory of Cho pressing her lips against his cheek.

“When she touched you, when she kissed you,” Voldemort said, his tone clipped as if each word cost him patience, “I understood my own reaction for what it was. The desire to claim that closeness myself. And a need to ensure no one else would dare touch you again.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“You are my soulmate, Harry. Made for me. Yet I had been denying myself the pleasure of that bond, so thoroughly that others dare to believe you were unclaimed.” His voice deepened, low and certain. “But you are mine. And I want you to be mine. As I will belong to you.”

The words sank into Harry like an anchor, grounding him. He turned fully to face Voldemort, tucking his legs beneath him.

“I… I want that too,” Harry said, voice small and careful. “I’ve wanted it for a while, but I wasn’t sure how to show you. I wasn’t sure if you even wanted it, and I’d kept pushing my feelings back to not misstep. I kept wondering if I was misreading things.”

Voldemort arched one brow. “And what exactly did you think I was doing?”

Harry laughed, embarrassed. “I thought you were just being… friendly.”

For a long moment, Voldemort only stared. Then, he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I am never ‘just friendly’. How insulting.”

Harry’s laugh broke freer this time, bubbling up in the quiet room. “Right. Sorry. I promise I’ll never accuse you of such a thing again.”

“See that you don’t.” But there was a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Their laughter tapered off into a silence that wasn’t heavy at all – more like a comfortable hush after a storm passes.

After a moment, Harry spoke again, softer now. “Are you really ready for this? If you’re not, I don’t want you to feel pushed. I’m happy to wait, I’m not going anywhere.”

Voldemort’s answer was immediate. “I would not have spoken any of this aloud if I were not ready. I want you, Harry. In whatever way you will allow.”

Harry gave a gentle smile. “Of course I’ll let you.”

But Voldemort’s gaze sharpened. “Are you certain? You know as well as I do that I am the cause of much of your pain. Your scars.”

Harry swallowed, but he held his ground. “It’s not easy to forget,” he admitted. “But I’ve already forgiven you. And I can see the way you apologise without words. In how you protect me. How you care for me. How you act towards me, the way you’ve softened yourself for me.”

The words came easier now, warmed by honesty. “I find comfort in you now, not terror. Your presence is grounding. Your touch even more so. You’ve made me feel… appreciated. Wanted. That’s something I’ve searched for my whole life. You make me feel seen, feel heard. You understand me in a way no one else does, sometimes with just a look.”

His voice dropped, shy. “Maybe that’s the soulmate bond, or maybe it’s the Horcrux connection. But either way, it means everything to me. And when you say you can’t imagine anyone else, that’s exactly how I’ve come to feel. I can’t imagine having another soulmate but you.”

For a moment, Voldemort simply studied him, eyes unreadable. Then he reached out, cupping Harry’s face with a touch that was unexpectedly careful. The bond flared with sudden warmth, contrasting with the cool fingers brushing over his cheek. Voldemort’s hand slid upwards, easing his fringe aside, his eyes lingering on the scar burned into Harry’s forehead. When his thumb traced slowly over the lightning bolt, Harry couldn’t suppress the quiet sound that escaped him at the rush of pleasure. Voldemort gave a low hum, as though pleased by the reaction, then let his hand drift down to Harry’s shoulder. With gentle insistence, he drew Harry closer until Harry’s head settled against his shoulder.

Harry let himself go easily, shifting his body to lean sideways against Voldemort. His eyes closed as Voldemort’s long fingers threaded through his hair.

“If we do this,” Voldemort murmured against his temple, voice low and tinged with warning, “I will not be able to let you go.”

Harry’s answer was just as soft, steady with truth. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from Voldemort’s chest, vibrating where Harry leaned against him. His fingers tugged gently at a knot in Harry’s hair. “We will proceed at your place. There is no need to rush.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Thank you. But I want you to tell me what you need too. This can’t just be about me. If something bothers you, I need to know. We have to talk things through.”

Voldemort inclined his head, chin brushing against Harry’s hair. “Agreed.”

For a while, they simply sat together. Harry let himself breathe in the quiet, Voldemort’s hand moving steadily through his hair. The fire crackled softly, the only sound beneath the rustle of turning pages. The stillness wrapped around him like a blanket, warm and safe in a way Harry had never expected.

After a time, his voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful. “I used to think the only way I’d ever have peace was if I defeated you. That it was the only way the fighting in me would ever stop.” He paused, shifting slightly against Voldemort’s shoulder. “But now, here with you… I don’t feel like I need to fight at all.”

Voldemort listened with a small tilt of his head. When he answered, his smile was something between amusement and satisfaction. “Then perhaps that is my truest victory.”

Harry laughed, soft and a little embarrassed.

They lingered there, wrapped in the small gentleness of the moment, and Harry’s thoughts loosened. When he spoke again, it was lighter, something that had no weight. “I got a letter from Ron today.”

Voldemort made a noise – half interest, half disdain.

Harry grinned despite himself. “He wrote about Quidditch. Ginny’s taken my spot as seeker this year; she’s annoyingly good, as he says. Caught the snitch twice in practice before anyone else even saw it. They just won their first match.” He listed off his teammates' accomplishments easily, eager to get his thoughts on this year's team out. How he’s proud that Angelina got captain, how he’s sure Fred and George are as brutal as ever. For a heartbeat, the words were a balm.

But there was a small pinch beneath the gladness. “It’s strange,” he admitted. “Reading about them flying out there like nothing’s changed. Ginny in my spot… I’m glad it’s her – she’ll be brilliant – but I can’t help wishing I was up there. There’s nothing like it: the roar of the crowd, the rush when you dive, the wind in your face. When I’m on a broom, everything else just falls away.”

Voldemort’s mouth twitched. When he spoke, there was something impossibly fond in his voice, something Harry couldn’t name. “You are rambling, darling.”

Heat rose to Harry’s cheeks, but he kept on, cheerful. “I know. I miss it. Quidditch makes me feel alive in a way nothing else does. Don’t worry, I won’t continue to bore you.”

Voldemort leaned back, more comfortable than Harry had any right to expect, and slipped an arm around him so Harry’s head rested more securely against the Dark Lord’s shoulder. “I would endure worse to hear you speak so freely,” he said, voice threaded with a softness that continued to surprise Harry. “Your enthusiasm is… tolerable.”

Harry snorted. “That’s your way of saying you don’t mind it.”

“Take it as you will.”

They fell into smaller talk after that, the easy, domestic noises of two people who knew each other enough to tease without malice. When Harry complained – half-serious – about Transfiguration essays and their tendency to expand like fold-out maps. Voldemort read a line, lips quirking with dry judgment. “Most of your words are filler,” he deadpanned.

Harry mock-glared at him, then dissolved into a grin. “Maybe I’ll dictate my essay to you next time.”

Voldemort sniffed, indulgent. “I will correct your grammar. The rest is your problem.” His tone said he meant it and didn’t mean it all at once.

A comfortable lull settled between them. Harry listened to the fire, to Voldemort’s breathing, to the soft scrape of the quill as the Dark Lord returned to his paperwork. The smallness of it – the shared warmth, the none-too-grand gestures – felt like stitches mending something that had been frayed for years. He thought of the journey that had brought them here – the arguments, the bitterness, the tentative steps towards trust. And now this: a fragile but genuine warmth growing between them, stronger with every word spoken aloud.

For the first time in years, Harry felt no dread for what tomorrow might bring. Only anticipation.

The future no longer seemed like a dark road he had to walk alone. It stretched ahead, uncertain but bright, and at his side – inevitably, unshakably, was Voldemort.

Chapter Text

The gardens stretched out before him, neat lines of Narcissa’s design softened by the abundance of late blooms. Roses, lilies, foxgloves and climbing vines filled the air with their scents, though Voldemort found little interest in flowers. He had never cared for things so fragile. Yet here he stood, unmoving in the shadows of the veranda, watching the boy who moved among them as though the blossoms belonged to

Harry bent low over a patch of lilies, his hands fluttering rather than touching, eyes intent, his expression softened into something unguarded. The boy’s hair caught the light, turning strands into bronze fire. Every few seconds, he shifted – standing, crouching again, darting to the next patch with an eagerness that would have irritated Voldemort in anyone else. Yet with Harry, it did not irritate. Against all reason, it fascinated.

Voldemort stood with his hands behind his back, the sweep of his robes brushing over gravel. He told himself he was simply observing. That he came here to ensure Harry did not trip over some root, or get himself stung by bees, or wander too close to the wards. But the truth pressed in on him like an unwelcome hand: he had come because Harry was here.

And he found himself strangely… content.

It unsettled him. Not the boy’s presence – he had long since grown accustomed to that – but his own. He, Lord Voldemort, who had never tolerated interference, never indulged another’s whims, found himself standing here willingly, patient as stone while Harry meandered among blooms. There was no annoyance at wasted time, no urge to redirect him toward something more useful. Instead, there was just contentment. A word that felt too pale to encompass what burned beneath it.

Patience. Indulgence. Care.

He had told Harry weeks ago, in the heat of that argument, that he cared nothing for him. At the time, he had meant to wound. To shake Harry’s misplaced conviction that their bond was more than circumstance. But that had been a lie – or perhaps only half a truth. For he did care. Not only for Harry’s education, though that mattered. Not only for his well-being, though he ensured it ruthlessly. But for Harry himself. For the boy’s stubborn heart, his infuriating sense of humour, the way he made Voldemort feel both maddened and soothed in the same breath.

It was not natural. He had never cared for anyone, not as Tom Riddle starving in the orphanage, nor as the Dark Lord bending the world beneath his will. Affection had been a foreign concept, a weakness exploited in others but never suffered in himself. Until now.

With Harry, there was this compulsive need. A hunger to show him, to make him understand. Voldemort want Harry to know – to feel – that he was wanted, that he was the most important person in Voldemort’s world.

He could no longer imagine existence without him.

