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Chapter Text

Somehow, this cell was cozier than his room at the Dursley's. The realization made Harry drop into a mad laughing outburst, then into a strong coughing fit. Perhaps it was a bit damp, what with the sticky traces of blood on the floor (lovely decoration, he thought) and cold, since it was in a drab dungeon- but it was bigger than what he was used to in his usual jail. The bed was actually comfortable and he was allowed to read. He wasn't really fed at all- if one was being honest, but that wasn't any different than what he was used to. He didn't even have to do chores!

All in all, a solid 7/10, really.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound made him raise his head from where he was curling up onto the floor, crawling towards his jail door- which was as you'd expect, but at least he could see out. He couldn't at the Dursley's, unless he fancied himself a cat. A familiar clink of keys and heels, he watched the woman passed by, dropping a book onto the floor before leaving. Extending his hand through the bars, he could grab it.

Before he could even look at it, however, the door to the dungeons opened again. He pressed his face against the cool metal and spotted a familiar figure. A grin spread across his cheeks, ah, so he was back, he thought. "Voldemort!" he greeted, "Fancy seeing you here,"

The man didn't even acknowledge him, but did stop at his door. He glanced down at the book in Harry's hand and grabbed it, glancing at the title. "Were you really planning to read that?" Voldemort eventually said, amused.

"Hardly nothing else to do down here," Harry shrugged, making a gimme gesture. The dark lord rolled his eyes but threw it at his face. Harry didn't dodge. He let it push him on his back- though it really was a weak throw, offense meant- laying down. He didn't even try to look like he had any dignity anymore, Voldemort had seen him in worse states than this.

Or perhaps this was the worst: because the fighting spirit was gone.

It was hard to care. Not when so many had died, not when Harry had already tried and failed. Give him the participation medal, he did his part. Didn't care about beating his fated enemy or whatever- the prophecy was false. Voldemort couldn't kill him- just as Harry had failed, thrice. He would say they were even, but the dark lord had cheated so it wasn't fair anymore. Why keep count?

Harry felt a burst of pain- nothing real hardcore, typical stinging hex- and stared up at his captor. "Lost focus?" he guesses. Sometimes he began zoning out, which annoyed Voldemort to no end when they were having their little talks, as he'd dubbed it. Obviously, such a dubious name had incurred the man's wrath, but again- he was far past caring.

"Didn't know the golden boy was so bored he'd began reading the dark magic books," he sneered, which was as much as an agreement as he would get.

Harry directed his gaze to the book again, and read 'The most Efficient Curses to Inflict to Someone's Bloodline with Detailed Instructions'. Ah yes, the wizarding world's habit of long names. "Boredom's as much as a killer as a knife or a wand ever could be," he says flatly. "'s that what you'll try next? Or are you content 'corrupting' the boy-who-lived or whatever it is that gets you laughing the most-"

"Only a moron would keep using the same approach to a problem when it is clear it hasn't been working," Voldemort cuts. He conjures a comfortable armchair with a wave of his hand and does the same for Harry. Harry, who can't help but scoff, "Oh, some courtesy, except me to get on my knees for how thankful I am for that?"

Voldemort doesn't even twitch, most likely waiting for him to sit, and he sighs. Begrudgingly, he wobbles to his feet before collapsing into the arm-chair. "There, I'm sat. Now what's this new approach?"

"Talking," the man simply says.

Ah, yes, like Harry knows anymore about how the fuck he's staying alive than the dark lord who's The Expert on Immortality. "Sure," he says, deciding to humour him, "What'd you wanna know?" It's not like anything he knows couldn't be taken out of his mind forcefully- so he does appreciate having some control over how he says things. That's a privilege neither Snape or Dumbledore have ever given him.

If Voldemort is surprised by his compliance, he doesn't show it. "What does the killing curse feel like?" he asks, leaning forward.

He frowns, "Haven't I killed you with it, like twice?"

Ah, the lemon face! He's so good at pissing this guy off, its comical. What's less is what usually comes after- but for now, no curses come. "Answer the question," he says, like he's forcing himself to stay calm. Harry feels like laughing, but the thin veil of self-preservation he still has (thinner than the power house of the cell, but there) prevents him from doing so.

"It feels like a cold gust of wind," Harry instead answers. It feels peaceful. He's become acquainted with death, lately, but the death curse was a favorite of his- as much as you could have a favorite method of dying, of course.

"Any pain?" he probes.

Harry hums at that, "Not exactly- it's- ah, like that sensation of falling I guess when you're sleeping? It's not painful, not pleasant, not unpleasant, it just is,"

Voldemort looks thoughtful at that, which Harry finds strange, since they should have the same experience, but he doesn't pay it much mind. It's not like knowing everything the dark lord schemes would do anything- he's most likely never getting out of here, and will die here, maybe, or be stuck here forever. Which, at the very least, couldn't be hell- since hell had always been the Dursleys. This is just... annoying, at worst. He's used to it.

"Would you qualify death as a whole to be pleasant?"

"No," Harry immediately says, "Dying is painful,"

Voldemort only looks irritated by that, "Death. Not dying, death itself. That lapse between you being dead, and coming back to life. Don't tell me it isn't a thing when it's a recorded fact,"

Harry would like to say death is peaceful. He would like to say death is kind, he would like to say death is fair. Because it is, once you've reached it. Harry just runs, runs and runs- but the escape is always out of reach. "I never die," he says, softly, a contradiction. "I am dying,"

"What happens when your heart isn't beating?" the dark lord pushes further.

"When my heart doesn't beat," Harry says, "My body is repairing itself so it beats again. You're trying to get me to say there's an afterlife- or not, maybe get me to say there's nothing, or maybe that it's dark, and cold, and terrifying. But truth is? I cannot die, and that's because of you."

"Because of me?" Voldemort echoes, a frown etching itself into his snakey face. "And what have I done to keep you alive? That's completely opposite to what I've been trying this entire time," he hisses.

Harry had thought the man had known. He thought there would be nothing important left to tell, or the important things he did have to be about- perhaps other Order members? About Dumbledore? "Why were you asking about how the death curse felt when you've already died by it?" he asks, quietly, his mind churning out thoughts at a hundred kilometers an hour- burning with them.

"No," the dark lord said, eyes narrowed, "Answer me, or I can make your life here even worse,"

He privately thought it could never be worse than anything he's lived through before, but didn't dare voice that. Bad things happen to those who tempted fate- Harry was a living proof. "It's related," he snaps back, "Because it's all bloody related- intertwined in fate's red strings. Your soul- oh don't get that look, I knew- is so broken you don't feel it anymore. You don't know, you really don't know something that simple- something that's been ruling my life, the thing that wrote my expiration date cleanly and neatly to coincide with yours."

"I know about the prophecy stupid boy-"

"I'm neither a boy, nor am I stupid," Harry scoffed, "You are, though. If you haven't figured it out yet. What could possibly keep me alive? It's simple: it's you. Your soul, inside of mine. Intertwined. Actual soulmates. Dumbledore thought if you killed me, you would destroy your own soul- but that's impossible. So I came back, again."

Voldemort stares for a few moment. Harry stares back. Observing his face for any reaction, the slightest of twitch- of hints at what the man is feeling, but he looks like a marble statue carved into shock. No anger crosses his face, even if he'd been called an idiot (which if anyone else had dared, they would've been cursed into a living vegetable). Nor does anything else Harry can recognize come.

After what must've been minutes, the man recovers. "Your regeneration is anormal," is all he says, almost like he's clinging onto that truth, as if it'd make the rest untrue.

"So it is," Harry agrees, because he didn't claim to know what the fuck was up with that, and if he did, it'd be a load of bullocks.

The silence stretches for a bit longer before the man stands. He vanishes his own armchair and leaves without another word. Harry stares after him, then leans to grab the book off the floor. He'd already read the other books they'd given him, laid in a pile under his bed, so it could be away from possible bloodshed. (It was annoying to deal with sticky pages.) Maybe he could use those curses to curse Voldemort's bloodline. The thought of that guy having children, and them being cursed atop of that, is hilarious to Harry. So he laughs. Then coughs.


Perhaps a cold, perhaps something else.


It's not like he would die.

Chapter Text

It was in fact a cold. He died by it. That was probably one of the lamest and most painstaking way he went out. Harry's still not sure whether or not that was engineered- but his room has been cleaned (bye-bye blood stains) and feels... a bit warmer. He can still spot droplets of blood, proving that Molly Weasley was in fact right to spell the messes away first and go back in for a second round of cleaning- Madam Weasley was always right.

He read the book he was given. He actually found a curse that was likely cast on the Malfoy family- cursed with one kid per generation- which was funny to think about. If he ever saw Malfoy again- Dray not his frowney dad- that was fine teasing (mocking) material. (Well. That was based off the fact he'd see anyone but Voldy or that woman he saw from time to time. He'd asked after her name but she just said, "Some things are not meant to be known, Mr.Potter," all polite, like she hadn't been literally hand deeps in his guts. Not in a fun way.)

Another two had been dropped by. Usually the subjects differed but it seemed Voldemort had taken his comment to heart and mostly gave him dark art books. Whatever. These books were rare, so rare he was sure- ah. He was sure Hermione wouldn't... scoff at them... No matter the... Harry sighed in both of his hands curling into himself.

Today was a bad day.

Eventually he uncurled and stood up unsurely. (Harry did not often stand.) He'd stopped moving much, once his pride finally met its own death- after what must've been 20 resets. He's gotten good at... euphemisms. Resets. Rests. Naps. That kind of stuff. He can usually pretend everything isn't fucked up. It's not that hard to do, because it isn't has bad as it could be. (As he thinks this, he knocks on paper- which is an off-shoot of wood anyway.) But sometimes, he remembers too much. Sometimes he thinks about people he's lost permanently and his heart aches.

He doesn't like thinking about the past. Not in any extensive way. Sure he usually... does his little jokes, his little references. His little quips and snips. But that's because he's halfway mentally present. Now reality is just crashing heavily onto him, like waves to the shore, foreign particles clinging into every crevice of his cell- making it feel way too big. Like he could never hide in such a wide expanse. He feels exposed. The fact he can see out, makes him nervous about how they can see in. (The logical side of his mind quietly complains that if they wanted to oggle him without him seeing them back, they very well could.)

Harry wobbily walks towards the armchair he'd set to the corner of his room. (Nobody had taken it away.) He weakly pushed it against the shortest side of his bed. The man lets himself drop to his knees and- like a child- he crawls under his bed. He pushes the books underneath to create some sort of barrier. Then, finally, he curls up again, this time in fetal position. The space is cramped. It's comfortable. It's safe, dark.