His eyes narrowed slightly as Harry knelt by a bed of tulips, brushing a fingertip over a petal as though it were something sacred. At the thought of Harry’s absence – of returning to the loneliness of his twenties, the madness of his fifties – something ugly twisted in Voldemort’s chest.

Yes. He wanted Harry. Bound to him. Bound so tightly that leaving would be impossible.

The library conversation came back to him – the moment he had admitted aloud what he had once denied. He had told Harry the truth, mostly. He had omitted pieces.

He had not told Harry how furious he had been, watching that Ravenclaw girl’s actions in Hogsmeade. Cho Chang. Foolish child. He had wanted to rip off her fingers for daring to touch Harry. And Harry himself – Voldemort had been livid that he had not pulled away, had endured it with a baffled little smile. The boy had not meant it, Voldemort knew that now, but the image burned all the same.

Instead of unleashing his rage, Voldemort had chosen a different path. He found himself drawn into proving – to Harry, and perhaps to himself – that he was enough. That Harry did not need anyone else to fill his attentions.

A charming smile was offered where once would have been only command. A compliment spoken where silence had sufficed. He had chipped away, carefully, deliberately. And Harry, in his disarming naivety, had answered with shy smiles, with laughter, with those open green eyes turning soft when they found him and an infuriating lightness that Voldemort could not resist.

And then Voldemort had lost himself.

He offered more than he ever thought he could – attention, patience, even tenderness – and Harry, the selfless boy that he was, had given his own in return. The closeness that followed was intoxicating. Now, he craved Harry’s attention, his affection, like a draught of something potent and rare. He craved Harry’s eyes, his touch, his laughter. He found himself doing whatever he could to keep it, to earn it.

It might have remained manageable had Voldemort not discovered how much he needed it. Needed Harry’s smile, Harry’s presence, Harry’s touch. Each graze of skin was a balm against the fractures of his soul. He had thought himself unhealable, broken beyond repair. Yet Harry’s nearness brought with it a wholeness he had not known in decades. When they touched, skin to skin, the madness that had stalked him since his resurrection fell quiet. In its place was clarity, a cool calm that allowed him to breathe as though truly alive again.

And so he indulged, again and again. Grasping Harry’s hand to guide him. Sweeping hair from Harry’s face, knuckles grazing warm skin. Adjusting the fall of Harry’s robes with critical fingers, ensuring he brushed the skin of Harry’s neck. Even a bolder touch once – his thumb sweeping across Harry’s lip at dinner, feigning the removal of food, though savouring the warmth of Harry’s startled stillness. These were not accidents. They were choices, deliberate and compulsive, for he could not seem to stop.

Harry responded in kind. Perhaps knowingly, perhaps not. A laugh given too freely, a grin thrown his way, a soft flush painting his neck when Voldemort leaned too close. Each was fuel, stoking his hunger. He wanted more. So much more. To bind Harry so tightly to him that no one else would ever matter. To keep those bright, trusting eyes fixed only on him. To be touched again and again, until the idea of separation became unthinkable.

The Horcrux connection complicated matters further. Harry was, impossibly, his human Horcrux – an extraordinary feat Voldemort still struggled to fathom. The closer they have become, the stronger the bond has grown. And with the growth comes a struggle to block it. Despite this, on darker nights, when paranoia crept in and suspicion whispered of betrayal, Voldemort dipped into Harry’s mind. He searched for signs of treachery, of Harry plotting to leave him. And every time, he found only trust, only care, only affection. Sometimes even something else – something strange. A warmth that wrapped like sunlight, soft and unyielding, impossible encompassing.

Voldemort did not know the feeling. He did not understand it, didn’t know what to make of it. But it was there in Harry’s mind, stubborn and small though it was. And though Voldemort could not name it for himself, he recognised in his own chest something that mirrored it – an alien softness when he thought of Harry. He did not dissect it. He simply allowed it to exist.

“Voldemort!”

The boy’s voice broke his thoughts. Voldemort blinked and focused again on the garden where Harry knelt by a flower bed, waving him over with that same bright insistence that always pulled him in. He moved without hesitation, without thought, until he stood at Harry’s side. His hand found Harry’s hip in quiet possession, steadying the boy as green eyes turned up to him, wide and alive. Again came that look – the one that stripped him bare.

Harry grinned at him, glancing at the blooms, then back.

“You know,” he began, voice thoughtful, “when I used to garden for the Dursleys, I’d sometimes mess about with the flowers I cut off.” His hands moved restlessly as he spoke, fingers brushing stems as though recalling the shape of them from long ago. “One day after school, I saw a group of girls weaving flower crowns. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. Tried it myself, over and over, but I couldn’t get it right. Everything just fell apart in my hands.”

Voldemort tilted his head, watching the way Harry’s mouth twisted into something faintly sheepish. He could already feel the shadow of what would come next. Harry’s stories of childhood always carried an edge, a dark corner where the Dursleys lurked.

“Eventually,” Harry continued softly, “I was so desperate that my magic just… responded. The flowers just – ” he snapped his fingers, a tiny spark flashing at his fingertip “– came together. A crown, perfect as anything. For a minute, I thought maybe I had a superpower, like in Dudley’s comics.”

The smile faded. Harry’s gaze dropped, shadowed. “I showed Aunt Petunia. She spat at me. Said to never ruin her garden with my freakishness again.”

A silence followed, heavy and tense, in which Voldemort’s hand flexed against Harry’s hip. The urge to destroy rose sharp and immediate, an old hunger for retribution. He could picture it too easily – their house reduced to ash, the Dursleys choking on smoke. His search for their address flickered at the edge of his mind. But Harry’s face, fragile with memory, held him still. What the boy needed now was not vengeance. It was something softer.

So Voldemort lifted his free hand, tilting Harry’s chin toward him with a careful touch. “Show me,” he said, voice low, a command tempered into invitation.

Harry blinked, startled, then broke into a smile – small at first, then brightening into something dazzling. “Of course.”

He reached for a scattering of fallen leaves, then, with a glance over his shoulder, murmured an apology to Narcissa before snipping a few fresh blooms from the nearest bed. Gathering them in his hands, Harry’s face shifted into concentration. His brows knit, lips pursed, the tip of his tongue darting out to touch his lip as if the magic required all of him to answer.

Voldemort watched, entranced, as stems bent and leaves curled, knitting not by weave but by joining. The pieces of nature obeyed him utterly, rearranging under his invisible will. There was no wand in Harry’s hand, no spell uttered under his breath – just pure intent, pure instinct. It was artless and yet exquisite.

When the final stem sealed itself and the crown took shape, Harry’s face broke open with joy. He held it up, eyes alight, grinning so wide it pulled something deep and unsteady in Voldemort’s chest.

“See? Told you I could do it.”

Voldemort let his gaze rest on the crown for a long moment. It was clumsy in places, uneven, but no less beautiful for that. No less impressive.

“Truly remarkable,” he murmured, and meant it. His voice softened despite himself. “Especially without a wand. And yes – it is beautiful.”

Harry flushed with praise, ducking his head before thrusting the crown up higher. “Thanks.” Then, with a flicker of mischief, he stretched onto his toes and set the crown gently on Voldemort’s head.

Voldemort stilled. He had endured spells, curses and crowns of victory fashioned in blood. Yet this – this fragile ring of flowers laid on him by Harry’s own hand – unmoored him more thoroughly than any triumph.

Harry steps back, eyes bright, cheeks pink. “Now you look like… I don’t know. Some ancient god or something.” He laughed, embarrassed at his own words, though he didn’t take them back. “It’s too small, though. My head as a kid was way smaller than yours.”

With a flick of his fingers, Voldemort conjured a mirror. The image reflected back at him was strange, absurd even – Lord Voldemort crowned with blossoms. Yet his lips curved, not in mockery but in something softer. He looked back at Harry, who was watching him with that teasing grin that masked something deeper.

“It is still perfect,” Voldemort said quietly. “Anything you give me will be.”

The effect was immediate. Harry’s neck flushed crimson, and he stepped forward, fussing with the crown as though adjusting its tilt could excuse the heat in his face. “Then… you should keep it.” His eyes flickered up, a teasing smirk on his face. “I promise you look just as handsome with it on.”

Voldemort’s fingers slid around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer with deliberate possession. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a purr. “Darling, I could hardly look anything else if you are the one to adorn me.”

Harry gave a startled laugh and ducked his head into Voldemort’s shoulder, muffling something against the fabric of his robes. Voldemort let him stay there, holding him close, savouring the feel of Harry’s body pressed to his.

When at last they turned to walk back inside, Voldemort’s hand remained firm at Harry’s waist. He glanced at the boy’s soft profile and thought, not for the first time, how different his life had become. He had once imagined only conquest, isolation, power taken and hoarded. Yet here was Harry, his soulmate. A boy who wore his heart and his sleeve, with flowers tangled in his hair.

And Voldemort – Lord Voldemort – did not regret any of it.

Harry was completely relaxed in his place at the manor. It had taken weeks, maybe months if he was honest with himself, but it was true. The place no longer felt like an enemy stronghold that might swallow him whole at any moment – it felt like somewhere he belonged.

His studies were going better than he could have dreamed. Hogwarts had never been useless to him – he knew how to cast, how to duel, how to navigate the whims of Snape’s temper – but here he was advancing faster than he thought possible. They weren’t interested in the Ministry-approved curricula. They taught him what was efficient, advanced, and – most importantly – necessary. Harry has almost mastered nonverbal magic a year earlier than he would have. Every lesson left him amazed at his own progress, and it fed a kind of hunger in him he hadn’t realised he carried.

His friendships steadied him further.

Ron and Hermione wrote consistently, their letters full of their usual banter and sharp observations. Though Harry missed their physical presence, their words were enough to make him feel supported despite the distance. Draco had become another welcome constant. He wrote often, sometimes with sly humour, sometimes with pointed advice, sometimes just to complain about his parents. Harry had been surprised to discover how much he valued those letters, how much he enjoyed calling Draco a friend.