He stays there for god knows how long. Almost like he was trying to melt into the cold stones, become lava and slowly dry until he became the floor. But the world had no mercy, and the tentative peace he'd built was broken: the door to the dungeons opened.

It's not the familiar tap tap tap, tell-tale of the lady whose name he still doesn't know.

It's Voldemort.

I don't want to see him, Harry thinks, I really really don't want to see him right now. But he hears the footsteps anyways. Not a tap. Not a pat either... a soft thump maybe...

A pause. Voldemort's arrived at the door. It's a testament to the man's trust in his own security that the dark lord isn't alarmed. Rather, he only sighs. "Will you come out from your hidey-hole?"

"I'd prefer not to," Harry mumbles.

"I can't hear you," the man grumbles back, which is counterintuitive, because he did hear him. He just didn't understand him. He hears a distinct clink and feels a whoosh of magic that has him tensing up (the one where the wards are changed) and he knows the door has been opened. However, instead of there being curses shot, he only hears thump, thump, thump. Pause. Someone sat on the armchair.

It's silent for a few more moments.

"Why exactly are you hiding? It's quite useless," Voldemort says, not insulting, surprisingly, but just curious.

Harry doesn't feel like talking much... but this... feels okay. "I know it's stupid," he murmured, "It feels safe, though, and I only need to trick this stupid thing up there for me to... calm down some, I guess,"

"I see," is all he says for a few moments, before adding, "Giving me information like so, could lead me to use it against you. Aren't you scared of that eventuality?"

It's not a taunt- which really confuses Harry. It's spoken like a fact, like a little discussion. Almost like he was asking opinions about what spell to use to clear doxies from his attic. (Harry has much experience.)

"I'm scared of everything right now," he confesses, "It doesn't matter anyway... nothing I can do will change anything."

"And yet... you're honest. You could stubbornly keep quiet, or yell at me, even simply refuse me at every turn- but you don't. You converse. Why?"

"You make me sound like this enigma," Harry giggles, "I'm just a boy. What'd you expect? I'm a bit broken 's all. I can't die, so all I can do is appease my suffering. Being nice gets me nice, see you're talking, not cursing!"

"Right," Voldemort says, perplex. What an odd thing for that man to be! Wasn't he supposed to be all knowing? He ponders that for a few moments and figures that if he was, the teen would be dead. Actually dead. Like dead-dead. The thought makes him giggle again. He doesn't know why. Death isn't very cheerful because he's stuck to dying- which is. The worst part.

"Would..." the dark lord begins, and stops himself. "You were right," he settles on.

"Was I?" Harry says in wonder, like the thought is fantastical, straight out of a novel. "About what?" he inquires. He says a lot of things. Is there anyone that really expects him to remember all he says in a day?

"Never mind," the man says, irritated. Or... embarassed, maybe?

He's curious about the expression on the other's face. But to see that he'd have to escape his safe place. Be within arm's reach- and he doesn't like that. Harry frowns when nothing more is said- but the man is still distinctly there- he wants to know. I'm a gryffindor, Harry thinks, I can do this.

Very, very gently, he pushes away a pile of book. He untangles himself and crawls to the opening he created to peek out. Voldemort is watching. Their eyes immediately meet and he quickly hides again.

"You're like a cat," the man comments, unbelievably amused.

"I'm not a cat I'm a boy," Harry mumbles, to which he gets no answer. Gah! He hates that. He can't read someone's face if he can't see them, that's just not how it works.

Voldemort somehow has a lot of patience, because even if it takes him... five? five minutes? (Time is fake, Harry decides.) To get out again, he's still there, waiting. They hold eye-contact for a bit before Harry feels safe to fully get out. He sits with his knees up to his chest, and his back to the wall. His shoulder brushing against his bed (a reminder that he could always quickly creep underneath if necessary).

"What was I right about?" Harry eventually asks, looking away.

"Your immortality," the dark lord says, watching him carefully, "It came from me,"

"Oh," is all Harry says. It's fuzzy but he remembers their conversation now. He curls in deeper into himself, but glances up furtively. "You're not going to... hurt me again are you?" he says slowly, warily. "It's not my fault."

Voldemort stares at him. Harry visibly wilts and reaches for the bed- but just as he was about to hide, the man speaks again. "It's up to you,"

He frowns. "'s that so?" Harry retracts his hand and hugs his knees again.

"While it frustrates me that I do not know why you are immortal the way you are- it remains that as long as you exist, I will. No prison will hold you for eternity- no matter how hopeless it seems to you,"

Harry blinks. Dumbfounded. "I'm sure you can figure something out," he says, suspicious. "I don't believe you'd just let me go, with a pat on the back saying, here champ! My bad for the torture, feel free to do whatever now, though you know what will happen if you try to stop me,"

Voldemort snorts.

The sound doesn't do anything to Harry at all. No. No sir. (That laugh, it sounds- it sounds so stupid- not evil at all, just, endearing. A calmer, more jaded part of himself berates him for the thought, but he's too... unexperienced to care.)

"I could," the man eventually agrees, "But it's impossible to take your magic away without you eventually just dying- wards are no use, none of them are designed for someone that can just die- curses will slide off after a death- you may not believe me but you're quite a force of nature,"

Buttering him up? What was this guy's angle? His brows furrowed in thought. Harry didn't notice the way he'd started munching on his thumb. "Mmm. 'Kay, but you could mentally break me- you've started that. I don't feel sane anymore. I'm acting all wrong and weird now. Better. Get a dementor."

"A dementor would eat up my soul as well." Voldemort explains, "And with centuries on your own- there's no guessing if you'd heal or not. It's a risk. Adding onto that, due to your history you very well could be an obscurial, which further complicates things seeing as you cannot die-"

"My history?" 

"Yes, your history," Voldemort doesn't elaborate. Harry doesn't know whether or not to be thankful for that.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, testing the possible boundaries.

"Join me,"

Ah. Of course. Harry shifts, his mind clearing, or blurring-? he's not sure. But he wipes his thumb- how had it gotten wet- and sits up straight. He feels more present, he feels more capable. It's a rough change, but a necessary one. No doubt Voldemort was taking advantage of his more agreeable and naïve state.

"And take your mark?" Harry demands sharply.

"There you are," the dark lord grins unrepentantly.

"Don't change the subject,"

Voldemort only smirks before conjuring another chair, that man, really. "Join me," he parrots himself.

"Making puns now are we?" Harry says pointedly, but hoists himself up, stumbling to the chair and crashing into it.

The dark lord looks pleased with himself- of course he would be. Harry, after all, had shown by sitting here at the other's behest that he was willing to join him. Perhaps not without some mutual haranguing, but that didn't matter.

Harry would always be a liability, if he didn't have an interest not to be.

It only took one person who pitied him. One magical explosion from him (if what was said about him being an obscurial was correct). One thing, one moment. All the bad treatments endured to keep him in place- that would fuel Harry. Because no matter how broken he would have been, a broken man with nothing, not even a name, was the most dangerous thing. Any prison will falter with time. No matter how foul, no matter how vile. People die, buildings decay- with infinte time, there are infinite solutions, that was true for the two of them.

They knew that.

Having nothing to lose was the greatest liability, because then, there would be nothing Harry would not do to get out.

That's why he had books, a place to hide.

The hope of some of his friends being alive.

It was a thin leash, easy to break- but one nonetheless.

If Harry joined Voldemort, however, he was no longer that much of a liability. Sure, he would always be watched- but his actions could be predicted. Give him enough, and he would be complacent, scared to act. Harry cannot honestly say that if he was promised safety and comfort for the rest of his immortal life- that he would not take the deal.

He would grow bored, eventually. But arrangements would be made, maybe little excursions, if he was to be kept in a padded tower. If he had to do things for Voldemort- maybe give out names for it- other things, favors- Harry might do it. Does that make him a coward, or a smart man?

All these people I care about, he thinks, Will die. So should I make this into hell, or become hell?

Even if all of Britain is to die to his hands, that does not compare to his own potential suffering. He had done his best- he'd never wanted this. He wanted to die like everyone else, but he can't, he can't and please don't tell him he has to sacrifice himself like the fire-bringer, doomed to a pietous torture for the sake of humanity?

What does Harry being selfless accomplish, except certain suffering? Maybe he could twist things away from the worst- if he let himself be bad, be evil.

I've been selfless all my life. I've been raised to die, and yet I have to live. My mother sacrificed herself for nothing- I should've died that night.

"Your thoughts are so loud, Harry," the man says with delight.

He's killed his mum, his dad. In a war, of course. He can distance him from the act, it was Pettigew that betrayed them- they were at war- and sure, he can do that. But while he despises Pettigrew- while he can reason it logically- the man killed his mum. He's the reason he was stuck at the Dursley's.

"It was their choice to hurt you,"

He- he was the leader of the murderer of his godfather. He's brought only destruction to the wizarding world. Who knows who he's killed by now? People he cares about. People he met on diagon- no name but a face. Kids, adults, mother and daughter, father and son- people, human beings- lives taken- Harry knows how painful it is to die. The tortures they endured- of all natures, all kind of violences. It is awful, digusting, and it's all this man's fault- so why- why-

"They are happy to leave you to die," Voldemort whispers, "Happy to have you be the sacrifice. I'm no innocent- I've killed, destroyed, stolen. Senseless deaths. I've done that. I don't care for it particularly- no guilt, no heartache."

"Isn't that just more reason to refuse?" he quietly says.

"It's honesty," 

Doesn't that make him awful? That he wants to be selfish- just this once? But this once matters more than anything ever did in his sad, pathetic life. Harry the Martyr, that was his fate-

Fate.

Fate, he laughs, hysterically. Prophecies and seers. God, they can all burn in hell. It's not like there was an after-life waiting for him. Not he, who Death despises. Not he, forever destined to be the-boy-who-lived, the-man-who-lost.

"Why not," he gasps out, in between two laughs, "What've I got to lose humouring you?"

"Nothing that mattered," the dark lord answers, biased as ever.

It was the start of something great.

Terrible, of course.

But great.

Chapter Text

Despite the agreement, Voldemort had not made any move to get Harry out of this cell. (Something he found himself quietly relieved by. He'd shamefully grown a recluse in these past few... something.) It's not like this place was bad, anyway. Especially once they had started feeding him three times a day and had added a door that led to a bathroom that was blindingly white and clean. (He half-suspected this bathroom was not located in the dungeons, but he didn't comment on it.)

Which was very appreciated once he started having bodily needs again. He'd... gotten used to not having those, and eating again was. Weird. He ate like a bird and yet somehow felt full-to-bursting and sick sometimes. Harry had honestly just gotten used to existing on pure air (and, sometimes, not even that). Which was freaky, obviously, but that had become his normal.