And then there were Sirius and Remus, who appeared in the mirror with wide smiles and voices that betrayed nothing but delight at seeing him. Sirius grumbled occasionally, muttering about “dark lords” and “bloody snakes”, but he never judged Harry’s choices outright. Remus, calm as always, reminded Harry of what family meant.

And then, there was Voldemort.

Harry’s relationship with him had changed more in a matter of weeks than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. The conversation in the library, where they had confessed what they were to each other – soulmates, chosen, inevitable – had stripped away something sharp between them. What remained was startlingly open. When Harry wasn’t busy with lessons, he sought him out, and Voldemort never once turned him away. More than that, the man wanted him close – always close.

Voldemort sat beside him on couches, conjured chairs directly next to his own in the office, and followed Harry around the manor simply to be near. With proximity came touch – casual and somehow never casual at all. Fingers twined with his as they sat, a hand wrapped at his waist while they walked. His favourite, though, was when Voldemort’s long pale fingers threaded through his hair, twisting and tugging at it. He always seemed to graze the skin on Harry’s neck just enough for the bond to flare, setting his whole body into a warm daze.

It was constant, and Harry was still adjusting. He had never grown up with touch being a safe or pleasant thing. Even with Ron and Hermione, there were limits – handshakes, hugs in moments of desperation, but never this casual consistency. Voldemort broke through every barrier Harry had erected around himself, not harshly, not cruelly, but with such a natural ease that Harry forgot to object. Forgot to worry. He found himself leaning into it. Found himself relaxing so completely that he wondered if he had ever truly been at ease before.

Today, though, he wasn’t looking for Voldemort to indulge in quiet company. He had a mission.

It had been two weeks since Hogsmeade, and he had promised Ron and Hermione that he’d handle Umbridge. That meant he needed Lucius. Narcissa had told him in their morning lesson that Lucius would return from the Ministry this evening, and Harry was determined to corner him before the night was out. He’d searched much of the manor already – though he wasn’t about to venture into the Malfoys’ private wing – so that only left asking Voldemort.

Harry followed the faint connection to Voldemort before stopping at a heavy door on the ground floor. It was Voldemort’s office, the one he used for meetings. He hesitated. If Voldemort were busy, it might not be wise to intrude. But before he could decide whether to knock or retreat, the door creaked open on its own.

Harry pushed it wider and peeked inside.

Voldemort sat at the grand desk, composed and regal, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Standing before him was a man who immediately set every nerve in Harry’s body alight. Broad shoulders, wild mane of hair, the feral intensity of his presence radiating danger. Harry stiffened immediately. Instinct screamed at him to withdraw, and he was already half-turned to duck back out when Voldemort’s gaze found him.

“Harry.” His voice was calm, even, but Harry caught the faintest ripple in the bond, an acknowledgement that Voldemort had noted his unease.

“Sorry,” Harry said, stepping a fraction into the room. “I had a question, but I can come back later.”

Voldemort’s expression didn’t shift, still carved in that cool mask he wore for his followers, but his words were immediate. “We won’t be much longer. Your input might be helpful. Stay.”

Harry hesitated only a beat before obeying. He trusted Voldemort enough for that. Still, the man’s eyes latched onto him, unblinking and too sharp. Harry’s skin prickled. He cast about for a chair, finding none in the office save those at Voldemort’s desk. The space was built for power displays, not comfort.

“Here,” Voldemort murmured, and with a flick of his wand, a chair appeared beside his own, slightly behind. A shielded position, Harry realised instantly. It put Voldemort between him and the man from every angle.

Relief loosened Harry’s chest. “Thanks,” he said, crossing the room quickly and sinking into the conjured seat.

“This is Fenrir Greyback,” Voldemort said lowly, tilting his head toward the man. “He is the leader of his own pack and has strong ties to many others. The werewolves were fierce supporters of my side, so we shall hear him out.”

Then Voldemort straightened and nodded once. “Continue, Greyback.”

Greyback finally dragged his gaze away from Harry and returned his attention to Voldemort.

The werewolf spoke of packs and allegiances, of the loyalty his own had always given to the Dark Lord and the others he could sway. He spoke of discrimination, restrictions, and being promised a better standing in the wizarding world during the last war, only to be left with nothing. His voice dripped with venom, but beneath it was raw hunger. Greyback wanted power for his kind – and blood for himself.

Harry’s stomach twisted as Greyback spoke casually of hunting, of attacking, of spreading infection as if it were nothing but strategy. His lips curled back over sharp teeth, his posture predatory, and Harry felt bile creep up the back of his throat.

Harry kept silent, watching. Voldemort listened with deceptive patience, chin resting against his hands, crimson eyes unblinking. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost bored. He appreciated Greyback’s loyalty. He would not give promises now. His plans were not complete. When the time came, Greyback would be invited to the meeting where such matters would be announced. If he remained displeased, Voldemort would follow up with him privately.

Greyback bristled, hackles raised. “That won’t be enough. My pack needs more than empty words. They’ve heard of your return; they’ve fought and bled before. They want to know they’re not wasting themselves again. We have lost many of our kind; we need prey to hunt. Humans to turn.”

Again, Voldemort dismissed him, voice still smooth. “You will have what you are owed. But not now.”

Greyback snarled. “We won’t wait any longer. I won’t crawl back to them with nothing. If you won’t help us, we’ll take what we want ourselves.”

And then his eyes slid to Harry.

The look made Harry’s skin crawl. Greyback’s lips parted in a feral grin, fangs flinting. “Maybe I’ll start now,” he said softly. “Pretty little thing you’ve brought in. Now that’s easy prey.”

Harry’s wand dropped into his hand before he even thought about it.

But he didn’t need it.

Greyback hadn’t taken three strides before he was hurled back into the wall by an invisible force. He snarled, shaking off the impact, and surged forward again.

This time, Voldemort’s wand slashed.

“Crucio.”

Greyback crumpled, body seizing, mouth tearing open in a guttural scream. Harry should have looked away. He knew this curse. Knew it was unforgivable. Knew he should feel sickened, horrified.

And yet, he didn’t.

Not at Voldemort, not at the sight, not entirely. Because Greyback deserved it. The way he looked at Harry, the words he spoke, the promise of harm in every glance – it all deserved punishment.

But the disgust still rose in Harry. Not at Greyback. At himself. For not feeling what he thought he should.

The thought stuck, gagged and wrong, until Harry realised it wasn’t wholly his. Their connection was going haywire, and through it came an echo of Voldemort’s emotions. Hatred, sharp and uncompromising. Disgust that roiled in heavy waves. Possessiveness, hot and blinding, the kind that would raze everything if it so much as looked at Harry.

But under it – shame. A shame so deep it nearly buckled Harry. And desperation, clawing and unrelenting.

Harry’s breath caught. He snapped his gaze to Voldemort. The man’s eyes gleamed scarlet in the dim light, fixed on Greyback with icy malice, his hand steady as the Cruciatus coursed mercilessly. His face was composed, but Harry felt the maelstrom beneath.

“Stop,” Harry said softly.

Voldemort didn’t so much as flicker.

Harry swallowed and pushed up from his chair. He reached for Voldemort’s wand arm, fingers curling around the rigid muscle of his forearm, trying to lower it. “That’s enough. He’s learnt his lesson.”

Still nothing. The curse went on.

Harry’s frustration spiked, tangled with the flood of emotions pouring into him. He shifted his grip, reached higher, and caught Voldemort’s face in his palm, tilting it toward him.

“Enough,” Harry whispered, letting the bond flare beneath his palms. He reached through their connection, fumbling but determined, and tried to shove the calmness along the tether that linked them.

For the first time, Voldemort’s focus broke.

His crimson gaze snapped fully to Harry. The force of it hit Harry like a weight, but then the curse flickered and died. Greyback collapsed in a heap, twitching weakly on the floor.

“Leave,” Voldemort said, his voice sharp as a whipcrack. “Now.”

He didn’t even gesture. The words alone sent Greyback stumbling to his feet, still trembling, but the look he cast Voldemort was wary, almost fearful. Harry caught the flash of his fangs, the half-formed snarl, before Greyback thought better of it. He staggered toward the door, and when Voldemort locked it behind him with a flick, the silence that followed was deafening.

The Voldemort was on him.

Hands swept obsessively over Harry’s face, down his shoulders, pressing at his arms, his sides, his back, as if checking for injuries. His fingers were quick, almost frantic, and the bond pulsed hot with urgency.

“Hey – hey, I’m fine,” Harry said, catching Voldemort’s wrists. “Stop – just stop a second. What was that about?”

Voldemort tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. That wasn’t just a bit of acting for the curse. I could feel you, Voldemort. Like before, in the dreams. The disgust, the anger–”

Voldemort’s expression shuttered, his head turning away.

Harry wouldn’t let it go. He reached up again, cupping the side of his face, forcing those crimson eyes back to his own. “It wasn’t just for show. Don’t lie to me.”

For a long moment, he thought Voldemort might simply refuse to answer. His jaw was tight, his shoulders coiled with tension. But then, without a word, he pulled Harry toward the desk, sinking back into his chair and tugging Harry with him.

Harry went to sit in his own conjured seat, but Voldemort didn’t release his hand. Instead, he drew Harry down, settling him carefully across his thigh. Harry found himself perched sideways, his head naturally falling against Voldemort’s chest, Voldemort’s chin lowering to rest against his hair. One of his hands remained locked around Harry’s, the other circling his waist in a grip that was both protective and possessive.

It was… unexpected. But not unwelcome.

When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost pensive. “You’ve studied Occlumency. Then you understand Legilimency.”

Harry nodded slightly, not daring to shift too much against him.

“I am a master Legilimens,” Voldemort said, the words laced with cold pride. “I do not need effort to catch what spills unbidden from another’s mind. Eye contact is enough.”

Harry froze. His breath caught, because he understood then. “You saw his thoughts,” he whispered.

Voldemort’s hand flexed at his waist. “You cannot fathom the filth he thinks of you. Of children. In the last war, I loosed him with impunity. I told myself his savagery had its uses. That his appetites were not my concern.” His tone dipped, sharp with self-loathing. “I knew what he was, but it did not touch me then. Now… now it does.”