Harry was certain Voldemort was getting a kick out of this, but he never said anything on the subject during their apparently daily visits. Every time the man came by, something new was added to his cell. Recently, it had been bookshelves for his books which he had begrudgingly appreciated. (And the fact that they were his books. That they wouldn't be taken away.)

It was starting to feel homely, this place. He wasn't sure what that said about him. The fact that if they let him out, he might miss this room was just a sign he was going insane. That, and how he was playing with the leafy greens in his plate, glaring at them like they personally offended him.

Merlin, he used to not have food at all, and here he was, unwilling to eat something because he disliked it. The world had gone to dogs, he decides, as he shoves a mouthful of leaves in his mouth. Blerg.

Thump thump thump.

Harry perks up and happily pushes away the plate of disgusting spinach. He'd gotten good at recognizing the man's footsteps. (Like a dog. Hey, wasn't that some family resemblance?) He resists the urge to jump from his seat at the table to go greet Voldemort because he wasn't that far gone.

Instead he acted bored, kicking his legs back and forth as he pointedly looked away from his room's door- "My room," he mouthed to himself, disbelieving. Yeah, he was that far gone. Goody.

"Ah, excellent, you're dressed."

Harry whips his head around to glare. "Oi, just because you caught me changing once-"

"Not the comment I was making, Potter," Voldemort says, amused, "Sensitive, aren't you?"

Because he is an Adult, he does not pull his tongue. It's a close thing, however. "Yeahyeahyeah-" he says annoyed, "Whatever,"

"Anyway, what else would you possibly mean?"

The guy doesn't take the opportunity to lounge on any of the numerous chairs he's conjured, which is strange, the man loves showing off his grace or whatever- instead he just walks a bit closer to Harry.

"We'll be going on a little walk, today," Voldemort says.

Harry wants to gape, but forces himself to frown. "I'm not a dog,"

"Evidently not, you're a cat,"

God, he wants to stab this man. "You're a prick," Harry informs the other, getting to his feet and stumbling past Voldemort. He eventually gets his balance back and confidently strides through the door, not even glancing back, and braces for the wards, but the pain never comes- he pretends not to stumble again once he's out in the hallway, but he's really much too lost to pretend to know where the fuck he's going.

Voldemort looks amused, like it's his only emotion, and offers him his arm so he 'stops stumbling like a drunk' which Harry swats away. Until he nearly falls over his feet (good god, why was it so hard to walk?) and is forced to accept it if he actually wants to go outside. Which he very much does.

The bastard looks satisfied, so he makes sure to scowl the hardest he possibly could. The man just pats his head and Harry just fucking hisses at him in parseltongue to knock it off.

(He is, unfortunately, not beating the cat allegations.)

Trying to put his mind off the absolute asshole beside him, he inspects their surroundings. The dungeons were certainly as dark as he'd thought, grime caked into the walls, traces so thick it must be layers upon layers of blood. He supposes the dirtiness of the place adds to the aesthetic since they could just wave their wands and make most of it go away. Harry strangely does not see any other prisonner down there, but reasons they must be further past his cell. (Not that he'd ever heard the door open up for anyone but him.)

A set of stair loomed in front of them, just exhausting to look at but he let his feet carry him forward anyway. (If he leaned more than half his weight onto Voldemort, the man did not say a word about it. It's not like he weighed much.) It was embarassing, he thought, the way he was out of breath after a single flight of stairs. His body really had atrophied.

Harry isn't sure why they pause at the top of the stairs. He appreciates the moment to take a breather- sure- and the moment to brace himself. Still, why on earth would dear old V be kind enough to take that into account? He eyed the man suspiciously. Said man however only raised an eyebrow and opened the door. Because he was a piece of shit, 'evidently'.

Light immediately assaulted his eyes. That was to be expected. He was used to the pain of it after being let out of the Dursley's. He blinked the green spots away for a bit, while Voldemort was pushing him forward. His skin felt warm under the rays coming out from what he thought to be windows. He blinked more and more. Slowly, he could begin to distinguish things though his retinas were still aching. 

They were in a grand hall with what must've been the biggest windows he's ever seen. Every inch of the place screamed 'LOOK AT ME' and he obliged. Marble flooring, wizarding paintings of moving landscapes, animals and people covered the walls while artefacts rested at their feet in an elegant way. It was mostly different shades of white and pops of black. This place must be fucking expensive, and he briefly considers breakig a vase or two.

Still. He abstained. Maybe later, when there wasn't anyone to stop him. Instead he looked past the glass panes, which gave him view to magnificent gardens that honestly made him breathless. It didn't help that the only sight of green he'd had lately were a certain Slytherin's robes. Almost like Voldemort could read his mind (which he probably was), he smirked and directed them outside-outside. Harry didn't even try to pretend he was unphased as he let go of V and immediately laid in the grass next to a patch of beautiful flowers he could barely name and basked in the sun.

Harry had never really been one to appreciate the outside, admittedly, but while he didn't like eating grass, he loved the smell of it. He'd missed this. Missed feeling the sun on his face, boring into his skin, burning it's loving kiss onto his body. He missed seeing verdant grounds, hearing the bugs make their little sound and seeing butterflies fly around. He'd missed hearing the birds sing, even hearing the water trickle about. A bee buzzed above his head and he extended his hand. It curiously flew around it, before going back to the flowers. He'd taken this for granted, before. Had never considered that one day he may never see the sun again. Even in the worst months at the Dursley's, Petunia's gardens had always needed a little green touch his aunt never had developped.

He could almost forget the other's presence, looming close by. So he ignored it, never closing his eyes, because this little paradise could be taken away any second now, so he committed everything to memory. Every detail, every blade of grass and petal, every coo and buzz, everything.

"Enjoying yourself?" the man asked, smug.

Harry hums, not willing to let the ever-present rage ruin this moment for him. Voldemort however wilfully ignores this as he sits beside Harry (on a blanket he wandlessly wordlessly conjured, the fucker) and caresses his hair. The moment the man's fingers touch his hair, he jumps. He sits up, trying to control his breathing for a few moments but is too angry to let it go. "I'm not your pet," he spits out.

"You act like one," Voldemort says.

He desperately needs to tear this asshole into tiny pieces but, he huffs. He's not in a position to do that anymore.

"If I acted how I would like I'd be back in my cell," Harry points out.

"Like a misbehaving pet," the man grins, "Come now Harry-"

"Would you like me to call you by your name?"

"-you do not wish to take my mark, this way, you would not have to."

"Fuck you," is all he can think to say, but Voldemort just pats his head and laughs when Harry hits him. Like he was a pet.

Well. Two can play at that fucking game. Harry stands up, not hiding how pissed he is- why, he's an angry cat- and marches back inside. Voldemort follows him. This, of course, is only allowed because pets often leave when annoyed.

He looks at the priceless artefacts he's seen earlier and, turning around, doing that expression he's seen cats do (and ignoring how humiliating this is) he pushes a vase, watching it break. Watching Voldemort watching him break it. Then he walks to the next one, does it again, gaging the man's reaction. His face is impassive. It always is when Harry needs to know what he's feeling the most.

He does it again, again. No reaction. He glances to the paintings. It happened to be a person because it immediately gasps and calls him a very nasty boy- but he doesn't care, he tears the painting in half. Then another one, and another one. Then, because nothing has gotten a reaction, he weakly grabs the heaviest thing he can see (which was a bad idea considering he can barely drag it across the floor) and throws it at a window. It, disappointedly, does not break. He pants over it, his tantrum and drops to his knees. It was exhausting. And it didn't feel satisfying, just pathetic. Sad. The man didn't even react.

"Are you done?" the the dark lord asks, like you would a misbehaving child. He loathes him.

He nods anyway.

Voldemort waves his wand and everything is fixed. Harry wants to scream and cry, but he just curls in on himself. The bastard walks forward and he doesn't have the strength left to glare, even as he crouches in front of him. Harry's face must be a blotched red of leftover anger and embarrassment. "Come on,"  V says, expectantly.

It takes a few moments to realise what the guy means. "No fucking way," Harry quickly shakes his head, trying to stand and failing, "I can walk, I'm not five,"

"Evidently, you cannot. Do not be stubborn, otherwise you may enjoy being carried like a bride."

Dick. Fucking dick. His name should have been Richard, not Tom. Harry relucantly grabs on the other in a piggy ride, hiding his face in the other man's neck. He smells good, of course. Ugh. "I hate you," he mumbles, and his face feels wet, because it seems he wasn't too tired to cry.

"You hate others more,"

And Harry can't disagree with that. No matter how Voldemort makes him feel, he has always been a neutral sort of evil. Impersonal. He hated others more, but he still hated the dark lord enough to make his blood boil. Especially the patronizing way the man was kind to him.

The way Harry wanted to give in sometimes, because no one was that kind to him. The way he hadn't yet, because it brought tears of frustration to his eyes when the guy refused to see him as a human being. Either as a child or a cat. Just a pet. That's all he was to Voldemort.

But at least, he wasn't being tortured.

He wasn't sure how comforting that thought was anymore.

Chapter Text

The next book Harry was given was about the animagus transformation. He didn't hesitate to throw the book at Voldemort with all his might the next time he came around. The man laughed, summoned two more on the process and left Harry to brood.

He did read the damn books. It was boring down here, and he meant it when he said he would read anything he was given. He's already re-read everything twice, at minimum. The books he was more fond of were read at least 5 times. He had a lot of time down here. It didn't help he got quicker at reading, since that's all he did. He did enjoy reciting the few fiction books outloud to some unexisting audience, it was much more time consumming than doing it silently. 

Seeing as all he did was read, by the time V passed by next with a mandrake leaf Harry knew by now to tear it in half.

"Wouldn't it be useful?" Voldemort drawled, legs crossed over his favorite green love-seat.

"You just want me to be a cat," Harry accuses, "Anyway, what use will it be if I'm stuck down here most of the time?"

"Then, if you were moved to quarters above ground, would you consider it?"

His mouth opened, then closed. "Still doesn't matter if I'm locked in," he grumbles, pretending he isn't being swayed to the idea. It would, after all, be wicked to be an animagus. 

Voldemort observes him. His eyes search for something in his expression, before smiling. (That's. Terrifying?) "You're right. You don't need to be locked in anymore,"

Like Harry wouldn't leave, if given the chance to.

Worst is, the bastard's right. Where would he even go? The Dursley's? The Burrow? Hogwarts? He's got nowhere to stay. That's a sombering thought.

Voldemort stands, like he expect Harry to follow, and he does of course but still pauses at the door. "Um," he says, feeling awkward.

The guy stops, raising an eyebrow at him. "Surely you cannot want to stay down here?"

"My books," he lamely says, fidgetting, "Can... can we bring them?"

The man slowly blinks at him. (That's his incredulous face.) "You mean the books on dark magic?"