Shame coloured the bond. Harry felt it like a sour note, sharp and unyielding. He turned slightly, his fingers brushing against Voldemort’s hand where it gripped his own. He rubbed his thumb across the knuckles in what he hoped was reassurance.

“Look,” Harry said gently, “I won’t pretend I wasn’t horrified. You’re not wrong – he deserved it. Even I couldn’t feel sorry for him. Not after what he said. Not after how he looked at me.” Harry shook his head, voice soft but firm. “You can’t change what you let him do in the past. But you can change what happens now. And you already are. You’re not letting him run wild again. You’re making different choices. That’s what matters.”

Voldemort stilled, his chin pressing harder into Harry’s hair. The connection hummed, not frantic now, but low and steady, amplified by the calmness of the bond.

“I will never release him upon innocents again,” Voldemort said at last, voice rough. “But he belongs to me still, and so do his kind. They are Dark creatures. They belong on my side. That is where they will remain.”

Harry tilted his head back slightly, peering up at him. “Then why not tell him the truth? That you’ll fight for werewolves politically, when you’re in the Wizengamot? That’s what he actually wants, isn’t it? A better standing. Rights.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved faintly, though it wasn’t amusement. “You think I would share such delicate plans with a creature like Greyback? No. The political shift must be swift and decisive. Until it is ready, I tell no one more than necessary. Too many of my followers lust for bloodshed. If they grow restless before the reforms are enacted, they will devour the vision before it can take root.”

Harry considered that, then nodded. “I get it. Still – it’s good. It’s better. You’re not repeating the same mistakes.”

The silence that followed was quieter, heavier. Voldemort’s arm tightened around him; the emotions pressing on Harry had settled. Harry wanted to press, still brimming with questions about the whole situation, but he let it go. Voldemort had given him more honesty than ever before; that was enough for now.

When Voldemort asked, almost idly, why Harry had come looking for him, Harry pushed himself up just enough to meet his gaze.

Then he grinned. “Actually, I need you to summon Lucius. He and I are due for a chat.”

Harry had returned to his own chair after what felt like a small eternity sitting on Voldemort’s lap. He barely noticed when Lucius slipped in, all silver hair and immaculate composure, already seated as if he’d been there the whole time, waiting patiently to be acknowledged. Harry was fighting the urge to slump, instead pulling himself straighter and gripping the arms of his chair. The meeting with Greyback had barely ended, and here they were again – another issue, another problem to handle.

Lucius was speaking already, his tone smooth and practised, like someone presenting before a court. “It is not insurmountable,” he said, pale eyes sliding briefly over Harry before fixing themselves firmly on Voldemort. “The Board of Governors remains the most direct path to removing Madam Umbridge from Hogwarts. I hold considerable influence there still, though not without opposition. If enough of the Governors can be convinced she is unfit, I can… shift matters to our favour. Beyond that, there are levers to pull at the Ministry. Her appointment was political, not practical, and political things can always be undone.”

Harry listened closely, though what caught his attention most wasn’t the words – it was the way Lucius addressed Voldemort and only Voldemort, as if Harry weren’t even in the room. Harry leaned forward slightly, waiting for a chance to cut in, but Lucius continued seamlessly, ignoring him with the polish of someone who had made a career of pretending certain people didn’t exist.

“However,” Lucius went on, “removing her will require evidence. Concerns. If enough are voiced – if the narrative is shaped correctly – then pressure will mount. It will take time, of course, but it can be done.”

Harry cleared his throat, then spoke up. “Students already hate her. Loads of them have complained to Hermione about the detentions, the rules, everything. If it’s evidence you need, I can get that.”

Lucius did not so much as glance at him. His gaze stayed trained on Voldemort as though Harry had never opened his mouth. “Complaints will not be enough,” he said coolly. “The Board will view those as petty grievances from children. What will matter is proof of abuse. Particularly…” He allowed a pause, his lips thinning delicately, “the blood quill.”

Harry nodded. “She’s been using that for weeks now. I can get proof of that too.”

This time, Lucius deigned to glance at him – just long enough to give Harry the faintest sniff, then he turned back to Voldemort, as if Harry’s words needed translating to someone who mattered. “My Lord, this is… delicate. Even if she were so reckless, do you truly wish to pursue this? The punishments fall mostly upon the wrong sort of children.”

Wrong sort. The words landed in Harry’s chest like a stone. Heat rushed through him before he even knew he was moving, his whole body leaning forward, voice rising. “The wrong sort? You mean Muggleborns and anyone who stands up to her? That doesn’t make it acceptable; it makes it worse! She’s carving into children’s hands, how can you– ”

“Enough.”

The single word cut through Harry’s rising fury, Voldemort’s voice low but firm. His gaze slid to Lucius, and when he spoke again, there was no mistaking the steel beneath the calm. “I do not support the harming of school children, Lucius. Not Muggleborn, not Pure-Blood, not any child. If we have the power to prevent such things, then we will.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Lucius bowed his head swiftly, every trace of defiance vanishing. “Of course, my Lord. Forgive me.”

At last, he turned to Harry directly, his voice smoothed back into courtesy. “I will call a meeting of the Board as soon as possible, and I will present what you have said. I will also speak with Draco – coming across as a concerned parent will carry weight. Any evidence you gather, leave it in my office, and I will see it reaches the proper channels.”

Harry blinked at him, taken off guard by the sudden shift, but nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll get it.”

Lucius inclined his head again, then rose gracefully. “I will begin arrangements immediately. Thank you, my Lord.” He bowed low to Voldemort, gave Harry the barest flicker of acknowledgment, and swept out of the room.

The door had barely clicked shut when Harry let himself finally slump back into his chair, limbs going loose with exhaustion. He tilted his head back against the wood, staring up at the carved ceiling, and let out a loud, unstrained sigh.

“Merlin,” he muttered, rolling his head lazily to the side to look at Voldemort. “How do you do this all day?”

Voldemort was not slumped, of course. His posture was relaxed yet elegant, one arm draped along the armrest, his head resting against his hand as he regarded Harry with faint amusement. “I got used to it,” he said mildly. “Though, admittedly, I did not consider when I first claimed the title that being a Dark Lord would be quite so… administratively demanding.”

Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Not exactly the glamorous side, is it?”

For a while, they sat in the comfortable lull, the fire casting soft shadows over the stone. Harry finally stirred again, turning back toward him. “I think I’ll set up another meet-up with Ron and Hermione. That way I can get the statements properly, not just scraps here and there.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed faintly, but Harry was already shooting him a pointed look. “And no, you’re not coming this time.”

A tilt of the head, deceptively innocent. “Why ever not? I was on my best behaviour last time.”

Harry laughed softly. “You were, I’ll give you that. But you scare them too much. And I might need to talk to some others too, if it’s possible. I can’t exactly do that with you hovering over my shoulder.”

“Which other friends?” Voldemort asked, slightly too smooth.

Harry rolled his eyes. “There’s no need for you to get huffy right now. Just a few more of my Gryffindor friends, maybe one or two from other houses. Nothing dangerous.”

Voldemort hummed, though Harry could feel the displeasure in it. He leaned forward, earnest. “I’ll be fine. You can throw every protection you can dream of on me, but I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”

The reply came bluntly. “And what can I do to prevent them from touching you?”

Harry’s eyes widened, his face heating instantly. “You can’t – what? You can’t do that! There’s no need!” He sputtered, flustered, hands waving vaguely before falling into his lap. His voice dropped quieter, more honest. “I’ve never let anyone touch me as much as I let you. Isn’t that enough?”

Another hum, this one more pleased, satisfaction curling in the air between them. Voldemort rose to his feet with deliberate ease, then extended a pale hand toward Harry, who tracked the movement lazily with his eyes.

“Come,” Voldemort said. ‘We will be late for dinner if we linger.”

Harry groaned faintly but reached up, slipping his hand into Voldemort’s and letting himself be pulled upright. His lips quirked as they stood together. “What a real gentleman you are.”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened, not with offence, but with something far more dangerous – amusement. His lips curved ever so slightly “A gentleman?” he echoed, voice dipping into something teasing, edged with that smooth authority that always seemed to crawl under Harry’s skin. “How tragically mundane of me.”

Before Harry could roll his eyes or offer a snappy comeback, Voldemort bent slightly and brought Harry’s hand to his lips. He pressed the barest kiss against Harry’s knuckles, cool breath ghosting his skin, the motion practised but devastatingly intimate.

Harry froze. His brain simply… stopped. He stared down at their joined hands as though they belonged to someone else, heat rushing from his stomach up to his face in a wave he could neither control nor conceal. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Voldemort looked up through his lashes, a predator savouring his prey’s fluster. “You are blushing, darling,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing across the back of Harry’s hand before lifting to trace along Harry’s cheek. The touch was deliberate, unhurried, his thumb lingering against the heat blooming beneath Harry’s skin.

Harry made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a protest, batting his hand up to remove Voldemort’s fingers from his face. He was grinning, though, and his voice gave him away. “Piss off.”

The chuckle that left Voldemort was rich and pleased. He didn’t resist when Harry pushed his hand away, only redirected his grip, tugging Harry toward the door with unhurried certainty.

Harry let himself be pulled along, his stomach still fluttering traitorously. His thoughts swirled as they walked, skipping back through the day like restless pages of a book he wasn’t sure he wanted to reread.

And through all of it, Voldemort had been there – always at his side, always watching, always intervening when Harry’s temper threatened to explode.

Harry almost lost himself in the rhythm of it, the quiet weight of Voldemort’s hand guiding him, when he felt another touch – this one startling. A hand slid beneath the hem of his shirt, finger cool against the warm skin of his hip.

Harry startled, glancing sharply sideways. Voldemort met his look with bland calm, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “The bond,” he said, unbothered. “Skin on skin triggers it, obviously. I find I appreciate the effects now that I can feel them.”

Harry blinked at him, incredulous. “Holding my hand isn’t good enough for you?”

“No.” The answer was flat, without hesitation.