"Can we bring them or not?" he repeats, bristling.

Voldemort blinks some more, then the face melts into a reluctant understanding. Like he's disgusted he's somehow feeling empathy. Which, Harry is also weirded out by, but Voldemort waves his wand and he knows the books have been banished to his new room so he decides he doesn't mind.

Unlike last time, V does not offer his arm, and he's not sure whether he's upset or happy about it. At least he can walk on his own now. Not without being slightly out of breath, but he's walking. They walk further than they did last time, until they turn right and arrive to another corridor. This one has a lot more doors. Voldemort doesn't cite any of their purpose, until they arrive at one just short of being the last one in the corridor. "This is your room," he says, and leaves him there. Harry stares in the direction Voldemort left. It takes a solid minute of watching an empty corridor for his brain to register anything.

"What the fuck," he says to himself, "What the fuck,"

He's. Alone. He could go anywhere. The thought makes him nervous and he quickly enters his room, as if it's criminal to be anywhere but there. He slumps against the door, hands pulling his hair. "I'm out I'm out I'm out-" he gasps, a bit hysterical. He shuts his eyes tightly and ignores the tears that fall.

"Out out out god I'm out-"

He's not. Not exactly, but he's as good as. It feels dangerous to be here, like he doesn't belong and he thinks no shit, because he'd never been meant to be here. He'd been destined to be dead, or to kill his foe. He'd done both, and somehow none of them. Fate has been foiled.

Fate's been foiled, he thinks and stands up suddenly. Eyes opening and glancing over the room. It was huge he thought, bigger than the Gryffindor common room. There was a sort of living room space with multiple shelves adorning the walls. They were all empty, save for one, with his books, his books! He laughed, a bit mad, as he ran his hand over them, running around the room like a child and throwing himself onto the king bed, laughing again when he bounced. He rolled on the sheets and off the bed, exploring the room, seeing the desk with things to write! He could write again.

He curiously opened one of the two doors, and giggled at walk-in closet. It was ridiculous, it was all so ridiculous. He passed over every single item of clothing, much more luxurious than what was on his back. "Guess I'll be dressing like a pureblooded ponce now," he snorted, seeing the vast sea of green and rolling his eyes. "Red's more my colour," Harry found himself informing the closet, like it could hear him. Silence.

He moved on, opened the next door, a big bathroom with a gigantic bathub. He could swim in that thing. There was also a shower and way more toiletries than in the other bathroom. "Pampered like a pet," he huffed, then turned on the bath, crawling into it with his clothes on. Nobody could stop him, after all. He grinned. Especially when the bath filled with bubble of all colours, making him laugh again. A joke only he understood.

(Harry didn't notice the way there weren't any shoes, in the closet. Because he wasn't meant to go anywhere he could harm his feet anyway.)

He spent his afternoon bathing, until he was all wrinkled like a dried grape and dried off. When he dressed in his new silky soft clothes, he noticed the food left on his desk. Most likely an elf, since they must be more lax in the security up here than in the dungeons.

He ate and slept.

It was a surprise to be awoken by the sun in the morning, and even more for the already steaming plate of English breakfast to be present at his desk, but it was pleasant. It took a few peaceful days- Harry was finally getting a grasp on time again- before he dared leaving his room.

He peeked out into the hallway, apprehensively, before tentatively stepping out. He hadn't actually seen anyone since he'd been in his new room. He might have started feeling lonely, if he wasn't still floored by his new environment.

Like a fucking animal.

Harry resented his own mind for that. It didn't need to make the bastard's comments for him, did it?

Still, he did have a place in mind. Sort of. He wanted to go out into the gardens. It felt like a safe place to go, considering he'd already been there. He shouldn't be cursed to hell and back for it. He walked through the hallways on memory, walking back towards his old cell, knowing the gardens were close-by. He was scared of getting lost, he was scared of stumbling onto someone, he was scared of a lot of things- great Gryffindor, he is.

But he pushed on forth. He wasn't a coward. He wasn't. He'd been in the house of red and gold for a reason, he knew how this rodeo went. He wasn't a coward and if he ignored his fears, he would be brave.

It took a while of his mind screaming at him to go back, it being terrified senseless and his hands slightly shaking as he forced himself to stride confidently, like he belonged, like he wasn't an impostor, but he eventually found the gardens. The relief was immediate. He could see the flower bush from last time afar and the path was the same- he just arrived in the wrong direction.

Harry stepped out the mansion in the garden- which was admittedly in-cased in four walls so not outside-outside- and breathed in the fresh air. He walked forward, more assured, planning to explore the place- but froze.

"Potter?"

A very, very familiar voice said. He turned around, eyes wide, and was face-to-face with Draco Malfoy. The teen was agape, blonde hair now reaching to his shoulders, his grey eyes looking a bit haunted but otherwise fine. He had no scars, but some eyebags which had been somewhat concealed by makeup. (He knew the other's face too well not to notice.) His clothes were similar to Harry's in quality, but different in cuts and styles. They both stared at each other.

He wondered what he looked like. Paler than Malfoy (which was no small feat), thinner than he used to be (which again, was no small feat) and also weirdly healthy with clean hair, clean clothes. He should look well, he imagined.

And yet. "What did they do to you?"

Harry opens his mouth and closes it, lips pursued. There was no good answer to that. "Good to see you Malfoy," he settles on.