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had no idea what to say to that, no idea how to argue with someone who simply declared things as though they were immutable facts. In the end, he shook his head faintly and leaned further into Voldemort’s side, feeling the hand at his hip tighten in silent acknowledgement.

Silence stretched comfortably between them until Harry broke it, voice soft but certain. “You know… I’m proud of you today.”

A pause. Voldemort’s head tilted, eyes cutting to him.

Harry nodded, determined. “Twice now – in one day – you’ve stood up to protect children. Once with Greyback. And again with Lucius. That matters, Voldemort. More than you probably realise. I can’t thank you enough for supporting what I care about.”

For a long moment, Voldemort said nothing. Then his hand pressed more firmly against Harry’s side, a subtle weight. “You are the last person who needs to thank me.” His voice was low, echoing slightly off the corridors. “Without you, the harm done to children would not have crossed my mind. It is only the thought of it being done to you that forces me to recognise it as wrong.”

Harry swallowed, throat tightening. He looked ahead, watching the torches flicker along the stone walls. “That’s okay,” he said finally, voice roughened with honesty. “If that’s the way you learn, then fine. I’ll stick around for a long time.”

Voldemort’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “That was never in doubt. I would never let you go.”

Harry shot him a sidelong look, grinning despite himself. “You don’t get to say that like it’s only your choice. I can come and go as I please.” He bumped his shoulder lightly into Voldemort, playful but firm. “But I’ll always come back to you. I promise.”

Voldemort’s hand moved then, long fingers gliding up Harry’s side beneath the fabric, the touch slow and possessive. Harry shivered, breath catching.

“I can live with that,” Voldemort said softly. “And I will always return to you as well.”

Harry tried to ignore the way his stomach swooped at those words. Tried and failed. He leaned closer anyway, letting Voldemort’s touch steady him.

They were nearing the dining hall now, the faint glow of the chandeliers spilling into the corridor. But even before they reached the doors, Harry could hear it – the low roar of voices, chatter and laughter and movement far louder than any night before.

Harry slowed, frowning. “What…?”

Voldemort’s expression shifted, something almost like guilt flashing across it before smoothing back into calm. “I forgot to mention,” he said evenly. “Some of the prisoners have been cleared to wander the manor. Including attending dinner.”

Harry stopped dead, his mouth dropping open. “You forgot–” His voice dropped into a furious whisper. “You forgot to tell me? How many? Who?”

Voldemort’s hand smoothed higher on his side, a calming gesture even as Harry stiffened. “It will be fine,” he said with infuriating certainty. “It is only dinner. Nothing will happen. I will be at your side the entire time. You have nothing to fear.”

Harry groaned, burying his face briefly against Voldemort’s shoulder before lifting it again with a muttered curse. His glare was sharp, but his voice was softer when he spoke. “If anything happens to me, it’s your fault.”

Voldemort lifted his free hand in a mock-surrender, his lips twitching. “Duly noted.” Then he motioned toward the doors, as though inviting Harry to step into battle.

Harry took a breath, shoulders squaring, and prepared to enter a war zone.

Chapter Text

When the heavy doors opened, a hush fell. Every face turned toward them, and though no one dared to speak against Voldemort’s word, Harry could feel the contempt pressing on his skin like heat from a fire. Some sneered openly; others masked it, but their eyes betrayed them.

Harry inhaled deeply through his nose, ignoring the burn of nerves in his chest, and stepped in at Voldemort’s side. The hand on his back pressed gently, urging him forward at an even pace. Voldemort moved like the room belonged to him – as of course it did – and Harry copied that stride, forcing his feet not to falter.

The long table stretched down the centre of the hall, gleaming under candlelight. When they reached the head, Voldemort settled into his chair with effortless grace. To Harry’s right, the chair was left conspicuously empty. Harry’s mouth twitched; he wondered if that was Narcissa’s doing, quietly manoeuvring Bellatrix to the other side of the Dark Lord.

Unfortunately, Bellatrix was still close – far too close. She sat where Lucius usually did, to Voldemort’s left, posture almost vibrating with fervour. Lucius, displaced, had been shuffled down beside her, his expression tightened into something that looked a lot like barely controlled distaste.

Harry slid into his seat, folding his hands in his lap the way Narcissa had taught him. He avoided looking forward; he wouldn’t give Bellatrix the satisfaction. Instead, he focused on Voldemort, who had the rapt attention of nearly everyone at the table anyway.

“Begin,” Voldemort commanded.

The command was quiet, yet it carried like thunder. At once, house-elves appeared, and entrees filled every plate. Steam curled from bowls of rich soup, the scent mingling with warm bread and roasted vegetables.

Harry reached for his napkin, folding it carefully just as he was drilled to, and selected the proper spoon. He took the first sip with steady hands. Small victories, he told himself.

Around him, conversation resumed – quiet at first, then louder as wine was poured. Harry caught snatches of talk, little bursts of excitement, but what really drew his attention were the glances. Repeated looks shot toward him, followed by mutters.

It didn’t take long to notice Rodolphus Lestrange grinning smugly, tossing a coin between his fingers, while Antonin Dolohov argued with increasing heat. Bets, Harry realised.

He tightened his grip on the spoon, determined not to react. If they wanted to treat him like some kind of entertainment, fine. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of looking rattled. He lowered his gaze to his soup and kept eating.

A sudden burst of motion made him look up. Bellatrix, spoon in hand, was leaning wildly across Lucius to jab her words toward Narcissa.

“You coddle the boy,” Bellatrix sneered, voice pitched high with manic delight. “Draco needs sharpening. He’s too soft for a Slytherin. Let me teach him – I’ll make him strong.”

Lucius’ grimace deepened, the expression of a man caught between two storms. “Draco’s education is sufficient, Bellatrix. Should Hogwarts decline further, we will consider alternatives. Homeschool. Durmstrang. But for now–”

“For now?” Bellatrix cut him off, waving her spoon so violently that soup splattered across the table. “For now, you let him rot under the doddering fool Dumbledore’s nose? Do you think strength is learned in books?”

Beside Harry, Barty leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like a challenge. “I’d pay to see you lecture at Hogwarts, Bellatrix. Half the students would run screaming before you even opened your mouth.”

Bellatrix’s wild eyes snapped to him, but instead of anger, she threw her head back and laughed. “Ha! And the other half would worship me.”

Harry kept his eyes moving, trying to gauge the room. Lucius looked exasperated, Narcissa calm but sharp-eyed, Barty gleefully stirring the chaos. Voldemort, meanwhile, looked… uninterested. Almost bored.

But Harry felt the faintest brush of amusement down the bond, muted compared to earlier in the office. Voldemort was keeping himself carefully contained for the prisoners. That knowledge should have made Harry feel shut out, but instead it left a warm thrum in his chest. Voldemort didn’t shield from him when they were alone.

Harry lingered too long in the thought, because when he looked up, Voldemort was already studying him with a faintly questioning tilt of his head. Realisation hit too late – he’d let his emotions spill. Voldemort’s mouth curved into smugness.

Harry rolled his eyes, decorum forgotten, and bent back to his soup. It only lasted a second, but he caught a flicker of movement from across the table – Bellatrix, watching with hawk-like intensity, her face twisted as though she might explode.

Mercifully, the elves cleared the plates before she could. The next course appeared, along with wine glasses filled with pale golden liquid.

Harry blinked down at it, uncertain. Narcissa caught his hesitation.

“Elven wine,” she explained. “Sweet and gentle on the tongue. You should try it. And don’t worry, Harry – none of us would dream of reporting you for underage drinking.”

A small ripple of polite laughter followed. Harry managed a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He took a cautious sip. Sweet, yes – but under the sugar was something sharp, burning as it slid down his throat. He fought not to wince and forced a neutral expression. “It’s nice,” he lied.

Narcissa inclined her head and returned to her conversation. Harry carefully set the glass down and reached for his water.

Beside him, Voldemort’s smirk curved faintly, eyes glinting.

“Liar,” Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue, the words sliding through Harry’s mind.

Harry darted a glance around. No one was paying attention. He leaned subtly closer. “So what if I am? You lie all the time,” he shot back.

Voldemort’s lips twitched. His face spasmed as though suppressing a laugh, and Harry felt a ripple of genuine amusement echo down the bond. Then Voldemort leaned just lightly toward him, Parseltongue rolling smooth as silk. “Then perhaps we are well matched, darling.”

Heat shot up Harry’s neck, his face betraying him. He snapped back in English, louder than he meant: “Shut up.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Bellatrix lurched to her feet, cutlery clattering to the floor.

“HOW DARE HE–” she screeched, pointing across the table. “My Lord, he insults you, speaks over you – he is far too comfortable! Let me put him back in his place!”

Forks froze mid-air. Every conversation dropped into silence. Bellatrix’s chest heaved, and her voice pitched higher, trembling with devotion.

“I have stood by you, my Lord, your most devoted, always–always! And he – this boy – thinks he can undermine me? Undermine you? Allow me to punish him, and I’ll–”

Harry was on his feet before Voldemort could move. His wand was in his hand, pointed steadily. “If Voldemort has a problem with me, he can deal with it himself. He doesn’t need an insane nutjob doing his dirty work.”

The words sliced through the air.

Bellatrix’s face twisted, madness igniting in her eyes. She snatched up a knife, brandishing it like a dagger, and lunged forward.

Harry raised his wand, every nerve screaming–

“Enough.”

Voldemort’s voice cracked like a whip.

Bellatrix froze mid-step, knife trembling in her hand.

“Sit.” The single word brooked no argument.

She dropped heavily into her chair, chest heaving, but the knife still clutched in her fist.

“Drop it,” Voldemort said coldly.

Her fingers spasmed. The knife clattered onto her plate.

Voldemort’s eyes slid to Harry, voice slipping into Parseltongue again, exasperated.

“Why must you goad her?”

Harry’s shoulder rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “Heat of the moment. I’m sick of her crap.”

Voldemort stared at him long enough that Harry imagined, if they were alone, Voldemort would have rolled his eyes heavenward.