If anything, that makes him more horrified. Harry stills, refusing to fidget. He barely breathes (he forgets to) and raises an eyebrow at the boy. (If he's a boy, what does that make you?)

Malfoy closes his eyes, seems to recite something to himself and gestures for Harry to follow him. Harry, curious, follows. He relaxes, and remembers to breathe again, not having noticed he'd stopped in the first place. It's weird to walk with the teen, but his brain slowly registers his old schoolyard rival as someone safe.

He'll take it.

Eventually they arrive in another aisle (Malfoy had slowed down his pace when he noticed Harry, who, no matter how much he hid it, struggled to keep up). Then he's quickly ushered in one of the rooms (also the second last door, he notices for some inane reason).

The door is shut behind him, and he'd honestly expected the teen to already be up in his face, but he only goes to push him into the chair- before freezing a few inches by Harry and instead gesturing for him to sit in it.

He notices the hesitation to touch him. He doesn't comment on it, appreciating it. He isn't sure how he'd react.

Malfoy takes a seat in front of him and tea appears near immediately.

It's awkwardly silent.

"Why did you drag me off?" Harry eventually asks.

"To talk," Malfoy admits. "The gardens were too public for that. Why on earth would you go there this place is crawling with death-eaters."

"Like you," he says, and usually that would've been served with a sneer, but it's only factual. "Anyway it's not like I'm sneaking in or anything,"

"Obviously," the blonde rolls his eyes, "The defences are impeccable. No one gets in,"

"I don't doubt that," Harry says, remembering the wards around his cell. "Anyway-"

"You can't just get that look and say anyway," Draco says, in disbelief.

"What look?"

"Like- like you've just remembered getting hit by crucio-!" stammers the other, and Harry only shrugs and grins.

"Aw, are you worried about lil ol' me?"

Draco narrows his eyes- wait, whoops, Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. "You're changing the subject. I didn't know you could do that,"

"What subject?" he says, keeping the grin on, "You're just talking nonsense, I feel."

Harry doesn't want to talk about it. He thinks it might actually make him go mad if he has to deal with Malfoy looking at him with pity in his gaze. He's acting all wrong- they both are. It's not how this song is supposed to go.

"What happened to you?" the teen says, undeterred.

"You're being weirdly blunt dear Dray, where's that slytherin of yours?"

"Wherever you've put your lion hide Har,"

Harry frowns, "Touché."

"Just-" the blonde sighs, "Where have you been?"

"You'll have to be more precise," Harry smiles, "I've been to lots of places,"

Malfoy looks at him incredulously. He seems to have that effect on people. "Will it actually kill you to speak to me straight?"

"If only it could," he jokes, then remembers sane people did not joke about that- from the look the other gave him- and coughed.

This was. Uncomfortable.

"I find it odd the dark lord would not have tried that already, especially since you don't seem opposed to the idea... what's he threatening you with?"

"Well," Harry says grimacing, "You found your slytherin, yay."

Malfoy is unimpressed by that comment and presses on, "Why are you here? What made you give up-"

"You think I wanted to, is that it?" Harry scoffs.

"I didn't-"

"-say that? You implied it. I didn't leave Hogwarts defenceless because I wanted to, I didn't-"

"-look Potter just-"

"-No. You wanted to know so I'll just fucking tell you, yeah? It all starts with a prophecy-"

"I know that! I heard it-"

"-Good! So you know what happens next. Little lamb destined to beat the big bad, yes I mean lamb shut up, realises that to beat the enemy he actually needs to die. See, Dumbledore told him so on his deathbed as Hogwarts fell- cute, isn't it? So he walks off to his death, death doesn't stick, he comes back, he kills Voldemort again but he's knocked out by the death eaters. Then he wakes up in some cell, and boy oh boy, Voldemort's there, alive, despite most of his tethers to immortality being gone-"

"-But that was a year ago!" Draco burst out, "You can't have been here for a year,"

"That's what you're hanging on?" Harry huffs. "I wouldn't be able to tell, my perception of time is absolutely shot,"

The blonde frowns. "You literally could not have been there for a year, you were seen in the ministy being paraded along with your friends-"

"Polyjuice is a thing," Harry points out, "I've only been out the dungeon once maybe... two weeks ago? And then I got a room in one of the aisle now,"

"Those were your screams?" Malfoy says, blanching.

Harry grimaces, "Maybe? You didn't recognize me?"

"No... it was like... inhuman. I didn't know someone could scream like that," the teen says, looking haunted.

"They can when they're being dissected alive," he says lightly. "It's not the pain that gets you,"

"Morgana," the other breathes, looking at him like he's trying to find the scars that refuse to stay.

Harry takes a sip of tea and nabs a scone, which breaks Malfoy's spell.

"Why did He let you out?" he asks slowly.

"He said something about no prison holding me in forever... I thought that was bollocks, but he probably just realised I wouldn't try to escape if he stopped the torture," he says, with a bitterness that shouldn't surprise him, but does.

"And you won't?" 

"I won't," Harry confirms, sipping more tea.

Why would he leave? After all, if there are no prisons that would hold him forever, then there are no ways to be free forever. And, Harry thinks, another benefit was having around the only other person who would survive it all. He would go insane alone. Actually insane. Not the way he jokes about it, but genuinely mad. Crazy. Bonkers, whatever you would call it.

"I'm stuck with him, and he's stuck with me." he concludes, standing up and putting down his cup. "Anyway, ta, I guess. See you 'round," he says, leaving despite Malfoy's protests.

He's socialized enough today.