With a wave of his hand, Voldemort reset the fallen dishes and straightened the table. “Eat,” he commanded the room. His voice turned sharper. “If Bellatrix misbehaves again, she will not attend another dinner.”

Bellatrix’s lips twisted, but she bowed her head. “Of course, my Lord. Forgive me.”

She picked up her spoon and ate with a sudden dainty precision.

Across the table, murmurs picked up again. At the far end, Harry caught movement – coins sliding across the table, hands gesturing ‘pay up’. Others shook their heads, muttering to ‘wait’.

Harry frowned, more confused at their behaviour than ever. Wagers? On what? On him? On Voldemort? On whether Bellatrix would shriek herself hoarse? Whatever the case, Harry shoved it out of his mind. Best not to think too hard about what prisoners trapped in a magical manor did for entertainment.

Dinner continued, the atmosphere loosening again after Bellatrix’s scolding. Voices rose in cautious confidence. Knives scraped against porcelain. The heavy chandelier swayed ever so slightly, scattering yellow light over the Death Eaters and the ragged collection of prisoners alike.

By the time dessert arrived – glossy dishes of dark puddings, candied fruit and wine poured generously into goblets – Harry and Barty had drifted into their own bubble of conversation.

Barty was several glasses deep by then, the flush on his cheeks obvious, his gestures wider and more animated than usual. His laugh carried easily down the table. Harry hadn’t seen him drunk before; his usual edge of paranoia was replaced with an almost boyish looseness.

Harry didn’t mind. Everyone else was in much the same state, even the quieter Death Eaters loosening under the steady stream of wine.

Their talk had turned to Hogwarts stories, mostly ridiculous, mostly exaggerated, the kind of "you’ll never believe this" that only old schoolmates or war survivors ever tried to top each other with.

It had turned into a game of one-upping each other’s worst experiences.

Unluckily for Harry, he was winning.

Barty leaned across the table, brandishing his goblet, sloshing crimson over the rim as he laughed. “No, no, listen – this one will do it. Best yet. Evan and I managed to convince one of the older Slytherins to give us tattoos.”

Harry smirked. “Magical tattoos?”

“Obviously magical tattoos! Do I look like the sort of man who would settle for ink and needle?” Barty pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence, then continued with a dramatic flourish. “Anyway, we thought we’d be the height of sophistication, strutting around as the ultimate bad boys. Except–” He choked on his own laughter, nearly spilling wine into his lap. “Except the older idiot mixed up the runes, and instead of a glorious mark of power, Rosier ends up with a slug wriggling around his bicep. I got a dancing kneazle. A pink one. Wearing a tutu.”

Several of the prisoners listening nearby snorted into their hands. One actually laughed aloud before remembering himself and ducking his head.

Harry grinned, shaking his head. “That’s tragic.”

“Tragic?!” Barty slammed his goblet down. “Mortifying! We had to explain it to Madam Pomfry when the bloody things wouldn’t stop moving. Evan’s slug was trying to crawl into his armpit. The nurse nearly hexed us herself. Do you know what it is to stand in the hospital wing, trousers down, while Madam Pomfry demands to know why your ribs are shimmying to the rhythm of a ballet?”

Harry burst out laughing, nearly choking on his own drink. “You didn’t–”

“Oh, I did. And she made me sit there three hours while the charm word off. I tell you, Potter, the shame never leaves a man.”

Still chuckling, Harry shook his head. “Can’t believe you’ve recovered enough to tell people about it.”

Barty tugged up the hem of his shirt, twisting awkwardly to show Harry his side. A faint, pale patch of skin remained. “Here’s where it was. Just there. Used to dance every night at precisely eight o’clock. Evan swore it was trying to perform Swan Lake.”

Harry leaned over, inspecting. “Brilliant.”

“Not brilliant,” Barty huffed, dropping the shirt and straightening with a sniff. “I’d chosen something magnificent, too. A manticore. Fierce. Majestic. Do you know what it’s like to go from that to a prancing bloody kneazle?”

Harry laughed again. “At least it wasn’t permanent.”

“Don’t remind me. Still, you’ll never top that, Potter.”

Harry smirked, leaning back. “I might.”

Barty’s eyes lit up, curiosity gleaming even through his drunken haze. “Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

Harry hesitated, then lifted his left arm slightly, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. “Got my own sort of mark at Hogwarts. Not a tattoo, though.”

“What kind of mark?”

“Basilisk bite.”

The table around them stilled for a moment before noise resumed, a subtle lull of disbelief.

Barty’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Basilisk bite. Fang through the arm.” Harry tapped the spot on his forearm, his tone casual but his eyes daring Barty to scoff.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Barty laughed, loud and incredulous. “Oh, that’s rich. Absolutely golden. Little scrawny Harry Potter, surviving a basilisk. Pull the other one, Potter. You must think me stupid.”

Harry smirked, but his voice held steady. “It’s true. I’ve got the scar to prove it.”

Barty’s grin turned sly. “Scar, eh? Let’s see it.”

There was no point in refusing. Harry tugged his sleeve properly, revealing the deep, puckered scar. The skin was pale and raised, still faintly discoloured where venom had nearly killed him.

Barty leaned close, his fingers suddenly wrapping around Harry’s wrist, yanking his arm closer to the candlelight. His brows knit, all traces of mockery evaporating.

“How did you – Merlin’s bones, how did you survive this?” His fingers traced the jagged edges of the scar, slow and oddly reverent.

Harry shifted in his seat, unsettled by the touch, and even more unsettled when he felt a firm pressure against his foot beneath the table. Voldemort’s shoe. A warning.

Harry cleared his throat, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel. “Phoenix tears. Dumbledore’s bird – Fawkes – healed me.”

Barty hummed thoughtfully, thumb brushing once more over the scar. “Phoenix tears. Of course.” Then he began running his fingers along the line again, as though memorising it.

Harry blinked at him, baffled. Barty was drunk, clearly, but this was strange even for him. He decided not to yank his arm away just yet, though Voldemort’s foot pressed harder the longer Barty touched him.

Finally, Harry started to guide Barty’s hand away. The man resisted only slightly, then let the wrist drop. But before he released it fully, Barty’s voice dropped with sudden curiosity.

“Who’s Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

The words hit Harry like a curse. He ripped his arm back at once, heart hammering. In his eagerness to prove the basilisk tale, he had completely forgotten his soulmark, the carved letters binding his fate to that very name.

“Shh!” Harry hissed, eyes darting around. Most of the table was lost in their own drunken chatter, but Bellatrix – Bellatrix was staring directly at him, eyes gleaming like knives.

Panic clawed at him. He leaned closer to Barty, whispering harshly, “Don’t say that name. Don’t mention it again.”

Barty’s sharp mind flickered through the pieces quickly, even through the haze of wine. His eyes slid past Harry, toward Voldemort, then back again. Something clicked into place, and he snapped his mouth shut with a nod, silent now, though the spark of understanding in his gaze was unmistakable.

Harry forced himself to breathe. He risked a glance at Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s expression was unreadable, his long fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. His emotions, through the strange tether they shared, were a closed door.

Harry whispered in Parseltongue, low enough for only Voldemort to hear, “I’m sorry.”

The faintest sigh escaped Voldemort. Then, in the same hissing tongue, came the reply: “Out of all of them, I would prefer Barty to know. At least he has a brain.”

Relief pricked Harry’s chest. He huffed a small laugh. “True. Still, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Voldemort murmured. His crimson eyes slid to Harry, cool but not unkind. “It is unnecessary. I am not angry with you.”

Harry bit back another apology, settling for a nod.

The moment passed. Dessert dwindled, goblets drained, conversation slurred and slowed. Voldemort finally set his goblet down, tapping once against the stem before he rose.

“That is enough,” he said, voice carrying easily down the table. “You are dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Death Eaters and prisoners alike stood, some wobbling slightly on their feet, mostly talking in clusters as they filed out after bowing to their lord. Harry caught fragments of his name and Bellatrix’s, carried out the door in excited whispers.

Lucius and Narcissa paused to murmur their farewells before gliding away. One by one, the others followed.

Harry rose too, turning to Voldemort. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

Voldemort inclined his head. “I have errands yet. Go on.”

Harry nodded and slipped from the hall, weaving through the echoing corridors. His footsteps tapped against the stone, the air cooler and quieter away from the feast. He thought absently of bed, of the comfort of shutting his door against the chaos of this manor.

He climbed the final staircase toward Voldemort’s wing – and was slammed hard against the wall.

The stone wall slammed into Harry’s back hard enough to rattle his teeth. His head cracked against it, a burst of stars flooding his vision. For a moment, the world blurred – stone and torchlight smeared into one dizzy haze – before the sharp press of wood at his throat jolted him back to awareness.

A wand.

Harry blinked furiously, trying to focus.

The crazed black eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange swam into view.

Her grip was iron, thin fingers bruising his shoulders as she held him pinned, her wand digging cruelly into the soft hollow beneath his jaw.

“Thought you were clever, did you?” Her voice was a rasp, high and cracked from too much laughter and too little sanity. “Thought you could sit there at my Lord’s table, pretending to belong?”

Harry’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. He swallowed, feeling the wand tip shift with the movement.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he forced out, aiming for steady but sounding strained even to his own ears.

“Oh, but I do.” Her lips stretched into a grin too wide to be sane, too sharp to be friendly. “I’ve known all along. You, a filthy half-blood brat, the Dark Lord’s soulmate? All along, I knew it was a lie. Whatever spell you’ve wrapped around him, it won’t last forever. It never does.”

Harry’s thoughts spun. Spell? Lies? What was she thinking? What brought this on? 

“What are you talking about?”

Her grip shifted, and before Harry could stop her, Bellatrix snatched his wrist.

“No–!” Harry tried to twist away, but she was faster. She yanked his arm up, sleeve riding back.

There, clear as ink etched into his very skin, was his soulmark: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Bellatrix’s breath caught, then twisted into a triumphant laugh. “This! I heard Barty whisper this name. A Muggle’s name – defiling our Lord’s legacy! How dare you – how dare you taint him with your filth!” Her voice rose higher. “You’ve lied your way into his circle, sucked power you don’t deserve! I bet you feed his secrets straight to Dumbledore, don’t you? I knew your little story stank – the Boy Who Lived turning to his parents’ killer for something as pathetic as soulmates.”

She stepped closer, eyes alight with fury and fascination. “At first, I thought it was another Gryffindor stunt – reckless, brainless. But then…” Her grin stretched, feral. “Then I saw the way my Lord looked at you. How he favoured you. How he protected you. That’s when I realised. You’ve tricked him somehow. Drugged him. Spelled him into believing you matter.”

Harry forced his voice to stay even, though panic scratched the back of his throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do.” Her grin widened. “My Lord is the greatest wizard the world has ever known. He would never willingly be bound to someone like you. A weak little boy. An enemy.” Her voice dripped with venom. “Not special. Not enough for him. Never enough.”

Her words sliced sharper than her nails.

Harry wanted to argue, to spit something back, but another thought froze his tongue: what if Voldemort agreed?

Bellatrix leaned closer, wand digging harder into his throat until he winced. “Whatever you’ve doe to him – whatever enchantment or potion – it won’t last. Sooner or later, it will break, and then…” She giggled, eyes glittering madly. “…then he’ll kill you himself.”

Her breath smelled faintly of wine and rot.

Harry’s mind raced. If she thought it was a spell, maybe that was safer. Maybe she wouldn’t connect the name on his arm to the man she worshipped. But her gaze kept flicking between the letters and Harry’s face, as though attempting to fit puzzle pieces into place.

“Voldemort won’t like you threatening me,” Harry gritted out.

Her laughter screeched through the corridor. “Oh, he’ll understand. I’m saving him from you. He’ll see reason. He always does when I remind him.”

She shifted her wand just slightly, the wood biting into his skin. Her voice dropped low, gleeful and cruel. “But before I deliver him the truth, why shouldn’t I have some fun first? Hmm? A little slice here, a burn there. What’s left of you will only make my Lord pity you less.”

Harry’s pulse spiked. He needed to think, needed to stall. His eyes darted to her wand, then back to her face.

“Where did you even get that?” His voice cracked slightly, but he forced the words out. “The prisoners aren’t allowed wands yet.”

Her grin sharpened. For just a moment, she seemed to forget herself, drawing the wand back to twirl it between her fingers like a trophy.

“Lucius,” she purred. “Always so careless. He leaves it in his pocket when he sits, like a plebeian. He was just asking me to steal it.”

Harry seized on the opening. “You stole Lucius’s wand?” He let incredulity drip from his tone. “Voldemort won’t like that either.”

Bellatrix sneered. “And my Lord will understand. He will see that I acted for him. For us. To tear away your lies and filth.”

Her gin widened again. “And to punish you properly before you die.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. His hand inched downwards slowly towards his wand. He didn’t like his chances of beating her in a duel. She’d been one of Voldemort’s most feared lieutenants. But Azkaban… maybe Azkaban had slowed her down.

Please let it have.

He edged his fingers closer… closer…

Bellatrix’s eyes snapped to his movement.

Her wand flicked before Harry could finish the reach. “Frango Ossis!”

The bone-breaking curse shot towards his hand–

–only to shatter harmlessly against a glowing shield that flared around him, a ripple of light that seemed to drink the curse rather than repel it.

Bellatrix’s eyes widened. She spun, searching the corridor.

Harry knew. He felt the heat searing against his chest, the weight of it heavy and burning. It was the locket. The Horcrux.

It was alive with power, stronger than it had ever been, thrumming against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

Bellatrix snapped her head back to him, snarling.

Harry’s fingers finally closed around his wand.

“Vulnero Tenebris!” she screamed.

Harry recognised it instantly – Voldemort’s own lesson, the slicing dark curse. Reflex overrode fear. His wand snapped up. “Restoro Cutis!”

The counter-curse blazed, light colliding with shadow, and for a moment, the air between them shimmered with sparks before the curse dissolved.

Bellatrix shrieked and cast again, curse after curse, rapid and furious. Green bolts, black fire, slicing shadows. Harry countered what he could, ducked others, the locket absorbing those he missed with bursts of heat that seared his skin.

His hesitation shattered. He fired back, not to kill – never to kill – but to hurt. Spells Voldemort had drilled into him: burning hexes, cutting charms, bone-jarring stuns. Some hit. Bellatrix staggered, her wild hair flying as she hissed with pain.

Her frustration mounted, her movements jerky with fury. She spat and cursed, then–

“Crucio!”

Harry knew he couldn’t block it. He dove sideways, landing hard on his shoulder. The stone scraped his arm raw, but he scrambled up, wand ready.

Bellatrix froze for a split second, eyes calculating.

Harry’s stomach clenched. He shifted his stance, preparing for the worst.

A curse he didn’t recognise blasted from her wand, aimed at his left. He dodged right – straight into her trap.

His foot landed on stone that instantly iced over.

Harry’s legs went out from under him. He crashed to his knees, wand flailing.

Too slow.

“Crucio!”

Agony.

White-hot, ripping through every nerve, tearing him apart from the inside.

Harry screamed – or thought he did. He couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears, blood rushing so loud it drowned everything else. His body convulsed, arching, collapsing, twisting under the pain.

Minutes – or hours – passed in that endless torment.

And then, suddenly, silence.

The curse broke.

Harry slumped onto his back, chest heaving. Sweat poured into his eyes, stung at the edges of his lips. His glasses were gone, flung somewhere. His limbs jerked uncontrollably, sparks of pain still flickering under his skin.

Through blurred vision, he saw Bellatrix.

On her knees.

Clutching her left arm, her face contorted, muttering frantic apologies into the air.

It took Harry’s rattled brain a moment. Then it clicked.

The Dark Mark.

Voldemort was punishing her.

He knew.

Relief swelled, almost dizzying. Harry forced himself upright with a grunt, fumbling until his hands brushed his glasses, his wand. He shoved the glasses on, though the world still tilted nauseously.

He should lie there. He should rest. But something inside him screamed no.

He staggered to his feet and raised his wand, glaring at Bellatrix as she writhed and begged for her master’s forgiveness.

He could do it. He could hex her, curse her, hurt her the way she’d hurt him. He wanted to. Raw anger burned in his chest, urging him on.

His mind flicked through curses. The one Voldemort had praised for sheer pain, or the slicing charm, the fire hex, the skin-flaying curse. His lips parted.

No.

Not like this. Not when she was down, defenceless. That wasn’t a duel. That was cruelty.

But Bellatrix wouldn’t hesitate. If the roles were reversed, she would laugh as she destroyed him.

Harry’s hand trembled. He chose.

“Ferventi Sanguine.”

The blood-boiling curse shot from his wand, striking true.

For a moment, nothing. Then Bellatrix’s mutters turned into choked gasps – into screams, ragged and wild, laced with laughter that twisted into shrieks.

She clawed at herself, hunched and trembling.

Harry watched. And for the first time, instead of disgust, he felt a sick satisfaction.

She had laughed at his pain. Now he could laugh at hers.

The thought scared him. But he didn’t lower his wand.

Twenty seconds, maybe less, before his wrist was seized and yanked down.

Harry staggered, pulled sharply off-balance.

He blinked up into crimson eyes.

Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stood before him, his long fingers tight around Harry’s wrist, his other hand already examining him, brushing through blood in his hair, skimming over trembling limbs.

Harry stared at that bloodied hand, confusion fogging his pain-hazed mind. “Where–?”

He reached up to feel the back of his head, but Voldemort caught his wrist mid-motion, stopping him.

“Lucius.” Voldemort’s voice snapped down the corridor.

The blond man appeared at once, pale and shaken.

“Take Bellatrix. Lock her in her rooms and post a guard. And, Lucius…” His red eyes narrowed. “…learn to guard your wand.”

Lucius bowed low, voice tight. “Yes, my Lord.” He dragged Bellatrix away, her screams still echoing faintly as she vanished down the hall.

Voldemort turned back to Harry, crimson gaze cool but intent.

“Can you walk?”

Harry swallowed, his throat raw. “Yes. I’m fine. She barely landed anything.”

A hum, low and unconvinced. Voldemort slid an arm under Harry, supporting him. Harry leaned into it, far more than he meant to, exhaustion pulling him down.

“Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Harry wasn’t sure how he’d ended up perched on the edge of the armchair in Voldemort’s room. The last thing he remembered clearly was stumbling beside him down the corridor, half-leaning on his shoulder, still tasting blood and fear and pain in the back of his throat. Now he sat rigidly, trying not to look too much like an intruder in a place he’d never been allowed to truly see more than glimpses of.

Voldemort stood silently behind him, his long fingers tracing a measured pattern through Harry’s hair as he worked to heal the back of Harry’s head. The faint hum of magic prickled against his scalp. Harry flinched once when the wound twinged, and immediately felt a smoothing hand settle over his shoulder, firm and reassuring in a way that made Harry’s chest ache.

They didn’t speak. The silence was suffocating, thick with unspoken things. Harry’s thoughts churned with Bellatrix’s voice – a weak little boy, not special, never enough.

Would she be proved right? Had he gone too far?

The burn of the healing charm faded, and the quiet stretched on. Harry stared into the low fire across the room, every flicker of light throwing long shadows over the walls. He tried to focus on the sound of Voldemort’s breathing – slow and steady – as if he could match it, ground himself in it.

Finally, Voldemort’s magic dimmed to nothing. A soft click as he sheathed his wand. He came to stand beside Harry, eyes lowering to where Harry’s hands still trembled faintly against his knees.

“Were you put under the Cruciatus?” Voldemort asked. His voice was calm, but too calm. The kind that made Harry’s stomach tighten.

Harry swallowed, keeping his eyes on his hands. “Yeah.”

A small hum. Then Voldemort turned away, crossing to a cupboard beside a desk. He opened it and drew out two slender vials, their contents glinting amber and green in the firelight. “Do you know how long she had you under?”

Harry frowned, trying to recall, but everything blurred into the memory of pain. “I don’t know. It felt like forever. Must’ve been a while.”

Voldemort clicked his tongue softly. “Far too long.” He extended the vials. “One for the pain, the other for the nerves. Drink both.”

Harry took them, relief flickering through him despite the unease coiling through his body. “Thanks,” he murmured, drowning the first, grimacing at the bitter burn. The second went down easier, tinged faintly with mint. He let out a quiet sigh. “Feels better already.”

Voldemort only inclined his head in acknowledgement, turning toward the wardrobe on the far wall of the room. As he moved, Harry realised just how still the room was – not the empty kind of silence, but one that felt heavy, occupied.

For the first time, Harry let himself look.

Voldemort’s room was far larger than his own – twice the size, maybe more. The armchair he sat in was part of a small sitting area gathered around a grand fireplace, its mantel carved with serpentine patterns. Another pair of armchairs flanked the fire, perfectly symmetrical, as if no on ever actually used them.

A few shelves lined the walls, filled not just with books but with small relics. They were odd things, reminding Harry of a magpie’s hoard – polished stones, an ornate dagger, even a fragment of what looked like bone in a sealed glass. A massive bed dominated the middle of the room, draped in black silk sheets that shimmered faintly with runes. Stood in the corner was the desk that bore quills, parchment, and several neatly arranged vials, all in precise order. Everything about the space screamed control.

It was elegant, in a cold sort of way – but it wasn’t lifeless. There was warmth here too, in the low fire, in the faint scent of sandalwood and something distinctly him.

Harry’s eyes drifted to the wardrobe Voldemort had disappeared into and then to another door slightly ajar – the bathroom, he guessed. His curiosity prickled, though he felt vaguely guilty for even noticing. This place always had a forbidden feeling to it. Too personal, too intimate to belong to anyone but Voldemort himself.

He didn’t have time to think about it longer. Voldemort reappeared, now holding a small bundle of neatly folded clothes. He approached Harry again, his expression unreadable.

“Go wash up,” he said quietly, extending the clothes. “There are towels in the bathroom. Use whatever you wish.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the tone. “Oh– uh, right. Thanks.”

He stood, taking the clothes. The fabric was soft in his arms. He hesitated a moment, searching Voldemort’s face for any hint of anger or accusation, but found none. Only that same unnerving calm. “I’ll, uh… be quick.”

Voldemort inclined his head once, gesturing toward the door. “Take your time.”

Harry slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The first thing that struck him was the space. The bathroom was easily the size of his dormitory at Hogwarts – all polished marble and dark green tile that gleamed under the candlelight. A wide bathtub sat sunken into the floor beneath a large, arched window, and beside it, a shower enclosed in glass, its fixtures made of silver serpents that coiled delicately around the handles.

A double vanity stretched along one wall, lined with dark bottles and crystal jars, everything arranged with military precision. The air smelled faintly of cedar, undercut by something crisp and clean.

Harry set the clothes on the counter and began stripping his clothes, noting the bruises mottling his skin, the sight of them making his throat tighten. He stepped under the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go, and let it pour over him in a burning rush.

The blood and grime washed away, swirling pink down the drain. For the first time in hours, he could breathe.

He reached for a bottle of shampoo sitting on the ledge. The scent hit him immediately – dark and cool, unmistakably Voldemort’s. A sharp flutter erupted low in his stomach before he could stop it. The idea of smelling like him – of carrying that scent on his skin – made his pulse stumble.

Get a grip, he told himself, but even the reprimand sounded weak in his head. He tilted his head back under the water, closing his eyes as the warmth seeped into his muscles, chasing away the ache of the curse that still lingered in his bones.

When he finally stepped out, steam clinging to his skin, he felt almost human again. He dried himself off with one of the thick towels stacked neatly by the sink and reached for the clothes Voldemort had given him.

They were simple – black drawstring trousers and a loose shirt that hung slightly off his shoulders. Too big by a few sizes. For some reason, despite all the evidence cluing Harry in, it was only now that the realisation hit: they were actually Voldemort’s own clothes.

His pulse kicked up again, absurdly fast. The fabric was soft and faintly warm from the room, carrying the same scent as the rest of the place – sandalwood, faint spice, and something fresh. The shirt’s hem brushed against his wrists, the sleeves too long. He tugged them up absently, trying not to think too hard about it.

It didn’t work. Every inch of him felt acutely aware that he was wearing Voldemort’s clothes.

The fluttering in his stomach started anew, refusing to fade no matter how many times he told himself it was ridiculous.

Harry took a deep breath, ran a towel once more through his damp hair, and stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection looked tired – but clean and alive.

You survived, he told himself quietly. That’s something.

He squared his shoulders, gathered what little composure he had left, and stepped back into the bedroom.

Voldemort was seated in one of the armchairs when Harry returned, a book resting casually in his hands. The firelight painted sharp lines across his face, illuminating the deep red of his eyes when he glanced up. The flickering glow softened him in a way Harry couldn’t quite describe – less like a dark lore, more like something dangerous that had chosen, however briefly, not to bite.

When Voldemort spotted him, the book closed without a sound. He stood fluidly and crossed the distance between them. Harry felt himself tense – not out of fear, exactly, but from the strange, charged awareness that always accompanied Voldemort’s nearness.

Voldemort’s gaze swept over him slowly, taking in the damp hair, the borrowed clothes. His expression shifted into something pleased. He lifted a hand and cupped Harry’s jaw gently, his thumb brushing beneath one of Harry’s eyes.

“You’re pale,” Voldemort murmured. “Are you feeling any better?”

Harry blinked at the touch, the concern layered beneath the smooth tone. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly, even though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “Honestly. I appreciate all this, but–” he hesitated, half-grinning in an attempt to lighten the moment, “–you can stop worrying about me now.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Stop worrying?” he repeated, as if testing the phrase. “And how am I meant to do that when you insist on throwing yourself into danger every other hour?”

Harry huffed out a short laugh. “It’s not my fault your Death Eaters are crazy. I got attacked by two of them today – completely unprovoked.”

A single dark brow arched. “Completely?” Voldemort asked , the faintest thread of amusement curling through his voice.

Harry’s grin widened, all cheek. “Mostly unprovoked,” he corrected, scratching the back of his neck.

That earned him a soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh. Voldemort shook his head and, before Harry could say anything else, pulled him forward. Harry stumbled, chest colliding against cool silk and warmth all at once as Voldemort’s arms came around him.

For a moment, Harry froze – but only for a moment. The safety of the embrace was too disarming, too easy to melt into. His body relaxed before his brain caught up.

“Yes,” Voldemort said against his hair, tone deceptively light, “you’re an absolute angel – so innocent you’d never dream of provoking my most volatile follower over dinner.”

Harry muffled a small laugh into Voldemort’s chest. “Uh-huh,” he managed. “That’s me. Perfectly behaved.”

The vibration of Voldemort’s chuckle thrummed against his ear. He tightened his hold briefly, fingers pressing lightly into the back of Harry’s neck before letting go. The space between them cooled instantly, and Harry almost missed the warmth.

“You’ll be sleeping here tonight,” Voldemort said suddenly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Harry blinked, taken aback. “What? Why?”

“You have a head injury,” Voldemort said smoothly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You need to be monitored.”

Harry frowned, suspicious. “You healed it.”

“I healed the external injury,” Voldemort corrected. “Internal damage is more… delicate.”

Harry gave him a doubtful look. “Right… Sure.”

A faint smiled curved Voldemort’s lips. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to sleep here.”

The challenge in his tone was impossible to miss, and Harry felt the heat rush to his cheeks before he could stop it. “No, I– It’s fine,” he muttered, immediately regretting how awkward that sounded.

“Good.” Voldemort’s smirk was small but unmistakable. He guided Harry toward the bed with a light hand at the small of his back. “Then stop arguing.”

Harry rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be steered. When Voldemort went so far as to start arranging the pillows, Harry swatted at his hands. “I can manage that part, thanks.”

Voldemort chuckled, low and amused. “Of course you can.” His tone softened a fraction. “The I’ll go wash up myself.”

Harry nodded, already sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress was impossibly soft, the sheets warm and faintly perfumed – the same scent that had clung to the shampoo and the shirt on his skin. He sank back against the pillows with a small, involuntary sigh.

By the time Voldemort disappeared into the bathroom, Harry could already feel his eyelids growing heavy. The exhaustion he’d been fighting all evening hit him in full, dragging him down, smoothing the edges of every thought. The flickering fire cast moving shadows on the wall, the rhythm of them hypnotic.

He must’ve dozed off, because he startled faintly when Voldemort’s voice drifted through the haze – soft, almost indulgent.

“Already half asleep,” he murmured.

Harry hummed, too tired to open his eyes. “Told you I was fine.”

He heard the faint sound of footsteps, the quiet rustle of fabric as Voldemort moved closer. The bed dipped slightly beside him, and then a hand brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. Harry leaned into the touch instinctively, the motion pulling a quiet sigh from him.

The world felt far away – Greyback, dinner, the duel, the pain. All of it dulled under the slow, steady thrum of the bond between them, alive and pulsing beneath his skin.

Then came the softest pressure – lips against his scar. A gentle kiss. Warmth flooded through him, immediate and consuming, the connection between them flaring bright for a single heartbeat.

Harry’s breath hitched. The sensation wasn’t just physical – it was everywhere, like his own soul had responded to the touch, recognising its other half and whispering, safe.

“Sleep, Harry,” Voldemort said, voice low and threaded with something softer than command. “You’re safe.”

Harry wanted to answer, to make some witty remark or tease him for sounding almost human – but the warmth of the bed, the hum of their bond, the lingering scent of Voldemort’s cologne lulled him under faster than he could resist.

The last thing he felt before slipping completely into sleep was a thumb brushing once more across his cheek, and the faint echo of Voldemort’s presence pressing gently against his mind – protective, possessive, there.